Museum Heist – (Story for a Flashfiction Challenge)

Once again sharing a flashfiction story written for a challenge some time back – this one was the first I wrote for one of Chuck Wendig‘s weekly flashfiction challenges, back in March of 2013. (The challenge was Super-Ultra-Mega Game Of Aspects.)

There was a limit of 2,000 words, which I met precisely, and five challenge parametres to be selected from at random, which are noted below the story.

Summary: What happens when a werewolf and a vampire break into a museum to steal a priceless artefact?

WARNING: This story contains explicit sexual content and somewhat graphic, if brief, violence.

Museum Heist

Ian gasped as he felt sharp teeth in a cool mouth settle on his neck, shoving his shirt out of the way.

As distracting as the prick of fangs, and the familiar shiver of dizzying heat from their touch – her touch – was, he only shuddered and pushed away from Clare with a low growl, feeling the twitch of his Change wanting to come out in response to the agitation.

Clare pouted between livid red lips and cleanly wicked fangs. “Aw, baby. . .”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time?” he asked, his voice a low, rumbling whisper as he gestured to their surroundings.

The cameras were turned off, but they were still currently in the middle of a very high-security exhibition in the Gabriel Bruchette Gallery. At three in the morning.

Not to mention the delicacy of many of the items around them and the . . . energy Clare and he tended to put into their play.

“Oh, fine.” Clare sniffed delicately and turned her nose up, her eyes reflecting brilliant red in the low light, though the irises were a lovely honey-brown. “You’re no fun any more, Ian.”

Ian sighed and followed her as she led the way to the near-impenetrable display case they were there for.

Within the very thick plexiglass, and a cage of green light, was a small, softly glowing gold-and-sapphire vial. It looked like a perfume bottle that could have belonged to the mistress of a French nobleman in the seventeenth century.

In actuality, Ian knew, it held the mysteriously-distilled power of a thousand deaths, young, virgin girls who had been tricked and bled and tortured for their power, and if held by a single creature, it could negate any weaknesses of their particular ‘curse’.

Clare, with her vain and proud nature, would never admit it, but the strain of her vampirism was killing her, as was being away from her beloved sun, unable even to look out a window in the daylight without burning herself.

One bright day, near-delirious with pain and fever from trying, she had told Ian about the nameless artefact they were here to steal.

Ian was unable to deny her anything, even if she had not truly asked for it, his heart, as any werewolf’s, given wholly and devotedly when he loved. He had studied and researched and presented her with the plan they were now carrying out.

As Ian focused on the problem presented to him, Clare’s hands wandered over his chest and, after only enough of a pause to make him think perhaps she had allowed sense to reassert itself, down below his belt.

Clare.” Ian growled, but his resolve, never strong when subjected to such trials, was failing beneath quick, cool fingers, even as the nails scratched at his belly.

“Oh, come on, Ian,” Clare purred, “live a little, why don’t you?”

Ian gritted his teeth and continued working on the security system, now that he had broken open the panel to access it, even as Clare-

Ian gasped as Clare nearly tore open his trousers, wrapping herself down about his legs to the floor and sucking his cock into her mouth in one swift movement.

“Clare.” he groaned, barely able to keep himself from howling, his hands shaking as he tried to keep focused.

Clare purred and scratched at one of his thighs with her wicked nails, even as his involuntary thrust slipped his cock into her throat. It wasn’t a scold, though – it was an expression of pleasure, from Clare.

Ian bent and curled one big hand into her softly-curled golden hair, bracing his forehead against the plexiglass box he had half-forgotten the purpose of, setting his teeth in his other wrist as Clare set to sucking his mind out through his cock.

Her tongue was soft and strong as it curled around his shaft, her fangs a careful shadow of a threat, and she didn’t pull back even for a semblance of breathing, only to intensify the sensations she was providing him.

She nearly purred again as she moved, Ian’s cock thick and pressing into her throat in a way that had to be nearly painful with the angle she was forcing herself to take. Not so much as a twinge save for the ripple of her swallowing around him betrayed any hint of discomfort, though, and Ian barely had the mind to be concerned for her any longer.

Ian strangled his howl of pleasure back into a thin whine as he came, Claire moaning as she swallowed, her light eyes meeting his with a hidden shade in them in the instant before Ian’s vision blurred away.

It took some minutes, but Ian panted and released his arm – he’d drawn his own blood trying to restrain himself, and a vicious curve of teethmarks were torn into his flesh – straightening.

Clare, tucking him back into his trousers and thoughtfully doing them up again, cooed as she saw the wounds, and licked over the oozing drops of blood. “No one else is supposed to make you bleed.” she pouted up at him, and he breathed out roughly.

“Come here.” Ian growled, and Clare shook her head.

“. . .after. When you’ve got it. Please, Ian, baby?” Clare begged, her eyes looking about to fill with tears, and he couldn’t have resisted that look for anything.

Ian sighed. “I need my arm to work, Clare.” he said softly, and Clare nodded and released him hurriedly.

He wanted to pull her in and hug her – tuck her head beneath his jaw and hold her safe, defend her from anything that would sadden her so. He couldn’t, though, even if this had been something he could fight – her pride wouldn’t permit it.

Clare watched him as fiercely as ever any starving wolf watched a possible dinner, and Ian did his best to work quickly, though he was still aware of the need for silence and surety.

In the end it took him the better part of two hours, but he had the case open and the small, priceless artefact in his hand.

He turned to hold it out to Clare, and was confronted with her torn, conflicted expression as her hand reached, half extended to him, and remained there.

“Clare, it’s yours, take it, my love.” Ian murmured, unwilling to keep it from her hand for an instant longer than it needed to be, even if there was probably little effect it could have on her in this moment. “Please, I only- For you.” he swallowed hard.

Clare drew a deep breath. “You know . . . you know almost any vampire – almost any creature – would do anything for that, and you. . .” she said softly.

Ian took another step and caught her hand, pressing the vial into it with strong, gentle fingers. “Clare, it is yours.” he reassured her. “I don’t care what it does, or who would do or pay or give what for it. You. . . It belongs to you.”

“Oh, Ian.” Clare sighed, her eyes shaded with that strangeness again as she lifted them to meet his. “Baby, why did you have to make this so hard?” she asked, and Ian’s brows furrowed.

“Clare, I don’t-” Ian’s confused statement was broken into a shocked howl of pain as Clare snapped her wrist free of his left hand and tore the trinket from his right with a vicious, tearing twist.

A hard strike of one impractical high heel to his belly and Ian fell back until he impacted the pedestal with its solid plexiglass and cage of light, both closed once more now.

He howled again, the Change racing through his body in response to the agonising attack, even as his mind struggled to make sense of the violence dealt him by she who had been his mate, the keeper of his heart.

Moments later, a huge russet-brown wolf lay panting on his side, spine pressed to the heavy pedestal, bolted into the floor, staring up at Clare. Her lips twisted into an inscrutable, almost sad expression, and she stepped towards him, her red dress slinking around her long legs as she avoided his right hand, crumpled in a pool of his own blood, and knelt.

Ian could have snapped at her – even now, even in this state, in shock and bleeding heavily, agony shooting through both his body and his heart, he could have fought.

Clare was a vampire, and strong, but Ian had been the strongest fighter of his pack since he was fifteen, and he knew her. He could not only fight her, he could almost certainly kill her.

Even if he didn’t, she wouldn’t come away unscathed – she would probably be left bleeding and screaming on the floor beside him, or not far away, unable to flee.

The Gabriel Bruchette Gallery was riddled with lovely, huge, clear windows, sloping down from its roof and through all of its walls. The dawn was less than two hours away now. She would die, even holding the artefact he had stolen for her, with as much pain and injury as he could inflict upon her, even if he couldn’t take it from her or cause her to drop it.

Ian whined, his sides heaving, as Clare petted his head and ears gently. “Oh, Ian. Baby. I wish you hadn’t been so very sweet and so very earnest.” she whispered.

Ian looked at her without picking up his head, and if wolves could cry he would have.

He still longed to fight whatever made her sad, and it pained him even more that he never would be able to care for her again.

Clare tugged one of his ears the way she had been accustomed to when Ian came in from running under the Moon, and a thin, broken sound spilled from between his sharp jaws.

“. . .thank you for the gift, baby.” Clare said, and she stood suddenly, turning her back to him sharply and walking away with an emphatic click of heels.

She looked back and met Ian’s eyes, and there was barely a flicker of regret in her. Then she broke the window before her and stepped out into the air, casually dropping the storey down to the grounds and out of Ian’s awareness forever.

Ian howled the grief and pain of a wild thing so badly hurt it knows it will never heal, sprawled on the floor. He was too riddled with pain and fear and shock to move, and why should he bother, any longer, in any case?

His howls echoed through the entirety of the exhibit, and the Gallery beyond, and chased out into the night through the broken glass of Clare’s exit, the weakest extent of it no doubt reaching her sharp ears, not that she would care one way or the other about a heart-broken werewolf’s cry of pain.

Less than twenty minutes later police and emergency crews piled into the Gallery, alert and prepared for anything.

The wounded wolf and the severed hand a few paces from it, the pools of blood melding into each other as the howls had finally fallen silent, were not within the things they were prepared for.

As superiors were consulted and a panic was raised for the missing trinket – nothing more than a trinket, to the human world, and one of the less valuable items in the travelling exhibit – one woman ignored the madness to approach the wolf uncertainly.

Ian didn’t move as she rested a hand carefully on his head, and his green-gold eyes were dead when she bent to check them, though his sides still heaved with laboured breaths, and his broken heart still pumped thick blood from his ravaged foreleg onto the floor.

The security officer stripped off her jacket and wrapped his foreleg, demanding rationality and assistance from her colleagues, and Ian slipped uncaringly into unconsciousness.

~Fin~

 
My five parametres were:
Subgenre: Monster Erotica
Setting: An Art Museum
Conflict: Betrayal!
Aspect to include: A severed hand
Theme: Innocence can never be regained

Note:
It has been requested that I write a follow-up with poor Ian and possibly the security officer. I like the characters and the possibility of continuing Ian’s story, and will probably do so, at . . . some point.

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