London Nights

Chapter 2 - Murderous Urges

I turned sharply at a corner. My brother, being the heavy sleeper he was, barely missed his head on a brick that stuck out of a nearby wall.

Almost suddenly, I felt a murderous urge to collide his skull to that certain brick.

"Don't you dare, Cordelia Rainlord!" cried Jones, attempting to protect his precious head with his arms.

I groaned, and glared my orbs at him. If he hadn't read my mind, I was sure that his head would've been a bloody heap on the pavement by now.

I focused on the road before me, trying to recall the HQ's location. Sadly, I could not.

"Delle, I hate to interrupt your focus," I heard Jones say, "but I accurately memorized the streets, and I believe that we should've turned to that corner." Jones did have better memory than I. Such awful taste my parents have in twins.

As hard as I wanted to argue, I make mistakes too. There's a 0.1 percent chance that I'll make them annually. And that includes severe mistakes that are unforgivable.

Hastily, I grabbed my brother's bony wrist and marched soundly towards the back alley.

It would be ominous for adolescents to go into unknown, dark sewers and alleys containing such vile inhabitants and whatnot, but the Rainlord ancestors had done these midnight missions for centuries.

There was simply nothing to fear.

Humans are just being too overprotective. Being part human, Rainlords do understand such theories. Most likely genetically implanted, yet humans fear too much without giving any particular or proven reason of that phobia. Such a pity.

I felt the hand I grabbed previously become slightly cold, and instantly released it. I turned back to see my brother's face showing mild relief.

"Why did you not tell me?" I demanded.

"You just looked so disconcerting that I didn't dare to."

"I'm sorry." This is humanity speaking.

"You'd have to do something with my wrist, though. I feel my fingers numb."

I took a momentary glance at my timepiece. Formerly, it was my mother's, being fond of antiques, she figured that I'd take after her, genetics and all. Unfortunately, I did not. I was already preoccupied with modern-day innovations and those complex, globally interconnected technology.

I, however, was genetically similar to her in facial appearance and personality. I have cobalt blue eyes, which, according to my brother, shows more emotion than my face. My hair is relatively straight, cascading down to my waist. Not to mention dark, helping in midnight camouflage. My traits are admittedly suitable to my personality: a cold, intelligent sadist who finds torture of beings pleasurable. Yet I appreciated humanity and will condescend to tolerate it when necessary.

It was a wonder how father found mother appealing, besides her stunning looks, of course.

My brother nudged me, gesturing to his blue hand. It was blue enough to make Denisé hyperventilate. I had not remembered the last time I calculated my strength. How painful it might have been for Jones. But I could not care less. It would take far than a millenia to make me apologize over such frivolous predicaments.

I gently lifted his palm, circulating my index finger on it to ease the blood circulation. These were the times humanity had to manipulate my senses. I felt awfully reluctant to even sympathize my brother's petty injury.

Perhaps my brother was more human than I was, I wondered. The matter that I could not feel sympathy had led to many dreadful experiences. The time I did not try to save a drowning toddler struggling to fight the pressure of water, for example. I was blameless, yet people expected me to take action. I became an outcast from society since that horrible day.