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Owen had this new annoying habit of picking at the ghost of the dirt under his nails from when he had buried himself all those centuries ago. Or maybe the dirt was from clawing back out. Was there even really a difference? He could still feel the dirt in his lungs, choking him in a way that shouldn't have been possible for the undead. He could smell the moisture, feel it pressing in on all sides. A mockery of a hug. He could feel it crumbling under his hands as he clawed desperately, reluctantly, towards the surface, fueled by the ever aching pit in his stomach born of a hunger not entirely physical.
He pushed it down, packing it into the thick bricks of the castle, the slash of his claws against the wildlife. Desperately trying to rinse away the dirt with blood, swallowing away the ash (the ash and the screams and the pyre and—) with every bottle he drank. It never stayed but it was better than the endless bitterness filling every part of him.
"Do you think Scott would notice if one went missing?" Shelby asked from where she was busy clearing out the crypt that was to be her room.
Owen looked up from his own work to see her holding a very old bottle of wine with a chest probably containing more left open behind her. He shrugged. Who cares, he wants to say. Scott doesn't control us, he wants to say. But, foolish as it may be, Shelby liked Scott. Shelby cared what he thought.
Owen needed a drink.
"Scott's old. He can't possibly remember everything that used to be here."
She furrowed her brow as she stared down at the bottle. "Are you sure? I don't wanna upset him…"
"Scott thinks vampires are supposed to be lounging in a manor drinking blood from a goblet. He probably thinks you should."
She continued to stare at the bottle in consideration for a few moments longer before carefully shutting the chest, bottle still in hand as Owen set down his supplies. He could finish rebuilding later.
Shelby was not a frequent drinker, and Owen had only ever had wine those few sweet weeks with Louis, so they both became much looser than usual after only one glass and Owen quickly found his limbs itched with the need to hunt.
Halfway through his second glass he wandered out of the castle, Shelby tripping over herself as she pushed herself from the chair she was sprawled in to follow after him.
He picked his way through the wildlife, filling bottle after bottle with blood as Shelby pranced (could vampires prance?) between the trees beside him. They continued that way with ease—Shelby giggling over loosened limbs, Owen glowering over swallowed smiles—until they came to a small clearing overlooking the lake and tower and Shelby dropped herself to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
Owen stayed back within the shade of the trees, hating how the sun burned his skin in his higher stage (like the boils and the rashes and the blisters and—) but Shelby had never seemed to mind it, basking in the sun the same as when she was human. But then, Owen had minded it even as a human. He doubted he could even remember what it felt like.
And Owen was fascinated with the ease at which Shelby relaxed in the sun's rays.
She looked every bit a vampire. How could they not with their pale skin, blood red eyes, stark white hair, and sharp fangs. She did not look human.
She did not look human.
And yet the arms that circled her legs hung loose. Her eyes glittered with the reflection of the lake water. Her smile was soft and relaxed. The wind still swirled gently through her hair.
Her heart did not beat but she was living.
Owen sighed. He would blame his next actions on the wine and fresh blood swirling through him. He would remind himself over and over that he didn't care about this barely functional coven, about this crumbling town. He didn't care about anyone other than Louis and Louis was gone so he didn't care about anyone.
And yet he lowered himself to sit beside them.
Shelby looked over at him with one of those smiles that could never be faked, the kind that shines in the eyes, and Owen had to swallow down the bile climbing up his throat. He reached for the bottle and swallowed down another gulp.
"You know, they used to send people on lake holidays to cure their depression."
He slid his gaze over to Shelby. "Do you think that would work?"
She shrugged noncommittally. "It's quiet."
"It's bright."
Another giggle slipped out of Shelby (she was always giggling and it grated, it grated, it grated until it wore him down and sat in his heart and felt right—). "Humans usually like the sun. But I guess vampires wouldn't."
She looked down at a bare patch on her arm and covered it with her hand, the itching and burning only temporarily relieved.
"I've never liked it."
She turned to him, clearly asking but not wanting to pry. They were good about that. They were good. It made his claws itch.
"It shows too much; flays you open for everyone to see."
She frowned (always so expressive, so open, too open, too observant, too oblivious, too—). "I think being a vampire makes you lonely." Owen couldn't stop his huff of laughter.
"Being a vampire isn't lonely. Being different is."
"But we're not that different, are we?"
And there it was. The feeble attempt at clinging to humanity, to before, the delusions they all buried themselves in that nothing important had changed, they were the same, they could ignore it, it's fine—all until the hunger began gnawing at their stomach and the stench of blood remained appetizing.
He scoffed.
"You're not human anymore, Shelby. You drink blood. You have claws. Humans can hardly look past their own differences, why would they look past ours?" Venom seeped into his voice, his claws digging into the dirt (the dirt he had flooded with blood, the dirt he had buried himself in, the dirt that had smothered his senses, always the dirt).
"Yeah, but…" She tightened her hold on herself, picking at the hem of her skirt. "It's just survival. It's not like we want to—" Owen leveled her with a flat look. "Or at least not all of us."
Owen grimaced and clenched his jaw.
She shrugged again but it was stilted, awkward, a machine going through the motions. "I was weird as a human too. Crazy and stupid. People always think you can't hear the laughing but you can."
The same and different. The people of Oakhurst hadn't laughed, no, but twisted their faces up with sneers and disgust and whispered, always whispered.
"Humans are stupid."
She laughed but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. "You sound like Scott," she teased (and when did he start allowing that?). He scowled back but he couldn't smother the spark in his eyes.
"I'm nothing like Scott," he scoffed.
"Scott thinks the humans are stupid, too. They're nice to me though."
There was a heavy pause as Shelby reconsidered. They tucked their head down to rest on their knees, face unusually sullen. "They were nice to me."
Owen knew why the people of Oakhurst saw him as a monster. First he was diseased, skin mottled and blistering—and then he was a vampire, hunting them like the cattle they were.
But Shelby?
Shelby wasn't a monster. They had proven that in their commitment to drinking animal blood. And yet, when she refused to toss her vampire friends (too trusting, too loyal, too kind, too—) to the side they treated her like him.
"Humans are cruel creatures. And not like us, not for survival. They do it for fun. And no one is exempt from it either. Whether you're a vampire, a human, the lone sheep in the woods… They take and never give, and when they do give it's only what they took in the first place and you have to be grateful or they'll cut you down."
"I don't—" She cut herself off as if the words were too vulnerable, too raw. He hated it too; hated the staring and the knowing, and so he wore the bandages long after the wounds had healed. "I thought I could talk to them but they just came in fighting and Martyn burned me and…" They trailed off, face scrunched up in conflict.
Owen didn't get it.
Humans had never been any different and they never would be. Why bother, he wanted to ask. Why care, he wanted to ask. Why try? He barely held back an eye roll. "They've never been any good at listening to anything other than threats."
She hummed near silently as she stretched her legs out in front of her and picked at the grass. "I don't want to give up on them."
Owen raised a brow. "You can keep trying." He leaned back and took another sip of the wine. "But be careful not to forget this. This is their instinct, and that can never be reasoned with."
A thick silence hung over them, as if the earth itself was afraid to move. Shelby clutched her arms tightly (always hugging herself, comforting herself, wrapping his bandages tighter in the morning, Louis reaching out to him without fear—). He passed them the bottle.
They stayed that way for a few moments as the sun sank lower into the sky. The animals avoided them now, and they were left in a cloying silence. It felt like suffocation.
Shelby breathed in and held it. He could see her muscles tensing, stilling, like a rabbit that knew it was getting too close to the wolf but prepared to step forward regardless. "I don't think you're a monster."
If Owen wasn't already dead his heart would've stopped. He forced out a scoff and an eye roll. "Sure."
"I don't. You were hurt and scared, and yeah you shouldn't have massacred the town but… I'm starting to get it."
He swallowed thickly (why was his throat so dry, and why did she care, and how could she see, and why did she understand, she couldn't, no one understands, only Louis—) and resolutely looked away.
"It doesn't matter anyway. To the townsfolk we're all monsters, now."
Shelby sighed and turned her face back to the sun.
A twig snapped. A stray chicken approached and Owen cut it down with ease. The leaves rustled.
"Do you think we'll ever be able to leave?"
Always looking out for more, for the future, for after. Owen didn't believe in an after.
"I don't know. I have nowhere to go anyway."
"I want to see the world. I mean, if vampires are real there has to be other stuff, too. And I guess I have eternity to do that now."
"You're a good vampire, Shelby." (he was getting sentimental, getting attached, he couldn't—)
She beamed at him. "Really? I've read a lot about vampires but it always seems easier in the books and you're, like, the stereotype so I didn't—"
"The stereotype? What's the stereotype?"
She merely gestured at him before covering her mouth (and giggling, and giggling, and—). She finally caught her breath, an old habit that would die in time. "You know. Dark and brooding, sneaking up on people, whispering in their ears, that kind of thing."
"I'm not—! I'm not brooding." he grumbled.
"No, it works! It's part of your whole thing, I like it."
He rolled his eyes but felt a smile creep along his face (a smile? why was he smiling?). Shelby continued to smile lightly, relaxing her shoulders and sighing into the sun.
The sky had turned a warm orange as the sun had sunk low along the horizon and it wouldn't be long before it was dark and red for the night. He pushed down the warmth, severed the attachment (the line wouldn't cut, she gripped it firmly and unawares), and sighed to get her attention.
"It's almost night. We should see what the others have been up to."
With one last longing glance, Shelby dusted off their skirt and stood, leaving the bottle in the dirt behind them.