unfortunately, sacrilege // {grimm}

The toy store is an empire of shining wheels and flashing lights - according to their creator, these creatures won't respond like the others to my training. Even so, I sit on the counter with my legs crossed and my hair serving as a home to a small family of birds, offering a robot kibble. It whirrs, but does not sit. (I have never failed in my pursuit to tame an animal before, except perhaps the goldfish who never would jump through the tiny golden hoops that used to be Amira's earrings.) My eyes flicker upward to the television screen, Xanthus Grimm momentarily more interesting than the taming of metal. His house is too spacious without him - even with the bats who sleep in the eves, Pantalaimon and I cannot breathe properly in it's hallways. The air is too thick. (This might be a result of the closed windows and heavy shadows, but we like to think it's because my cousin himself is missing.)

"He's coming home," I tell Pan, twisting a lock of his fur in my fingers. There is no doubt in my voice, no fear. Strangers have stopped me in the street to announce their pride in the brave boy who apparently carries so much weight for our District - while others have glanced at their feet and apologised for our loss. I laughed at them, loudly, for Xanthus is coming home. After all, I have added more than twelve things to my pockets since his departure and it's absolutely not my job to keep his lists updated. I don't like lists, and Xanthus does, and this is why I'm certain the returning train from the Capitol will bring with it my very favourite vampire. "Do you think, Nero, that the machine needs a firmer hand than the ones with hearts that aren't mechanical?" My musings fall upon silence, and I wonder for a moment if Pan and myself are alone in the shop. (I certainly hope not, because Nero should know that I'll snatch more than I sell without watchful eyes upon my greedy hands.)

Unlike some of the others, I haven't spent long days with my eyes on the television screen, searching for answers. The fuzzy little specks of colour are no more important to me than when the static is playing; outside holds far more important pursuits. The pet shop lady closes up during the games, and although she'll never grant my wishes of elephants or whales (I don't know who she thinks she is, declining the likes of myself) it left me with a great deal more free time and many less frozen mice. This was one of the reasons I've been spending so much time in the forgotten corridors of Xanthus' place - he isn't using it, so I've sprinkled crumbs across the floors in a bid to invite rodents to play. Of course, I'll have it clean by the time he arrives home - probably, maybe, if I can be bothered - but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the absent vampire boy.

I jab at the robot, slightly annoyed at it's lack of progress. It's been a couple of hours, and the lack of response is frustrating. I suppose it's good, then, that television-Xanthus has awoken to greet the day, stopping to speak with one of his allies. She was from One, as well, the girl from the Shore family. She babbles, a stream of words I can't bring myself to pay attention to, and my cousin smiles. It's nice, I decide, to see his teeth. (Although they're disappointingly unpointy, happiness can never be a shame.) I suppose he stops being quite as delighted when she chops off his hand. A tiny bubble of frustration bursts within me, and my eyebrows knit in annoyance. What was the point of that? Now how will Xanthus have any hope at all of feeding the bats - (I know he never did before, but they say things change in the arena, and I was dearly hoping that would be his breakthrough). "Nero!" I wail, kicking at his benchtop.

And they fight. Poor Miss Shore, I think with a wicked smile. It doesn't do to prey on game with a better standing in the food chain than yourself. I know this from experience - Pan once tried to take on my sister, and although neither of them were eaten, the winner was debatable. I distract myself with the machine, which has begun to beep in the most irritating manner. "Quiet!" I cry, waving my finger at it. A swift tap on the nose is usually enough discipline, but the temperamental piece of equipment refuses to hush. Biting down hard on my lip in an effort to stop myself from storming out of the shop and into the street, I fix my eyes on the screen and do my best to pay attention.

I do not approve of the sight that greets me. Unflinching, Xanthus stands, with blood everywhere. Usually, the scarlet lifeline and him are friends - he nurses it in the way I hold baby birds with broken wings. Now, it seems to be drowning him, overpowering him. Not wanted, not his choice. It's funny how quickly friends can turn into enemies. ”I’m… I-I’m going to end this, Xanthus," stutters Opal, and I roll my eyes in Pan's general direction. He agrees with me. We don't like her anymore. She's rude. (And so am I, but as yet I haven't hurt anyone, not more than a couple of bruises and scratches when I don't approve of their bitter words. Pan only kills small animals for his dinner.) But then she swings her sword toward him and it hits me that she's right. Just like that, he's more blood than boy, and I cannot help but agree that this is the end.

A second is all it takes for a switch to flick, a glow to become dark. I've seen it countless times before in the eyes of abandoned animals who come to stay in the folds of my clothing. Sometimes, they fly free again - released into the wild, or sold onto others who can care for them. Other times, they struggle a little, and then it's over, quickly and painlessly and comfortably. For Xanthus, it does not look comfortable. It looks like a thousand blades crashing down upon him from every angle - in my mind he goes from untouchable and immortal to fragile and finished. And it's selfish, but I can't bare the weight of those sharp edges in my own flesh.

I lift the robot high into the air and stand up on bench. Reaching upward - my knuckles scrape the ceiling, graze, and bleed, but I don't care - I take four shaky breaths. And then I smash the useless thing onto the shop floor, a broken pile of cogs and wheels and tears. My screams are a hurricane, erupting from nowhere and filling the entire goddamn world. This is very, very, incredibly and absolutely not okay.