Blood and Chocolate

In her room, she brooded over the letter. What if he hadn't meant it to sound so final? Perhaps he really wanted to make up. No. She was sure Aiden only wanted to see her so he could repeat that it was all over and demand that she stay away from Kelly. She was damned if she would meet him to be demeaned by that crap. But if that was all he wanted to say, why send Quince with a note? Why meet her at two in the morning in a deserted place?

Then she remembered what Gabriel had said would happen if Aiden knew what she was  -  "I swear to the Moon, he'll try to kill you." It's not possible, she thought. Aiden wasn't capable of murder. Or was he, if he believed it was what he was obliged to do?

I don't want to find out, she thought.

But what if she didn't meet him? Would he stalk her? Would he discover the pack's secret? How long before he persuaded others of the truth? She knew it was possible for others to believe; she'd seen her last home burn.

I'm the weak link, she thought. I'm a danger to my people. I need to be removed.

She could run away. But where to? The idea of being alone chilled her. And what if I continue to kill? she thought. Each time I kill I take the risk of being caught. And if I'm caught they might trace my family.

One thing she was sure of: She couldn't stand the shame of a trial by her own people. She couldn't turn herself in to the pack.

There was only one real answer, of course - to protect her family, her pack.

She would have to kill herself.

The breath seemed to leave her body for a moment. Time stood still. That was the answer. It was so sparkling clear that it hurt like ice water and left her brain cold, numb, and awake.

But how did a werewolf kill herself?

Silver bullets, she thought, and snorted. Sure, those were always lying around the house.

She stood at the window and inhaled the perfume of her last night. It must be fast, she thought - she must find a way that left no time to chicken out - and it had to either sever her spine or do so much damage she couldn't use her metamorph powers to heal.

Hanging was an option, but you had to do it right so the fall broke your neck; if not, you just strangled. Strangling was painful and didn't kill. The same applied to jumping from a tall building - you couldn't be sure you would do enough damage to die. She could lie with her head on the railroad tracks, maybe, but only freight trains ran at night, and they moved so slowly she would chicken out for sure.

Finally the perfect, fail-safe solution came to her. There was a can of gasoline for the lawn mower in the garage. There were matches in the kitchen. She thought of the inn going up in flames, her father trapped within. Fire - a family tradition. It seemed so right.

As she went downstairs a flash of fear shot through her, but she smothered it with the certainty of duty. She hadn't died in the fire that had taken her fathers life. She should have. This would set things straight.

In the kitchen she scribbled a note. She wanted it clear she was dead, and why. She didn't want Esmé searching uselessly for her, deluded by false hope. The quicker Esmé accepted her daughter's death, the quicker she could get on with her life. This new lover seemed like he might stick around. That would help.

I am the killer. I don't remember doing it but it had to be me. I don't know what made me go crazy. It wasn't your fault. Now I'm killing myself to make you safe. I'm sorry. I love you.

Vivian felt funny writing "I love you" - they didn't talk to each other that way - but this was her last chance. She put the note on the table under Esmé's favorite mug.

Vivian collected the gas and matches and left by the back door. She walked through the woods to the river mechanically, the can banging against her thigh. Twigs snapped, crickets scuttled from her tread, and a night bird gave an occasional soft cry. The noises were crisp but unreal, like the sound track of a movie. She felt as if a stranger stalked through the trees in her body.

She followed the river in the direction of the city. She didn't want to give the police a clue to who she was or where she lived. She didn't stop until she came to a spur of woods that grew far out into the river meadow. Within was a small ruined building, part of some Sanitary Commission station at one time.

She climbed inside the shell of stone and looked around. Beer cans and trash littered the place, and a soiled red baseball cap lay crumpled in a corner. There was an odor of urine. She guessed people would steer clear of this place for a while after tonight. A small grim smile twitched her lips. Maybe they'd even think it haunted.

Get it over with, she told herself, and ignored the cold tingle of dread the words evoked. First she kicked what she could of the trash into a pile in the middle of the room and placed the matches out of the way, on a tumble of bricks, to keep them dry. When she tried to unscrew the cap of the gas can, however, she found she had no strength. This is stupid, so stupid, she thought as she groped and strained with trembling hands. She clenched her teeth and forced her fingers to grip. The cap turned with a crunch and an acrid smell laced the night.

Vivian raised the can to douse her front and gasped with the sudden cold. The fumes she inhaled made her sneeze again and again. She wanted to throw the can to the ground and run, but she forced herself to stay. When her eyes cleared she tipped the can over her back and lifted it high to wet her hair. She poured the remainder of the gas into the trash at her feet.

This won't hurt for long, she told herself as she reached for the matches, and hoped like hell she told herself the truth. She thought of a Viking funeral: a dragon ship blazing in glory drifting to sea. It helped a little. "I'm sorry, everyone," she whispered. "But you're better off without me."

The sulfur head crumbled against the strike plate; the match wouldn't light.

"Can't I do anything right?" she cried. She threw the match aside, and fumbled for another with fingers grown thick and useless.

"Vivian!"

She looked up to see a boy and a dog come over the wall.

Not a dog. The shape bubbled and stretched and turned into Willem. "Shit man!" He held his nose.