Arriving in Copenhagen

The large red train pulled into Copenhagen Central Station, letting out a hissing noise as it laid on it's breaks and came to a halt. People scattered in and out and around the platform, it was a busy and large crowd.

Jenevieve silently stepped off of the train carrying her single suitcase in both of her hands. She earned a few stares from the other civilians, as she was accustomed to. She did not dress of this era.

The weather was in the 60's on this particular day, and very humid. As such Jenevieve decided to wear a short sleeved blouse and a skirt that only went to her knees. Her high heeled boots helped offer some height to her normally short stature, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun.

Behind her was a man who was also very short, but he made up for it in his stoutness. Despite the brightness of his ginger hair, he looked like a dark cloud of misery as he kept in line behind the short woman. It was almost comedic to anyone passing by how odd the pair looked.

Every now and then Jenevieve looked behind her to make sure that Razzle was still following. If he tried to run he wouldn't get far before the collar around his neck began to torture him. But still, people could be stupid sometimes.

The Vampire's eyes took in the surrounding area. The sun would be rising soon, so she really didn't have any time to waste and enjoy the sights. Still, she was impressed by the immaculate structure of the station. It reminded her of the industrial age, which she as fond of.

Knowing that timing would be everything, Jenevieve had made plans for a taxi as well as hotel arrangements in advance. It was too close to the sun rising for her to risk it.

She didn't like using a hotel, or anything really that required they track your identity. Even while using a fake ID, Jenevieve knew she had to be careful. Chances were Smiley wasn't counting on her to run off with the immortal. And so to spite him she wanted to make sure that he'd never see Razzle again. But if the vampire man had tracked down the immortal once, he'd probably be able to do it again.

The plan was to find a man and trick him into letting her and Razzle take refuge. It wasn't a perfect plan, the details still sketchy, but it was in the making and Jenevieve knew that she'd have to go with whatever chance she took.

She directed the taxi driver to the hotel and checked in under a different alias. She definitely was giving anyone who would try to track her down a difficult time.

Once comfortable in the hotel room, she turned and spoke to Razzle for the first time since they departed Catania.

"Are you hungry?"

Razzle is tired, mentally and physically. Such a simple sentence sums up the entirety of his being, he has no ability to be anything else but these things. He is tired of his enslavement, of the travel and death. He is tired of not knowing what will happen next or where he will go and with whom.

And something new has sparked inside his heart that hasn't been there for the longest time. He feels hatred, pure, unbridled hatred toward the woman who has put him in this situation. He, a man who cannot be killed in any way shape or form is being manipulated by the smallest, most black-hearted creature he has ever met, and that is truly saying something since a large portion of his life has been spent in the company of murderers.

Misery has been picking at his being for he doesn't want to die, but he doesn't want to continue this. He doesn't want to aid this creature in living. Razzle has been planning, plot after plot of how he could possibly get himself out of this situation with the most favorable outcome.

In the hotel he sits on the bed and stares quietly at the wall, letting his numbed brain fill with new thoughts. His expression is empty and hollow though his eyes are full of cobalt-blue suffering.

"No... Thank you," he says quietly, not looking over at her. He will not make eye contact with her if he has to... He won't even look in her direction if he can help it. Otherwise he feels sick to his stomach.

Jenevieve stared at him a moment before an amused smile came to her lips.

"Finally doing something about your weight? It's not like you can die if you don't eat, so I suppose if you want to go hungry that's none of my concern. Less money I have to spend." She said, her tone mocking almost. Like a woman speaking to a difficult child.

"I, however, am famished." She said, and it was true. She had not had anything to eat for over a week. She'd been too busy to eat. But now that she was here in Denmark, her stomach finally had time to catch up to her.

The vampire sat down on the bed next to him, placing her hand over his own.

"Tilt your head." She ordered, her voice soft and eyes hooded as she stared at the soft skin that concealed the pulsing veins within.

The short, stubby man's hand stiffens when he feels the weight of the vampire's conceal it. Her taunting words stick in his brain like soupy glue oozing out of a pores sponge, filling all the little holes with it's thick, heavy substance. Razzle swallows down a knot in his throat, the weight of the impending pain pushing down on his heart so it falls into his empty stomach.

The ginger tilts his head reluctantly, continuing to not make eye-contact with her, emptying his mind the best he can to keep from thinking about what is going to happen to him. His neck is thick and fleshy; unblemished, but dusted with a fine layer of the beginning of a amber-orange colored beard. His hair tends to grow very quickly, a product of generations of tough viking breeding.

His eyes close as he tries to think of another place and time, other people, people who love him, but his mind is thick with the memories of death. So many times he has been tortured and killed and once again he is at the doorway of death. Once again he will be pulled back just fast enough to see the pale face of hell, her bloody red eyes full of the freedom he has lost.

A hiss of satisfaction crept out of Jenevieve's throat as he tilted his neck over obediently.

"Good boy~" She said, her voice thick and sweet and greedy.

She brought her hand up and gently rested it on his cheek as she placed her mouth above a large vein in his neck, her fangs growing in need.

The woman's eyes rolled around in her head as she sunk them into his thick flesh, sucking his blood out to fill her tongue and throat, coating her stomach with the metallic warm fluid.

His blood tasted especially bitter, and Jenevieve pulled her fangs away for a moment, causing blood to gush out of his neck from the two small holes.

"Your taste..." She said, wrinkling her nose. "I imagine a pigs blood would be more satisfying." She said as she ran her fingers along the trailing blood on his neck, smearing it and rubbing her fingers against it messily. She enjoyed the way it looked coating his throat.

She then re-positioned herself and sunk her fangs back in, drinking more. She only took about a pint of blood. Enough to leave him slightly light headed, but nothing more. She then sat back and dabbed her mouth off with a napkin, very well mannered.

The immortal's eyes squint harder against the feeling of knife-like fangs stabbing into his flesh. He loathes the feeling of the blood being drained from body like water out of a rusty tap. His body wants desperately to writhe in protest, but he resists it, clenching against his teeth hard.

The breaths the man takes in are sharp, almost painful sounding. His blood is bitter with stress and depression, making his hormones react negatively, inducing a vile taste in his normally sweetened nectar. Given the fact that it has been fermenting for a week it tastes more repulsive than if Razzle were in a better state of mind. He cringes at the sound of her voice, but he is becoming light-headed, his vision getting blurry.

His hairs stick up on his neck at the feeling of the smeared blood, how warm and sticky it is, how it crusts over once it is dried. Razzle feels like a animal being branded or marked by this vile coating of his own bodily fluid. He cringes as she pulls her fangs away from his flesh, feeling as though he will be sick.

His cheeks are pale and his body lurches slightly as he bends forward, his stomach doing backflips. The pudgy man's body feels like it could release the flow of stale bile at any moment.

"I suggest that you lay down and elevate your feet. You will not be vomiting in this bedroom. This is a nice hotel and I intend on keeping it that way." She said curtly, standing up and unpacking her bag to find her brush.

Nonchalantly she began to brush her long white hair. It had grown a lot since she first moved to the coven, all the way down to her shoulder blades. She wanted to cut it soon, she didn't like it getting too long. In the meantime she kept it tied in an elegant up-do when going out in public.

Being here with Razzle though she wasn't concerned with his opinion. He was much more like an animal than a person to her. She started to undress herself, not caring if he saw her in her undergarments.

With trembling appendages and a quivering torso, Razzle clasps his hand over his mouth and quickly stumbles into the bathroom. His entire body lurches over the open toilet bowl as he empties his body of slightly aged food and harsh bile. The immortal is loud as he heaves up the sick feeling that resides in his gut; groaning, gagging, and gasping.

Every muscle in his body heaves and trembles as he keeps vomiting, even after the contents of his stomach have been emptied. Razzle's throat and nose burn with bile, his eyes water with tears of pain, he reeks of putrid bodily fluids and blood.

The moment he cannot lurch and heave any longer he collapses on his side and pants, shivering hard, his face pale and his eyes so dark they look bruised. He looks like a dying animal, beaten and tortured. It's what he feels like too, a dying housepet. A dying punching bag.

Never able to feel the satisfaction of death, but always able to feel the pain of it.

Jenevieve rolled her eyes, her expression disgusted. She tapped her fingers impatiently as she listened to him heave. She had seen many men in horrible situations, mostly because of her. And not one of them was quiet as pathetic to her as "Razzle"

She got up and walked over to the bathroom, not breathing through her nose. She didn't want to smell that.

"Flush that and clean yourself up this instant." She ordered, her voice obviously annoyed. She nearly slammed the door shut on him, but caught it at the last second to let it latch gently.

It would be rude to slam doors in a hotel.

He can barely understand the words that escape her lips for his ears are ringing so loudly, but the disgusted look on her face suggests enough that he is displeasing her with his suffering. Very, very slowly Razzle pulls himself up enough to flush the toilet and begin tugging off his gray T-shirt, using the clean side of it to wipe off his lips, chin and neck.

The man sits there for a moment, looking over how disgusting his body looks and feels, how much hurt and pain writhe in his heart like a disease. Still sitting, he begins pulling off his pants so he can be totally naked. He leans over to start drawing bathwater, making sure it's hot and steamy.

Razzle closes his eyes as he feels the water flow down over his fingertips, wanting to ride himself of this sick feeling, if just for a few moments. As the tub slowly starts to fill enough so he can clean himself off, the immortal pulls himself into the tub and lays down in the water, his knees bending up so he can fit all of his wide body in. He reaches over to cut off the flowing liquid and then submerges his entire head, holding his hands on the sides of the tub so he will stay under.

His cobalt blue and red, bloodshot eyes flicker open the watch the calm waves ripple overtop him as bubbles of air escape his nasal passages. He stays under for about a minute, just to think about how much he doesn't enjoy drowning, but it's better than being drained of blood. He keeps his eyes open as 2 minutes turns to 3 and 3 turns to fading consciousness. He allows the water to take his breath from him. It's uncomfortable, it makes him feel like there is an enormous pressure on his chest, almost as heavy as the burden of slavery.

Jenevieve became bored, and fast. She curled up on the bed and fell into slumber, her mind far too worried about other things than the man in the bathroom.

So long as he didn't make any scenes, she did not care the least bit.

In the last small window of consciousness, right before the blackness begins to consume the immortal's mind, Razzle inhales a substantial amount of water, feeling the uncomfortable rush of liquid invade his air passages. This causes the muscles in his throat to tighten up greatly, cutting off the airflow from his trachea to his lungs.

As he slips into unconsciousness, the water floods into his stomach, filling his body with swirling, dirty waters, murky pink with blood. He isn't dead yet, his body still floats his lungs still quietly work for air, but the small inhalation of water will lead to his death that afternoon at around 2 PM. A wet "dry drowning".

His corpse will stay in the tube for a half hour before his brain has repaired enough of the damage to reanimate him. His eyes flicker open with life at three in the afternoon and he sits up slowly, taking long, silent breaths through his nose. His fingers are pruned from the water, his ginger hair is stringy and tangled. He feels bloated and uncomfortable, but his head feels just slightly clearer.

Razzle slowly unplugs the bath plug so the now lukewarm waters can stream down the drain, swirling down with them their secrets of his death. He replaces it with new, cold water from the shower head, cleaning his unblemished body with sweet smelling soaps. He sighs quietly as he washes and once he steps out he dries off and walks back into the room where Jene slumbers quietly.

He rests silently on a chair, naked except the towel, thinking about his most recent death. Thinking about his tortured life.

Jenevieve slept better on this night than she had on the last.  All ready the man she had most recently killed was starting to fade from her heavy mind.

She wished the vampire back at the coven would do the same. Not Smiley though, she loathed Smiley.  No, it was the other man that was there.  The man who looks deeply into her eyes and speaks softly to her.  The man who took her into the throws of passion and made her relive things she had nearly forgotten.  

She wanted him gone from her mind, but he wouldn't leave.  She dreamed of his eyes, flashing between soft and desperate to wild and maniacal.

Waking up she felt cold, not externally.  Vampires couldn't feel such things.  Instead it was a cold feeling on the inside that made her shiver and curl up.  

Her eyes met Razzles and she curled her nose in irritation.  He had been naked all night?  Disgusting.

"Put some clothes on  you fat pig." She demanded, turning over so she couldn't see him.

The immortal's brow furrows hard against the small vampire woman's words. He's cold, tired, and in a deep rut of depression. Very gradually he pulls himself upright and stands, holding onto the towel around his waist. He would never admit it in a million years, but her words do sting him, her jabs at his body.

He has never been truly comfortable in his own skin though he has learned to accept himself the way he is, knowing he could change if he wanted to. He has all the time in the world doesn't he? But those sharp, cold sentences she speaks with such harsh insults... The pierce him like her fangs and make him feel weak, pathetic.

Razzle shuts himself in his mind and locks the door behind him, taking in a steady breath as he walks over to get some clothes to change into. He takes out a pair of worn, black skinny jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. He holds them to his breast and goes into the bathroom to change, emerging quickly for he refused to look at himself in the mirror whilst he dressed.

He waits solemnly for his orders.

Jenevieve turned back over whens he heard him exit the restroom. He was fully dressed now, as he should be!

But she was bored of this hotel room and her solemn, oafish company.

"I'm going to go out and explore the city. So you know what to do. Get on the bed so I can tie you up." She said, all very casually.

Silently the once bold, happy viking, takes his place on the bed, looking down the entire time. He hates it, all this looking down, it's a form of submission unto itself, him telling her that he is lower, that she can see him, but that is all. Razzle's stomach churns with the unease of a lack of control.

The man stretches out his arms and legs for her to get it over with, he won't argue because that could lead to her harming him once more. His protests seem to make her... Hungry. A shiver runs up his spine.

At least he'll be alone.

Jenevieve made quick work in tying up Razzle's limbs so he couldn't move. She then took out a bottle of whisky and sat down on the bed next to him.

She placed the rim of the bottle to his lips.

"Drink" the vampire ordered.

Razzle nearly gags when the alcohol comes to his lips, it makes him want to get sick all over again... He detests it, but he doesn't have much of a choice.

Very cautiously he takes a swig of the substance; it's bitter in his mouth, like toxic chemicals on his tastebuds. His body tries to cough it up, but he powers through and forces it down, all of it down, down into his gut. The liquid trails along the sides of his mouth and onto his shirt, making him reek of the toxic spirits.

In his moment, feeling so sick, tired and depressed, Razzle contemplates his suicide.

Once he had consumed more than half of the bottle she was satisfied. His bindings left enough room that should he vomit he wouldn't choke on himself.

Soon the liquor would cause him to pass out.

The woman then stood up, got herself dressed and pretty looking, and walked away.

She left Razzle there and informed the front desk that he was intoxicated but harmless, that way if he did make any noise they wouldn't be suspicious.

And then she hit the streets of Copenhagen, curious to see what this city had to offer a young vampire such as herself.

As predicted, the former viking lets out moans, wails of pain and agony that seem to bellow from his trembling stomach. He vomits as well, all over his chest, relieving him of the toxic drink.

After a few more struggling wails, the immortal finally blacks out, his body wrecked from the day, his wrists chaffed from the rope.

His spirit broken into tiny pieces.