Thunder and Blood

36

Percy

With the wind ripping through my hair, I can barely hear Blackjack's panicked whinnies from above me. For a second, I think he might even chase after me, swoop under me and save me from the fall. But he stays in his spot, his wings violently flapping as he hovers over me. 

I feel the sting of chilled night air on my face, marking my cheeks red as I fall towards the quickly approaching pavement. 

Fifty meters. 

Forty-five. 

Forty and closing. 

Over the past few days I have realized that bloodbending is a strange thing. I can control other people, other things: monsters, animals. I can make them do things against their will, I can tear them apart from the inside out, break bones, make them bleed. But I have yet to find out if I can control myself. 

I guess I am about to learn. 

Twenty meters. 

Fifteen.

Ten. 

Five. 

I land not three yards away from the two, one knee planted on the concrete. I find myself smiling. Holy shit. It worked. I did not splat on the ground, I don't even have a bruise on me. Dam, I think to myself, that must have looked pretty cool. I just did a superhero landing, and I'm not even a superhero. I bring myself to my feet just as the man slaps the lady across the face. She lets go of her bag, clutching her cheek in shock. He turns to run, purse in hand. But he stops in his tracks when he sees me. 

I can only imagine what I look like in his perspective. An 18 year old boy, his tan, scarred skin decorated with splatters of blood. There is an equally menacing look in his eyes, matching his murderous appearance. 

The man even has the courtesy to take a step backwards. 

With a grin spread across my face, I reach into my pocket, searching for Riptide, but the pen isn't there. Dammit. I mentally slap myself. I gave the sword to Stiles. 

I guess we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way.

I take my eyes off of him for only a second, glancing at the woman. "Go." I say, gesturing to the alleyway opening. I pull the purse from the man's grip, tossing it to the lady as she passes. 

I eye the garbage bag resting against the wall beside me, the contents of it spilling through a hole on the side. My gaze specifically catches the glass bottle laying next to it. The man backs up some more, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. I pick the bottle up, grabbing it by the neck. The glass is cold in my palm, dirt from its surface wipes away on my skin. I adjust my grip, keeping my stare on the man as I step towards him. 

He has nowhere to go, the alley is a dead end. I have cornered him, just like he cornered that lady. If he had walked past her on the street instead of trying to mug her, he wouldn't be in this position. It was his choice, I keep telling myself.

"Please-" he begins to beg. "I meant no harm, I swear it."

His pulse is rapid, too fast for his own good. Holding eye contact, I smash the glass bottle against the wall. The loose pieces fall to the ground, leaving me with jagged shards sticking out of the neck at dangerous angles.

I've come to know that when Void feels pain, inflicts pain, he grows powerful. When he creates a sense of fear, he becomes stronger. And I do too. I've also come to know that this feeling of growing strength feels good. Too good. 

The man is now backed against the wall, eyes wide. He glances behind me, as if wondering if he could make a break for it, around me. The alley is tight, there is no way, but he tries anyways. He takes a single step, about to run, but he finds himself frozen. Some unknown force keeping him in place. 

Oh, how wonderfully petrified he looks. 

He is thrown against the wall, that same force pulling him off his feet, into the air. Choking him. Though I am not touching him, I can feel his neck under my fingers, his warm skin, his pulsing veins, his throat straining as he tries to breath. His face goes white, flushed of colour, I lessen my hold on his neck, watching the blood rush back to his face, his cheeks redden. 

I drop him. 

He lands in a heap on the ground, his knees beginning to bruise from the two foot fall. He is gasping, sputtering for air. His hands are on his throat, still trying to pry off my invisible grip even though it no longer has a hold on him. He look up at me, mouth agape. His hands drop to his sides, he scrambles to push himself off the ground. 

Without letting him gain his balance, I slash the broken bottle upwards. 

The sharp points of the shattered glass slice his neck, splattering fresh blood onto my face. 

His hands shoot to the wound, but there is nothing he can do. I watch as he gurgles, blood rising into his mouth, he slowly lowers himself to the ground. My right arm is limp at my side, the bottle loose in my grip. I let it fall to the ground at my feet. 

I don't wait for him to die. 

I turn around and walk back to the alley entrance, ignoring the man's strained breathing. By now it is nothing more than a pained wheeze. 

And then - just before I'm out of earshot - it stops altogether.