Patiens Mortis Affert

Untitled Part 1

             A gust of freezing wind swept through the open train window, and almost absentmindedly, the boy sitting there reached to close it. The boy's head rested on the window, his face pressed against the frigid glass. From his vantage point, he could see a wide swath of the Charles River and the picturesque brick buildings of Cambridge. Despite the late hours, many buildings were illuminated from the inside and music blared. It appeared the party-goers would not be deterred by the unforgiving weather.

             A wide, cruel, smile crept across his face, as he stared blankly out the window, his hand tracing circles in the rough leather of the seat. An eerie thing to see in a young child. That would make it all the more frightening when those foolish people of Cambridge saw their doom reflected in the eyes of death itself.

              But abruptly, the train halted, its stop so sudden that the wheels against the metal tracks made a screech, like nails on a chalkboard. The boy was thrown out of his seat, the force of the stop too strong for a child. Now on the floor, he felt a sharp pain in his head, likely the result of hitting it on the seat opposite him. Hesitantly, he brushed his fingertips over his forehead and felt some sort of liquid. But when he brought his fingers into his line of sight, it was not the crimson blood of humans on his hands. Rather, it was like a shadow given liquid form. The boy frowned, "you should be stronger than that, Cyprian," he murmured to himself. It was rather disappointing to see his human facade be broken by the blood of his true form: a Mortiferum, a bringer of death.

            "Station 20," called the conductor over the speakers. There was a rise in noise as passengers left their cars. A flurry of footsteps could be heard outside his car, and chattering like birds, the passengers disembarked from the train.

                Cyprian sat on the floor of the train car, the curtains pulled over the windows. Until he was completely sure the train was empty, he sat motionless. In such a state of stillness, he could have been mistaken for a statue if it were not for the odd clothing he wore, and his somewhat mismatched features. Speaking of which, this cloak of a young, auburn-haired child would not be of much use anymore. For it had been seen by too many humans, and could potentially be thought of as a runaway child. A faint smile crossed his face. A new cloak meant hunting time.

              Abandoning the facade of a clumsy child, he rose from the floor in one fluid motion. Now losing the restraint he had used to blend in, Cyprian reached to yank open the door, but with his full strength, instead of opening the door the stainless steel crumpled like paper. He withdrew his hand from the door, and slowly opened and closed it, head tilted curiously to examine his hand. "Oops," Cyprian murmured, his eyes glinting with a malevolent light. He stepped through the gap where the door had been and walked down the empty hallway to a window. The train moved so quickly that the outside was simply a blur of green, gray, and white. He carefully opened the window and was hit by that same gust of freezing wind.

                But then he heard it, approaching footsteps accompanied by the slosh of mop water. A custodian of some sort was coming, and quite the sight he would be greeted by. An auburn-haired child with almost entirely black eyes save for the white pupils that had a slight glow to them. Perched on the window ledge, and gazing directly at the custodian. The custodian froze, whether, in fear or shock, it was hard to tell. Cyprian smiled faintly, his canines slightly more pointed than they should have been. With a silent wave, he pitched forward slightly and simply fell off the train.

           It was a long time before the custodian could force his legs to move again, and when they did, he rushed over to the window and looked out. The chilling wind nipped at his face painfully, and he gazed for a long time. But there was no spotting of a body or evidence the boy had even hit the ground. The question was, how?