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birthright_rpgThe portal had substance. It slid over Rhiannon’s skin like a cold gelatin. She had never gone through a tear in space-time and did not know what to expect. Would she be disassembled and put back together on the other side? Or was it more like Elfleda had folded the fabric of the universe in half, allowing her to take a short-cut through the material?
She emerged on the front lawn of a residence of no particular consequence. There were clues as to its location. The sky held roughly the same number of clouds, and the air felt no different in terms of humidity or temperature. All around her, succulent plants sprouted sharply from rock and barren landscaping. It was still night.
Rhiannon closed her eyes and huffed a small laugh. Nevada. Duncan was in Nevada. He had hidden in plain sight. She ducked into the driveway between a pair of trash cans, where she removed a dark knit cap from her pack and put it on, tucking her ponytail inside it. She put on gloves and lifted her hood. Although it wasn’t crucial to conceal her identity, she wanted to limit the chances of a neighbor glancing out a window and placing a pale brunette at the scene of the crime.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the bag.
First she walked the perimeter of the house. It was a ranch-style structure, identical to many houses built in the 1960s with an easy floor plan to master. Bedrooms to the left, common areas to the right. The blinds on what she guessed to be the master suite were closed. She climbed the steps at the back porch and eased into the storm door.
Rhiannon curled her fingertips around the door handle and braced her shoulder on the wood.
One… two... three. She thrust her shoulder into it. The door frame cracked under the pressure. Rhiannon slowly – painfully slowly – eased into the dark den and let the glass door shut on her heel. The room smelled faintly of spices, whatever had been eaten for dinner. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that there wasn’t much character to the decor. She guessed the rental had come furnished with bare necessities: a couch, a table and lamp, an unremarkable painting of a pond hung over the television set. The only nod to Duncan was a thick stack of books by the lamp. Henrickson’s definitive collection of vampire lore. A field guide to gemstones of the Pacific Northwest. She recognized the embossed letters on the former, worn so much from handling that some of the letters were missing.
Duncan’s hands. Duncan’s reading glasses.
Rhiannon breathed past a grip of cold panic in her throat. Her mouth was dry.
Easy, she coaxed herself. Get in and out. Don’t think, don’t even think. There was a pinch of phantom pain in her side as the Slayer remembered that knife going under her ribcage, and she became steady again. Angry again. It’s him or me.
She set her pack on the floor and pulled out what she needed: a knife. She began down the hallway, as quiet as her feet could take her, pausing once when a floorboard squeaked.
God, how did he sleep at night? How did he rest his head on a pillow and drift off, knowing that Rhiannon hated him so badly? Knowing that she was alive and near and pissed off? All that Rhiannon could guess was that Duncan didn’t believe her capable of coming after him. Not ballsy enough, not brave enough.
Stupid motherfucker.
The first door was a bathroom. The second, a spare bedroom there was no need to enter. At the far end of the hall, she knew, would be the master suite and that door was wide open. She heard the hum of a ceiling fan. She twirled the knife in her nervous fingers, trying to get a better grip on it. He was in there. He was...
Rhiannon froze.
She didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything either, yet she knew suddenly that there was life in the spare room she had just passed. As she took one deathly quiet step backwards, she saw it out of the corner of her eye. A narrow bed.
Rhiannon wet her lips and let her eyes focus. In there, a teenage girl slept with her arm skewed above her head, a plaster cast from elbow to thumb.
Duncan had brought Iliana with him to Nevada.
Rhiannon covered her mouth with one hand.
Oh God.
She emerged on the front lawn of a residence of no particular consequence. There were clues as to its location. The sky held roughly the same number of clouds, and the air felt no different in terms of humidity or temperature. All around her, succulent plants sprouted sharply from rock and barren landscaping. It was still night.
Rhiannon closed her eyes and huffed a small laugh. Nevada. Duncan was in Nevada. He had hidden in plain sight. She ducked into the driveway between a pair of trash cans, where she removed a dark knit cap from her pack and put it on, tucking her ponytail inside it. She put on gloves and lifted her hood. Although it wasn’t crucial to conceal her identity, she wanted to limit the chances of a neighbor glancing out a window and placing a pale brunette at the scene of the crime.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up the bag.
First she walked the perimeter of the house. It was a ranch-style structure, identical to many houses built in the 1960s with an easy floor plan to master. Bedrooms to the left, common areas to the right. The blinds on what she guessed to be the master suite were closed. She climbed the steps at the back porch and eased into the storm door.
Rhiannon curled her fingertips around the door handle and braced her shoulder on the wood.
One… two... three. She thrust her shoulder into it. The door frame cracked under the pressure. Rhiannon slowly – painfully slowly – eased into the dark den and let the glass door shut on her heel. The room smelled faintly of spices, whatever had been eaten for dinner. As her eyes adjusted, she could see that there wasn’t much character to the decor. She guessed the rental had come furnished with bare necessities: a couch, a table and lamp, an unremarkable painting of a pond hung over the television set. The only nod to Duncan was a thick stack of books by the lamp. Henrickson’s definitive collection of vampire lore. A field guide to gemstones of the Pacific Northwest. She recognized the embossed letters on the former, worn so much from handling that some of the letters were missing.
Duncan’s hands. Duncan’s reading glasses.
Rhiannon breathed past a grip of cold panic in her throat. Her mouth was dry.
Easy, she coaxed herself. Get in and out. Don’t think, don’t even think. There was a pinch of phantom pain in her side as the Slayer remembered that knife going under her ribcage, and she became steady again. Angry again. It’s him or me.
She set her pack on the floor and pulled out what she needed: a knife. She began down the hallway, as quiet as her feet could take her, pausing once when a floorboard squeaked.
God, how did he sleep at night? How did he rest his head on a pillow and drift off, knowing that Rhiannon hated him so badly? Knowing that she was alive and near and pissed off? All that Rhiannon could guess was that Duncan didn’t believe her capable of coming after him. Not ballsy enough, not brave enough.
Stupid motherfucker.
The first door was a bathroom. The second, a spare bedroom there was no need to enter. At the far end of the hall, she knew, would be the master suite and that door was wide open. She heard the hum of a ceiling fan. She twirled the knife in her nervous fingers, trying to get a better grip on it. He was in there. He was...
Rhiannon froze.
She didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anything either, yet she knew suddenly that there was life in the spare room she had just passed. As she took one deathly quiet step backwards, she saw it out of the corner of her eye. A narrow bed.
Rhiannon wet her lips and let her eyes focus. In there, a teenage girl slept with her arm skewed above her head, a plaster cast from elbow to thumb.
Duncan had brought Iliana with him to Nevada.
Rhiannon covered her mouth with one hand.
Oh God.