Quinn
Zen was dying.
It was unfortunate that only the encroachment of Death had allowed her to understand her feelings. For nestled under her breastbone like a canary in a poisoned cave were the pieces of her shattered soul. She was now more connected to Zen than ever. And strung tight at the back of her mind was a long red thread that told her everything she needed to know.
He who had vehemently refused her offerings of blood. He who had allowed her to go on this damn trip. He who was not surprised when ink escaped his lips, a quiet acceptance and exhaustion flecked in his eyes, deepened in his brow. He who told her to run and never look back.
It led to a doomed understanding in her heart, roaring with each throb.
Zen knew.
He did not tell his mates of his affliction.
He was a stupid, stupid man.
One look at Zen's overflowing eyes was enough to destroy her. A shuddering breath, an empty mind, a heartbreaking moment of horror. Quinn caught him when he fell, with her arms looped around him, with his body cradled in her embrace as they both sank to the ground.
Her knees buckled.
The ink was as warm as blood.
Instantly, her thumb was on his lips, parting them. Her hand on his back. She could not let him drown. She could not let him die. Zen. Her mind whimpered, despair growing as her soul seemed to crumble. Zen was dying. Float was running through the basics: his airway, his breathing, then his pulse. A screen of blue appeared before her eyes, and it swept over his trembling body. The technology was just as desperate as its master.
"Leave me," Zen spluttered through the ink. His panting was rapid, sticky darkness erupting from his chest, dribbling from his lips. "G-get them and leave me!" There were tears in his eyes. A twisted breath of panic escaped him in a long, horrified wheeze. "Quinn."
No.
"Quinn." His hand shook, raised into the air, reaching for her face. She caught it.
"I know," her voice cracked and bled, thick with pain. Something within her chest seized. "G-god, I know."
"Q-Quinn," he cried, his nails dug into her arm. His gasps turned into a wail. "Quinn, it hurts, it hurts."
"I know, baby, I know."
She pressed a hand to his neck, felt the rising pulse, the roar of anxiety and despair. Float blared an alarm that screamed in her ears. Zen seized in her arms, shaking hard as he turned over to spit another fountain of ink. His hands were pressed against her belly, desperately pounding as if he tried to push her away. The black ink bubbled from his chest, swept over his flesh in sticky ropes like a million wriggling worms.
What can she do?
What should she do?
Death was hideous, ugly and wrong.
"Get away. Get away! It's burning me," Zen cried out, fingers now moving to claw at his chest. "It's swallowing me alive."
Her eyes zeroed in on the writhing mass of ink that spilled from his heart. Understanding dawned upon her. The ink. It was burning him, hurting him. Her fingers smeared into the darkness, the wriggling mass giving way to skin.With renewed vengeance, her fingers swept over him. The ink was consuming him, and she refused to let him go.
Her hands were now combing over his skin, fingernails digging, palms scooping. She removed the ink just before it could latch upon his flesh and never let him go. They were just like worms, like leeches, like monsters. Quinn was swiping at the gunk now, desperately pawing at his flesh as if ants were crawling over his face, his neck, his chest. She snapped open his shirt, the buttons scattering over the ground.
She could see the void now, a blackhole that lay just above his heart. A primordial darkness that wept with an endless pour of ink. The horror was vibrant, loud, and ringing in her ears. And it all felt like a fucking nightmare. Zen choked on a sob, gagging from another wad of ink, and this time the liquid that spilled from his lips seemed to have a life of its own, twitching and wriggling like snakes.
And she could see what it was doing to him. They burned his flesh, digging into sinew, tearing into fat. And she could see the bubbling glisten of slowly melting muscle, exposing weakening flesh. The blood that bubbled and frothed as the ink clawed into him like some kind of fucking bioweapon. The darkness was starting to sting on her adrenaline-fuelled fingers.
She refused to let it take him.
Her hands were burning with him.
On her lips was a mantra. "It's okay, I got you. I got you. I got you. I got you."
The ink continued, a steady mucus pouring free from his skin. And she tried, tried as hard as she could to get rid of those worms. But there were no wounds, no crevice for her to staunch from whence the darkness came. The more she swept her palms over the void, the more they puddled, sticky phantom eruptions of ink desperate to rip into his flesh, to form the monster they all knew.
And his agony was horrifying, the pain twisting from each panted breath. The strangled scream. A whimper bubbled in her chest. What threatened to steal him from her was cruel, monstrous in its attempts. His hand was now on her wrists, anger in his eyes despite the pain of it all. He wanted her to leave. She ignored him. Her mind blanked, lips pulled into a desperate call.
"ROWAN! HELIOS!" she screamed.
Her gaze darted upwards to the screen as it crawled towards a finish line for the scan. Float swept over him, running over muscle, burrowing into bone. It read through the void in his chest, scanning the strange affliction that pulsed to the roaring beat of his heart. The findings were displayed.
Impossible.
What the fuck was this?
The scans showed nothing physical. His vitals were distressed, his body flayed and slowly burned. Float knew he was hurt, that the room was flooding with the ink. But the scans did not showcase the masses of darkness within his body. Nothing was pouring from his organs, nothing flooded his belly and spewed from his heart. It was all like a phantom pit of an oil spill, for there was no sign of ink within him, no sign of the worms.
Nothing.
Nothing was hurting him from the inside.
It was as if it came from the surface of his flesh to slowly kill him from the outside.
She scrambled over him, hands pushing at the ink in the void. But it kept coming, the darkness spewed endlessly. She could not reach into the hole, and yet it came frothing up like blood. Where the fuck was it coming from? What did it mean? What did it mean if her technology could not read the goddamn ink? What did it mean if on screen, Zen was just a man convulsing through a burning seizure that made no fucking sense?
Where did the ink come from?
There were tears in her eyes, but her fingers were crawling over him, smearing through it all.
Was this a fucking curse from the devil?
"Baby, what do I do? Oh God, what do I do?"
His body had weakened, his heart escalating to a beat that veered towards insanity, towards a quick death. She needed him normal; she needed him to calm the fuck down. Her hands rubbed his chest, brushing against the open wounds that ripped from the poison. He needed to heal, he needed strength. But she couldn't give him her heart, if not her heart, then—
"Blood," she whimpered. "Zen. Blood."
He was almost gone, shivering under her, frothing with his teeth latched onto his lower lip as if he were trying so hard to stay. And his gaze was fixed upon her, a howl of despair muffled in his throat, chest still bubbling with ink. Her fingers reached for her shirt, pulled it low; she revealed her throat and scrambled closer. Hope grew in her chest. Vampires needed blood, and for someone as powerful as Zen it might be enough to sustain him as long as his body could absorb it.
"Zen, can you bite me? Can you try?"
He couldn't. His eyes were rolling back, ink crawling into his pupils. Behind her, Rowan stumbled in with a scream muffled in his palm. An echoing cry escaped from Helios. She gestured to Float for a knife, and it materialised as a brilliant blue glow. The blade hummed, static cracking, illuminating Zen's gorgeous features.
God, she couldn't let him die.
She'd break.
"Stay back!" she called at them.
"Quinn—" Helios screamed. "Don't. DON'T!"
Rowan roared. "No, no. NO QUINN YOU CAN'T—"
Her blade sliced through her arm; blood bubbled free. She could hardly feel the pain of it. Zen had gone quiet, eyes wide and all-black from the ink. He was no longer groaning; he was barely breathing. The darkness spluttered from his chest, puddling all over her, flooding the room. And she lifted his head, forced her bloodied arm to his mouth, merely smearing the mess over his lips.
"F-fuck," she cried. "I don't know what to do, baby, please."
Float told her that his heart was failing, his body weakening.
Quinn didn't know what to do. She didn't know what the fuck she was doing. But somehow, she had to try something, anything. Desperation had her searching for a method. And her mouth found her wound, sucked upon the blood that bubbled from within, rust coated her tongue. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Zen. Something within him shuddered, and his body went rigid as if lightning pulsed through his veins. She forced his mouth to part, begging, pleading and praying for it to work.
He swallowed.