Skulduggery Pleasant Fan-fiction- Love Amongst The Cain (Sequel to The Cradle Of Magic)

Black Blood.

~Around One Hundred Years Before~

Her muscles tensed, purple veins breaking and throbbing beneath her porcelain skin much like a relief map; valleys of cuts flowing over her arms and chest like rivers of scarlet. Her eyes were opened, forced, juniper orbs scared and distressed and laced with tired, sangria tremors. She was young, fresh facade cut and bleeding. Alone.
It was good to be alone, good to have time. Time was limited in the world she lived in and therefore a rarity; something to be treasured.
Her father had made sure of that.
She was left to breathe, to bleed and to think. And oh, how she thought.
There wasn't a second she didn't plan, didn't work out a way to escape from where she had been held, where she had grown and lived all her life. She could feel herself changing, slowly morphing into the monster her father was and the creature her mother had become. It was hard to resist that urge when engulfed in it.
They had both twisted her, twisted her siblings and brought pain and suffering to them. They had made sure to manipulate her from when she was younger, forcing her surge to a branch that they sought fit. She was a necromancer but would never be at heart; her soul was light, unlike the rotting one of her father's and the misled shadows of her siblings.
She would not follow her youngers. She would lead.
Her body was a shade of alabaster, drained of her blood which now hung from a merlot sachet to the right of her cheek. It swayed slightly from whence it had last been checked, the momentum almost hypnotising her from the corner of her eye.
Her vision was blurred and uneven, rocking like the bag to the side of her. Her blood was lacking, pumping around the room through thin, plastic chords. New, synthetic lights scorched her retina, flickering spasmodically and bringing an edge to her sanity. The bottom half of her body was covered in a roughly thrown, dirtied sheet; her chest uneven in breathing and breasts sliced through uneven dotted lines as a path to the heart had been made. Blood had congealed in ribbons across her pale body, veins a dark shade of mauve beneath her skin.
It was, in a sense, a form of torture that he had put her through. Four hundred and twenty three hours she had counted, a clock ticking by before her on the wall as she lay there. To her knowledge: Eighteen straight days she'd been strapped down and operated on. Of course in the insanity of it there was a possibility of losing count, but with the stamina she had that was unlikely.
All she wanted it to do was end, but never to his hand. Never let him have the satisfaction.
She'd sent a letter, smuggled it across the border a few weeks back. She was certain her time was thinning, ticking away, and had made sure she'd have a backup; some sort of lifeline. They'd known what she'd done, they'd seen her in action. Rumour had become more than a mere whisper and it would not have been long before her father found out about it. He always did. It would then be unclear on how he'd act. She was sure he'd torture her in a way, something abominable that would stay with her forever. Her sister had been sterilised after a misfortune and her little brother tortured until near death.
But she knew that what she had done was far worse than anything her siblings had ever committed. This meant calling on the only possible help line she could in this time, even if it did mean the enemy.
The Dead Men.
She'd heard of them, certainly. Her father would discuss it with the Baron and the green-eyed general on many an occasion. And of course she'd have been there, listening, despite never being allowed to interact. She was the eldest, it was a privilege and one of the few she had.
Secrets were her privilege but would never be used until much later. Only ever through revenge of what her father had done to her.
On the night it happened she was half awake, drifting aimlessly in and out of consciousness like a gentle breeze. It was a cold night, early January, as she had been curled up in bed as the fire spat embers before her. And for once she was not afraid of the dark, for she knew it would get her and she knew what it would do. Her door had been forced open by a double blow, three men half staggering into her quarters only to force her out of bed and push her to the wooden boards of the floor. They tied her hands and bound her neck with a brittle, rope noose before dragging her with force along the cobblestone corridors of her father's estate. She had remembered his words, his look of utter dissatisfaction, disgust and light amusement as she was whipped by steel rod before him. His voice raised with the blows and his hand caught her neck, looking her in the eye. Out of all Mevolent's children, Annie Lunair looked most like her father; her eyes a shade of burnt umber and hair of dark mahogany.
Those eyes had filled with hot tears, despite the girl's determination and self sacrifice she still felt the fear, the agonising pain of her injuries and the cuts she had made in her reputation and name. Mevolent gritted his teeth, cupping her jaw tightly in an anvil-like gesture and tilting her head back forcefully to press a steel knife to the soft skin of her trachea. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he did so, the knife pressing harder as determination washed over him in a fit of rage. He would kill her right there, on that very spot. He would see his daughter's blood spill by his own hand for what she had done to him. His daughter.
Eyes locked he pressed harder, blood beading over the engraved metal as he did so. The glint of the scarlet liquid caught in the moonlight which spilled in through the window adjacent to the two, a soft reflection of his own figure in the sheen.
He paused, his grip on the knife fading as he let the handle slip from his fingers and clatter on the stone floor below. The girl shook and fell forwards out of shock, head pressing to his tailored trousers as she did so. Her tears grew to sobs and her breathing became disjointed and fractured.
The father looked down on his child, his eyes wandering over her gentle features and innocent looks. She was strong, he thought, strong like her mother had been, but vulnerable. And it was that vulnerability, perhaps, that made him rethink.
Something quivered inside him when he saw her like that, something that had been long dead and gone for decades. Something which he had not not felt since her birth.
There was an instinct that the dictator felt, and instinct to reach down and wrap his arms around his fragile, little girl, to comfort and love her like he had always meant to have done. But, equally, there was something holding him back. A strong force.
Maybe it was the hulking man with the silver beard who stood at the door, watching the two, or maybe it was because he was a heartless monster.
He thought it to be the latter.
The girl cried out in pain as her father kicked her in the ribs, sending her back to the stone and causing her to hit her head. She cried out and curled up, defenceless.
Men had taken her away on her father's instruction and he had given himself the early hours of the morning to think things through. Himself and his options.
He could kill her or he could use her for her original purpose.
It was evident which one he had chosen for her as she was pulled to a right from her cell in the west wing of the castle and towards a separate room which he kept especially for his experiments. It was new, hidden away, the height of technology at the time. Nevertheless it kept her away from the noose but left with the rope to tie herself with.
And now she was there, there on the operating table as the time ticked by on the four hundred and twenty fourth hour and the lights dimmed on her.
It had worked. His plan had worked. She could feel it within her, stirring within like a living being, writhing and unnatural. Needing to be freed.
He had pumped a dark liquid into her, dark as the night, and it had circulated around her heart and veins, replacing the old.
It was new to her. It was the new her.
Yet, nothing had changed.
He had told her it's capabilities, the mixture could strengthen her, change her. It would make her different to the woman she was before.
Her father had designed it to fit her genetic type, matching perfectly as he had planned. It was a risk, he had said, and it had needed more time but as the event came so did opportunities.
The entity inside her bound to her soul, picking out the strongest aspects from within and using it to become an almighty weapon. She was immortal with this new blood, able to feel pain but unable to die and had the ability to split her soul into three if absolutely necessary, as a branch of defence.
It was genius. Yet, there would be side effects.
Serious side effects.
Side effects that would later cost her own life and the life of her unborn daughter.
Her daughter, who would hold the same genetics as her mother.
Who would have her soul split into three.
And then killed over and over again.
Until only one would remain.
Her daughter, Oblivion Armageddon.

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So, I've finally got my life back on track which is wonderful.
Exams are done and thanks guys for bearing with me so long.
I'm surprised we didn't have pitchforks actually..
*looks at the blonde hobbit*
So cheers guys
I'll update more soon
-blivvie xxx