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Description
"I don't like to sleep much. I have nightmares." With an indolent glance through the crystal and to the sanguinary wine swirling in his glass, Bittan ran his fingertip over the rim, hoping he'd eventually get it to make that hollow ringing that Sinclaire could without a thought. He growled quietly as it refused to do much more than sway with his motions. He knew he was doing something wrong, but he didn't know what.

Finally sitting back in his chair with a roll of his chocolate orbs, Bittan admitted temporary defeat, though not to the glass. He was subdued by his own impatience. When he got the urge to try again, he would. There was a set of wine glasses somewhere in his kitchen. He'd just have to tear the entire house apart before he'd find them.

"Well...what do you like to do at night?" the woman sitting across the table from him inquired. Her lips were too plump to be natural, as were her breasts. Her hair wasn't blonde either; her brown roots were pouring out from her scalp and abruptly shifting to platinum blonde, telling him that she bleached it. She was leaning forward, her hands clasped together in front of her chin and her elbows resting on the table surface. Her blouse was cut low enough that he could see she wasn't wearing a bra, though the implants gave her an amazing amount of cleavage despite the fact. This Bittan wasn't particularly interested in. He'd like for his girlfriend to be attractive, but his first priority was being able to trust her. If she dressed like this and flaunted her body, there was little doubt in his mind that she would end up being disloyal to him at the first opportunity. He didn't like that at all.

Pulling his arm back to rest it on the back of the chair, Bittan spared a glance around the expensive restaurant he frequented on dates, knowing he would foot the bill on their first—and last, he was sure—date. There was the gentle stroking of a violin playing somewhere nearby, accentuating the piano and, much to Bittan's approval, resounding over the clatter of plates and cutlery as well as the whispers of other customers. The lighting was dim, supposedly making the scenery romantic and inviting, but really only made Bittan suspicious. He didn't like dark places unless he or the sun was the one controlling the light. It brought back memories, ones he wasn't at all fond of.

The carpet was plush, crimson, and something Bittan wouldn't mind walking around barefoot on. The extra comfort wasn't something he indulged in often, as it lowered his guard, but he knew that spoiling himself once in a while wouldn't lead to any harm. Sinclaire did it all the time.

One wall was lined with mirrors, but there were too many people in the way for him to recognize himself in the reflection. Another had three doors embedded in it: a door to the restrooms, one leading into the kitchen, another leading out. There was only one door in the third: the exit. The fourth was solid and draped with crimson velvet, which brought out the beige color of the wall. The ceiling was painted with a mural, a duplicate of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, which Bittan thought was rather cheap. They couldn't have hired someone with an original thought in his head?

The pause he'd taken before answering her question must have bothered his female companion, whose name he'd already forgotten. "Hello? Bittan?"

"Let me assure you, what you're thinking I do at night isn't what I do at night," he replied bluntly, ignoring her recent attempts at returning his full attention to her. His nights were often filled with sitting in his library—which was lined with books he'd never read and only vaguely thought he would eventually read—watching the flicker of the fire in the grate, listening to older rock, and drinking himself into such a stupor that his brain wouldn't be able to conceive of the concept of dreams...or nightmares.

It was either that, or go for a long drive in his black 1997 Mustang. He didn't like the newer models. Only an idiot would use eight cylinders in an automatic, or so he thought.

Leaning back in her chair, yet still managing to make her bosom seem bigger than it was—probably by arching her back—the woman asking indignantly, "And how do you know what I was thinking of?" She tilted her head in a way that was intended to seem seductive, but really only bothered Bittan. Even in this poor lighting, the flicker of the candle on their table was reflecting off the shimmering shadow over her eyelids.

Letting his arm fall to his lap and his eyes stray to the remnants of the steak he'd eaten—he'd only left the fat from the steak on his plate, along with some of the carrots from the vegetable medley that came with his meal—Bittan mulled the question over for less than a second. Tact wasn't his best weapon, and anything he wasn't good at, he ignored completely. "A lot of it's in the way you're dressed. That blouse is so low, it looks like you've got the Grand Canyon stowed away in there. Your skirt's so short, you should be required to wear a hairnet while you're in this restaurant. Last time I checked, the only people that need that much make-up are the decomposing dead." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, finding the familiar shock and hurt that resulted from a woman being insulted so thoroughly. As far as he was concerned, it shouldn't be insulting if it's true, so she had no justification to stare at him like that. "And, for the hell of it, you should have done your roots last night or something. It makes you look like you don't care, which I'm sure is true."

Any opportunity to comment on her stiletto heels or her tacky purse was stolen from him as she stood rigidly and stormed from the room. A smirk grew on his face before he lifted a single hand and asked the nearby waiter, "Check, please." He knew manners got him out of there faster, so restaurants were probably the most frequent places he used them, especially if his companion for the evening stalked off as tonight's had.

The waiter gave a somewhat concerned look to the direction the woman had gone, but didn't make a single comment on her to Bittan. Merely looking at the young German told him that there wasn't much remorse for his words, if any. He handed the check to him, then watched as Bittan pulled out a wallet and dropped a few bills to the table. He hadn't even glanced at the check before dropping the money and leaving. When the meal wasn't expensive, Bittan tended to be a fantastic tipper, as he never cared to change the amount of money he left. A meal such as this, one in which his date ordered the most expensive item on the menu, left little to be kept. The waiter almost anticipated the next month, when Bittan would return with another young blonde woman. He never made the connection between his "beneficiary's" dates and the disappearances of the women.

The air was crisp and cool, telling Bittan that it had recently rained. The streets were steaming from the heat of cars running over them time and time again evaporating the rain water. The scents in the air were those of people and spring in general. However, the odor he associated with his evening's companion continued to linger. He pivoted in the direction she'd gone, but turned into the nearest alley instead of following on foot.

Ever since the time he'd come to America, Bittan had found many an appealing face with a shallow, black soul. They reminded him of those that had run amok at his "place of residence" back in Germany; always watching, but never seeing, listening, but never hearing, paying more attention to the outside and ignoring the inside: that's what these people were doing day after day, month after month, year after year. These were the people that he tended to dislike with a passion, the people he didn't see fit to share the planet's oxygen with. He didn't even want to share the carbon monoxide of the city air with them. So, they had to go.

Checking once to be sure there weren't any witnesses, Bittan gripped the concrete with his boots before leaping up, scaling half the building in a single leap and landing on the bottom sill of a window. Another quick launch brought him to the top of a twenty-story building. He tasted the crisp air that wafted around, the cool humidity keeping the scents and flavors of humans locked into it. His evening's companion was still nearby.

Stalking to the edge of the roof, Bittan glanced around, his sharp chocolate eyes finding the woman rather quickly. He gave a feral smirk, watching her, as his right hand went behind him and tore a strap of cloth loose from his jacket. The back of his shirt parted down the middle and exposed his back to the night. He cringed briefly from a minor pain of muscles and bones shifting, then he gave a relieved grin and a sigh through his teeth as his wings emerged from his mid-back: the right a perfect imitation of a dove's wing, angelic and beautiful, the left a wicked bat's wing etched with red and clawed at the top joint.

The muscles in his wings weren't as developed as they would have been, given their awkward position on his back, so he wasn't capable of flight. However, gliding was well within his abilities. He smirked at the woman that had spent a pointless dinner with him, then stepped right off the edge of the building and let his wings gather air as he dropped. He gained speed as he fell, then caught the drafts and felt as he began drifting almost horizontally. To most, he was invisible in the dark. To others, he would be nothing more than a shadow. To the woman he eyed, he was the dark angel of oblivion.

When his arms found their ways around her, stealing her from her feet, the woman attempted to release a shocked holler. One of his hands curled around and clapped over her mouth, muffling the cry. He disappearing into another alley, taking her with him, not a single human having seen the incident.

The woman dropped to the ground with a sharp outcry, her mouth no longer muffled. Bittan didn't necessarily care that she screamed so much as that she might scream in his ear. He had a very sensitive aural system and didn't want that discomfort. Her eyes found the silhouette standing over her, a tall figure with a cape of black hair and a pair of inhuman wings. Her breathing hastened, her pulse sped up, her pupil dilated, she tried to get up and run from this creature that had abducted her from the streets. Bittan didn't even shift as she made this attempt, knowing she wouldn't get far in those shoes. She only managed to get to her feet after a second try, then began sprinting.

With a single leap into the air, Bittan bounded over her, then drifted to the ground as his wings caught the air, landing a few feet in front of her. She slid to a halt and let out a shuddering breath, her fear more than evident on her face as the light that had previously made Bittan a silhouette now brought out his features for her. The horror on her face wouldn't have been obvious to a human, but Bittan's eyes could pierce the night, gathering all available light and giving his brain a clear picture. He couldn't see colors in the dark, just as any human couldn't, but to see the look on her face rather than just knowing it was there more than made up for it.

"B— Bittan!" she gasped, doing her absolute best to erase the terror from her face. She did a poor imitation of a smile and asked, "It's— It's you. Oh, I was so scared."

Merely tilting his head to the side, Bittan rebutted, "'Was'? Seems like you still are, little plastic woman." He sheathed his hands in his pockets, hiding from her the fact that his fingernail were popping and growing, forming ten little razor-sharp claws. His canine teeth extended behind his lips and his ears twitched as the grew and formed peeks.

Silence met the German non-human. He blinked once, wondering what was keeping her from responding. She had been so eager to speak before, while they'd been sitting in the restaurant. The thought that he'd left her speechless already made him smirk. Perhaps she could see exactly what was happening about him. Or perhaps she was actually thinking... "What are you?" she inquired in a frightened whisper.

Before she could make another comment, Bittan shot forward, his right hand slipping from his pocket and dragging behind him, his left moving in front of him. He swung his right arm and his claws tore into the woman's fragile body, causing an eruption of blood to splash to the ground. His left fingers were wrapped around her throat, silencing all screams as he crushed her larynx. She gagged on air, frozen for a long moment as Bittan just felt what it was like to have his fingers inside of her.

The moment passed and the woman brought her hands up to his right, wrapped them gingerly around his wrist, and futilely pushed at his arm to release herself. His fingers didn't budge. Tears began sliding down her face, smearing her mascara and causing two rivers of ebony on her cheeks. Bittan thought this was fitting, as if knowing she would die was cleansing her black soul, dispelling the wickedness and allowing it to escape as tears. He brought his face forward and tasted one of those rivers, smearing it across her cheekbone, before he sank one of his canines into her jaw. She whimpered from the new sensation of pain, a trickle of crimson life overflowing and drizzling from her chin.

A gagging noise indicated to him that she was attempting to speak, but her destroyed voice box prevented the action. He released her throat and dragged the claws of his left hand over her right cheek, intercepting the river of obsidian tears, and just watched. He gazed into her eyes, eyes that appeared silver in his monochromatic night vision.

As seconds ticked away, those eyes lost their luster, submitted to the dark angel in front of them. "What am I?" he whispered, repeating her question to him. "I am Heaven and Hell on earth." He abandoned his grip on her internal organs, causing her to slide off of his fingers and drop to the ground. His claws returned to fingernails, blood crusting underneath, and he brought one of them to his lips. He chewed on it to loosen the blood, sipping at it, as he pivoted.

With two leaps, Bittan scaled another building, then glided away. In a few hours, the body would be discovered and the death would be ruled as an attack from some animal, though what kind would never be determined.

Description
"I don't like to sleep much. I have nightmares." With an indolent glance through the crystal and to the sanguinary wine swirling in his glass, Bittan ran his fingertip over the rim, hoping he'd eventually get it to make that hollow ringing that Sinclaire could without a thought. He growled quietly as it refused to do much more than sway with his motions. He knew he was doing something wrong, but he didn't know what.

Finally sitting back in his chair with a roll of his chocolate orbs, Bittan admitted temporary defeat, though not to the glass. He was subdued by his own impatience. When he got the urge to try again, he would. There was a set of wine glasses somewhere in his kitchen. He'd just have to tear the entire house apart before he'd find them.

"Well...what do you like to do at night?" the woman sitting across the table from him inquired. Her lips were too plump to be natural, as were her breasts. Her hair wasn't blonde either; her brown roots were pouring out from her scalp and abruptly shifting to platinum blonde, telling him that she bleached it. She was leaning forward, her hands clasped together in front of her chin and her elbows resting on the table surface. Her blouse was cut low enough that he could see she wasn't wearing a bra, though the implants gave her an amazing amount of cleavage despite the fact. This Bittan wasn't particularly interested in. He'd like for his girlfriend to be attractive, but his first priority was being able to trust her. If she dressed like this and flaunted her body, there was little doubt in his mind that she would end up being disloyal to him at the first opportunity. He didn't like that at all.

Pulling his arm back to rest it on the back of the chair, Bittan spared a glance around the expensive restaurant he frequented on dates, knowing he would foot the bill on their first—and last, he was sure—date. There was the gentle stroking of a violin playing somewhere nearby, accentuating the piano and, much to Bittan's approval, resounding over the clatter of plates and cutlery as well as the whispers of other customers. The lighting was dim, supposedly making the scenery romantic and inviting, but really only made Bittan suspicious. He didn't like dark places unless he or the sun was the one controlling the light. It brought back memories, ones he wasn't at all fond of.

The carpet was plush, crimson, and something Bittan wouldn't mind walking around barefoot on. The extra comfort wasn't something he indulged in often, as it lowered his guard, but he knew that spoiling himself once in a while wouldn't lead to any harm. Sinclaire did it all the time.

One wall was lined with mirrors, but there were too many people in the way for him to recognize himself in the reflection. Another had three doors embedded in it: a door to the restrooms, one leading into the kitchen, another leading out. There was only one door in the third: the exit. The fourth was solid and draped with crimson velvet, which brought out the beige color of the wall. The ceiling was painted with a mural, a duplicate of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, which Bittan thought was rather cheap. They couldn't have hired someone with an original thought in his head?

The pause he'd taken before answering her question must have bothered his female companion, whose name he'd already forgotten. "Hello? Bittan?"

"Let me assure you, what you're thinking I do at night isn't what I do at night," he replied bluntly, ignoring her recent attempts at returning his full attention to her. His nights were often filled with sitting in his library—which was lined with books he'd never read and only vaguely thought he would eventually read—watching the flicker of the fire in the grate, listening to older rock, and drinking himself into such a stupor that his brain wouldn't be able to conceive of the concept of dreams...or nightmares.

It was either that, or go for a long drive in his black 1997 Mustang. He didn't like the newer models. Only an idiot would use eight cylinders in an automatic, or so he thought.

Leaning back in her chair, yet still managing to make her bosom seem bigger than it was—probably by arching her back—the woman asking indignantly, "And how do you know what I was thinking of?" She tilted her head in a way that was intended to seem seductive, but really only bothered Bittan. Even in this poor lighting, the flicker of the candle on their table was reflecting off the shimmering shadow over her eyelids.

Letting his arm fall to his lap and his eyes stray to the remnants of the steak he'd eaten—he'd only left the fat from the steak on his plate, along with some of the carrots from the vegetable medley that came with his meal—Bittan mulled the question over for less than a second. Tact wasn't his best weapon, and anything he wasn't good at, he ignored completely. "A lot of it's in the way you're dressed. That blouse is so low, it looks like you've got the Grand Canyon stowed away in there. Your skirt's so short, you should be required to wear a hairnet while you're in this restaurant. Last time I checked, the only people that need that much make-up are the decomposing dead." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, finding the familiar shock and hurt that resulted from a woman being insulted so thoroughly. As far as he was concerned, it shouldn't be insulting if it's true, so she had no justification to stare at him like that. "And, for the hell of it, you should have done your roots last night or something. It makes you look like you don't care, which I'm sure is true."

Any opportunity to comment on her stiletto heels or her tacky purse was stolen from him as she stood rigidly and stormed from the room. A smirk grew on his face before he lifted a single hand and asked the nearby waiter, "Check, please." He knew manners got him out of there faster, so restaurants were probably the most frequent places he used them, especially if his companion for the evening stalked off as tonight's had.

The waiter gave a somewhat concerned look to the direction the woman had gone, but didn't make a single comment on her to Bittan. Merely looking at the young German told him that there wasn't much remorse for his words, if any. He handed the check to him, then watched as Bittan pulled out a wallet and dropped a few bills to the table. He hadn't even glanced at the check before dropping the money and leaving. When the meal wasn't expensive, Bittan tended to be a fantastic tipper, as he never cared to change the amount of money he left. A meal such as this, one in which his date ordered the most expensive item on the menu, left little to be kept. The waiter almost anticipated the next month, when Bittan would return with another young blonde woman. He never made the connection between his "beneficiary's" dates and the disappearances of the women.

The air was crisp and cool, telling Bittan that it had recently rained. The streets were steaming from the heat of cars running over them time and time again evaporating the rain water. The scents in the air were those of people and spring in general. However, the odor he associated with his evening's companion continued to linger. He pivoted in the direction she'd gone, but turned into the nearest alley instead of following on foot.

Ever since the time he'd come to America, Bittan had found many an appealing face with a shallow, black soul. They reminded him of those that had run amok at his "place of residence" back in Germany; always watching, but never seeing, listening, but never hearing, paying more attention to the outside and ignoring the inside: that's what these people were doing day after day, month after month, year after year. These were the people that he tended to dislike with a passion, the people he didn't see fit to share the planet's oxygen with. He didn't even want to share the carbon monoxide of the city air with them. So, they had to go.

Checking once to be sure there weren't any witnesses, Bittan gripped the concrete with his boots before leaping up, scaling half the building in a single leap and landing on the bottom sill of a window. Another quick launch brought him to the top of a twenty-story building. He tasted the crisp air that wafted around, the cool humidity keeping the scents and flavors of humans locked into it. His evening's companion was still nearby.

Stalking to the edge of the roof, Bittan glanced around, his sharp chocolate eyes finding the woman rather quickly. He gave a feral smirk, watching her, as his right hand went behind him and tore a strap of cloth loose from his jacket. The back of his shirt parted down the middle and exposed his back to the night. He cringed briefly from a minor pain of muscles and bones shifting, then he gave a relieved grin and a sigh through his teeth as his wings emerged from his mid-back: the right a perfect imitation of a dove's wing, angelic and beautiful, the left a wicked bat's wing etched with red and clawed at the top joint.

The muscles in his wings weren't as developed as they would have been, given their awkward position on his back, so he wasn't capable of flight. However, gliding was well within his abilities. He smirked at the woman that had spent a pointless dinner with him, then stepped right off the edge of the building and let his wings gather air as he dropped. He gained speed as he fell, then caught the drafts and felt as he began drifting almost horizontally. To most, he was invisible in the dark. To others, he would be nothing more than a shadow. To the woman he eyed, he was the dark angel of oblivion.

When his arms found their ways around her, stealing her from her feet, the woman attempted to release a shocked holler. One of his hands curled around and clapped over her mouth, muffling the cry. He disappearing into another alley, taking her with him, not a single human having seen the incident.

The woman dropped to the ground with a sharp outcry, her mouth no longer muffled. Bittan didn't necessarily care that she screamed so much as that she might scream in his ear. He had a very sensitive aural system and didn't want that discomfort. Her eyes found the silhouette standing over her, a tall figure with a cape of black hair and a pair of inhuman wings. Her breathing hastened, her pulse sped up, her pupil dilated, she tried to get up and run from this creature that had abducted her from the streets. Bittan didn't even shift as she made this attempt, knowing she wouldn't get far in those shoes. She only managed to get to her feet after a second try, then began sprinting.

With a single leap into the air, Bittan bounded over her, then drifted to the ground as his wings caught the air, landing a few feet in front of her. She slid to a halt and let out a shuddering breath, her fear more than evident on her face as the light that had previously made Bittan a silhouette now brought out his features for her. The horror on her face wouldn't have been obvious to a human, but Bittan's eyes could pierce the night, gathering all available light and giving his brain a clear picture. He couldn't see colors in the dark, just as any human couldn't, but to see the look on her face rather than just knowing it was there more than made up for it.

"B— Bittan!" she gasped, doing her absolute best to erase the terror from her face. She did a poor imitation of a smile and asked, "It's— It's you. Oh, I was so scared."

Merely tilting his head to the side, Bittan rebutted, "'Was'? Seems like you still are, little plastic woman." He sheathed his hands in his pockets, hiding from her the fact that his fingernail were popping and growing, forming ten little razor-sharp claws. His canine teeth extended behind his lips and his ears twitched as the grew and formed peeks.

Silence met the German non-human. He blinked once, wondering what was keeping her from responding. She had been so eager to speak before, while they'd been sitting in the restaurant. The thought that he'd left her speechless already made him smirk. Perhaps she could see exactly what was happening about him. Or perhaps she was actually thinking... "What are you?" she inquired in a frightened whisper.

Before she could make another comment, Bittan shot forward, his right hand slipping from his pocket and dragging behind him, his left moving in front of him. He swung his right arm and his claws tore into the woman's fragile body, causing an eruption of blood to splash to the ground. His left fingers were wrapped around her throat, silencing all screams as he crushed her larynx. She gagged on air, frozen for a long moment as Bittan just felt what it was like to have his fingers inside of her.

The moment passed and the woman brought her hands up to his right, wrapped them gingerly around his wrist, and futilely pushed at his arm to release herself. His fingers didn't budge. Tears began sliding down her face, smearing her mascara and causing two rivers of ebony on her cheeks. Bittan thought this was fitting, as if knowing she would die was cleansing her black soul, dispelling the wickedness and allowing it to escape as tears. He brought his face forward and tasted one of those rivers, smearing it across her cheekbone, before he sank one of his canines into her jaw. She whimpered from the new sensation of pain, a trickle of crimson life overflowing and drizzling from her chin.

A gagging noise indicated to him that she was attempting to speak, but her destroyed voice box prevented the action. He released her throat and dragged the claws of his left hand over her right cheek, intercepting the river of obsidian tears, and just watched. He gazed into her eyes, eyes that appeared silver in his monochromatic night vision.

As seconds ticked away, those eyes lost their luster, submitted to the dark angel in front of them. "What am I?" he whispered, repeating her question to him. "I am Heaven and Hell on earth." He abandoned his grip on her internal organs, causing her to slide off of his fingers and drop to the ground. His claws returned to fingernails, blood crusting underneath, and he brought one of them to his lips. He chewed on it to loosen the blood, sipping at it, as he pivoted.

With two leaps, Bittan scaled another building, then glided away. In a few hours, the body would be discovered and the death would be ruled as an attack from some animal, though what kind would never be determined.