Alone In His Head

Gabriel felt.

He didn't want to feel, didn't want the sensation of having his heart ripped out, didn't want the rising passion and anger and love that coursed through his veins, that boiled over whenever he looked at her.

She was in his arms, he was carrying her into the hotel room, being gentle--gentle!--making sure to cradle her head, to set her softly on the bed. Hunger coursed through him, and he found himself walking to the window, looking ravenously at the city down below. He swallowed it back.

Another night. He'd hunt, he'd kill, he'd live. But not tonight.

He closed his eyes, felt in his head for any alien presence, anything that wasn't him. But there was no Mera. And no Gabe.

He'd almost gotten used to the whining brat's snivelling presence, had almost accepted that he would always, always exist. And then the little twerp found Degas, and Gabriel was truly afraid.

Gabriel might have been arrogant, but it was Gabe who had the recklessness to think that he could outwit a vampire that had been alive for hundreds of years. Who thought that he could learn, that the man would somehow be tricked by a boy who'd barely managed to get his homework in on time, let alone defeat a hundred years of practice in under a week.

It was Gabe who was falling, who was unconsciously offering up his humanity and his soul, who didn't even know that he was becoming more and more the Prince's with every passing night. And it was Gabriel who was holding him back. Gabriel who struggled to the surface, whose iron core defied Degas with every breath, every word.

He couldn't blame Gabe. He thought that the humanity would have broken long ago, would have receded, left him alone. And stronger men than a college-aged philosophy major had fallen victim to masters like this. It was impressive. . .but it wasn't enough. Gabe had broken, but Gabriel wouldn't be ruled.

The truth was undeniable; he had changed. And so had Gabe. Gabriel had no doubt that, someday, they'd be the same person. The prospect terrified him, had driven him to act rashly. But now that the urge to hunt and kill wasn't all consuming. . .it was easier. He might survive. Might not go out in a futile blaze of stupidity or hedonism. He could even touch the edge of Gabe's magic, now could control it as though it were his. And. . .it might've been. He didn't know. But though Gabe's magic remained, Gabe was gone, vanished into the shadowy parts of Gabriel's consciousness.

He looked at Mera, felt a surge of anger that began somewhere below his navel and surged upwards, filling him. Kiernan. The son of a bitch.

It had been Gabe's fault, Gabe who had chased the man after catching him killing, Gabe whose righteous anger had so infuriated the man. Gabe who had allowed Mera to be taken.

No. Gabriel had been there, too. It made no difference--where one was, the other followed. He couldn't blame Gabe entirely. He was there, too.

And he would make it right. Kiernan was dead. It wouldn't even be a quick death. Gabe wouldn't bitch; lately, the human had felt nothing beyond mild worry or slight amusement. It was Gabriel whose passions ran deep. Who would enjoy this kill.