How it enraged him on every level. How it angered him to his very core until those veritable embers of outrage seemed to stoke those flames of bitter resentment into life once more. That very disdain for his family, his father, for the boy he had been in that human life seeming to lick at his veins like a heated memory better forgotten. How long had it been since he had been forced to share that tale? More than a century at least. Risque had never cared to draw that truth from him and Darcy had been content to keep it hidden where it belonged. Like ash upon embers long since left to grow cold. Why now did Risque seem so content to stoke at it? How readily his lover seemed to sense that blood in the water. His Mistress became that veritable wolf as she circled before seeming to find just those right places to press in an effort to make him bleed all the more. He should have known she would find delight in pressing at those wounds. She had always been inclined to seek out weakness like a moth to the flame and expose it to her very gaze in an effort to eradicate it. For years he had kept it from her. For years she had hardly seemed to care. There was no pleasure to be found in his past nor the memories of the weak willed human he had been. Like his Father. No, he had never truly been that bad had he? He had certinly never been that fucking stupid and yet he could hardly deny Clancy's blood still ran within his veins all the same. If only there had been a way to remove that in its entirety.

How that old fool of a caretaker prattled and how Risque merely let him. The vampiric Queen setting that aged man up to fall from the moment he had begun his vapid little tale and yet...perhaps she had lured Darcy himself into that veritable trap in turn. Loading those bullets one by one before so merely giving him something to aim at with those pointed questions so designed to drag those memories from the ruined depths of his mind. He had caught on too late to her ploy. His impatience and short temper having gotten the better of him as they so often did (and Risque knew so well). How easily he would have silenced any other being who even dared to question his past, let alone believed they held the right to hear it and yet.....Risque alone so held that.....command. Darcy, even now, even in their shared status as mates still resting but a singular step lower upon that hierarchy that vampires so upheld within their social ranks. To that vampiric world they were equals and yet....between themselves that hierarchy remained clear. Risque still very much that dominant being within their partnership. Darcy, even now, unwilling to deny her what she commanded from him- even if those commands were subtle, barely more than whispers uttered with violent intent and interlaid within those carefully constructed questions.

In the very least he could tell that tale better than that idiot of an old man who seemed to fumble with his pages of skewed history and falsified reports. After all, who better to tell his story then himself? Whatever history this man had been told had surely been made up by a drove of different beings over the years- else remained hopelessly biased from his mother's diaries. For all he had cared for her, for all he had done for her she had only scorned him all the more by staying at his Father's side like the weak-willed little mouse she had always been. Darcy, for near the first time, so considering the notion that he was ashmed of his parents, of his pedigree. He came from nothing but weakness and stupidity. Perhaps that had been the reason all along he had been so reluctant to offer Risque those insights into a world he had left behind. He had already known of the differences in the worlds they had come from. That fucking shack that sat within here and now surely proof of that and yet- to offer her knowledge of the very blood from which he came. That disappointing, vapid blood- was another manner entirely. A wound he was loath to reveal if only for how it might change her own opinion of him. That story, albeit reluctantly, fell readily from his lips then. Darcy offering that tale from start to finish, or perhaps, from start to restart. His vampiric life, after all, had been a significant improvement on his human one. His idiot maker, for every shade of useless he had been, could at least be thanked for giving him that.

It was his time as that veritable Ghost that seemed to appeal to his lover most. Risque appeared to mull over that part of his tale before revealing she had heard of him during that time. That, once, even vampires had feared that Ghost he had become. Myths, after all, so tended to grow ever more potent when spread on tongues of fear until that legend warped into a beast all its own and oh- how very good at preying on fear he had always been. Risques veritable praise prompted Darcy's own mismatched gaze to flick hurriedly away from that caretaker and back to his mistress. Any word of praise from her lips was....so desperately adored. Even now, even after all these years how he craved to please her still and yet- he hardly anticipated her insistence that his family had failed him- in the same way as her own. How well he knew not to question her now even if some part of his mind found an intrigue of sorts in her own story. One she had yet to share with him in its entirety. Perhaps, later, he might draw it from her if she was willing to offer it and yet such a daring endeavour as that might press upon her nerves far too greatly. Hmmm. Something to consider.

"Day did betray me, all of dem."

His words were little more than a mutter. That aggravation and irritation within his voice was still dangerously clear. Risque so effortlessly continuing to stir at that pot of already dangerously overflowing aggression. Those memories, after all,so seemed to trigger no small measure of outrage within the volatile Southern man as his gaze snapped suddenly to that bumbling idiot of a caretaker with a demand to know who looked after that ranch now. The elderly man insisting that the town paid for it from their own pockets, no family member ever having left it in trust. Darcy's command to retrieve that title deed sent the man running as best as his feeble aged body was capable. The vampires attention instead shifting outside. His curious gaze fixating upon the tombstones that lingered in that family plot before those thickly accented words fell from his lips once more in some passing consideration that Risque might be Catholic and the sin he was about to commit a veritable stamp upon those religious considerations. That utterance something of a courtesy perhaps- even if he hardly intended to change his destructive course. Risque insistence that religion was nothing to her any longer was all he cared to hear. The vampiric man moving in a veritable blur of speed. Risque, for the first time, so left to stare at the space he had been but moments ago. Darcy, tonight, hardly waiting for her permission or approval before he moved. His goal was singular now. That need for...release was suffocating. The sheer amount of energy, of power that built within his figure near radiating into the night. Outrage and resentment for everyone and everything upon this ranch all but leaking from him. Darcy sought that single and only true outlet he knew. Violent destruction.

The first of those graves was all but obliterated beneath his vampiric strength. Darcy content to tread upon the final resting place of his family. To crush the dirt that sat within beneath his very boots. The campir reached down to crash a chunk of his sisters headstone before hurling it at his mothers with enough force to send that stone exploding into the darkness once more. His own jaw was set painfully hard. That aggression so barely contained. His anger was raw and painfully exposed. How he loathed them. Each and every one of them. If they hadn't died already he would have killed them himself. Over and over and over again. One grave left. His gaze shifted within the darkness. That look was violent, predatory and laced with nothing but a dangerously dedicated rage. His Father. Beloved Father- if that grave was to be believed. Beloved by who? The daughter he let die? The wife he beat? The son he abandoned?

"The biggest fuckin liar of dem all."

Those words were little more than a whisper to himself. Darcy, for once, oblivious to his mate's presence as she watched with silent delight amongst the rubble of that cemetery. His veritable temper tantrum heard for miles as another piece of rubble was hurled with such terrific force at that final headstone that it seemed to shatter upon impact and yet how un-satisfied he was with that alone. Darcy strode forward those last few steps, his boots crushing that stone further into the ground before the sound of the gun at his side clicked and hissed into the darkness. Several shots fired directly into that earth at his feet. The sound echoing explosively across that open hillside before a sudden, near oppressive silence overtook that darkness. Little but the sound of Darcy's near raspy breathing seeming to punctuate the night. That gun roughly holstered once more. His gaze remained turned on the ground at his feet.

"Shouldda dun dat year ago- when you was still alive ta feel it."

How that venom seemed to lace his words still. Darcy remained oblivious to his mate's presence until the sudden sound of her voice crept like silk into the air, her unexpected appearance prompting a warning flash of his fangs and yet- that reaction was no more than an animalistic response to the unexpected. His mind taking several moments to punctuate that rage and recognise her entirely. His lips, now, quick to fall over his teeth. That very edge to his figure seeming to wear away in her presence even if he remained distinctly tense. Risque glided across that ground, her hand resting upon him from behind as she uttered those words to his ear. Her voice, as always, seeming to permeate the confines of his mind. She was right. It was their fault. His family's fault. They had held him back for years. It was only Risque who had ever given him anything. It was to her alone he owed everything. Anything and everything else was....meaningless. Family was cancer. His tongue seemed to flick across his teeth as if tasting those words she fed him so eagerly. Her hand slid further down his spine. His taught figure so desperately aware of her as if that very rage had made him all the more sensitive to her very touch. Those desires igniting near feverishly as if his very body could hardly decided if he wanted to fuck, fight or feed. That disastrous tangle of....emotion turning violently within him. Her whispered words like fuel to that already raging fire. Let it die. All of it.

"Yar right. Yar always right. About everything."

Just what exactly those words meant remained to be seen. Darcy's own voice little more than a whisper of simple agreement to Risque and all she uttered. She had never let him down. She had never disappointed him when others had. Her allowance of him by her side was by far his greatest achievement. All at her will alone. That already steadfast loyalty to his very mate seemed to, impossibly, grow all the more in that moment. One grave left, she said. One left. She was right. Darcy's head turned near sharply. His gaze falling upon one grave remaining in that family plot. His. What had they buried there in place of him? Or was it merely an empty hole in the ground. As if some stone in this fucking ratshit cemetry might be an honour. Finish it. That command seemed to resonate within his mind. Darcy moved on near autopilot to do exactly as was commanded of him. The power that seemed to all but leak from his frame suddenly spiked as a faint, dark glowing seemed to encircle his form. That simple, sheer vampiric energy seemed to reach a veritable peak within the man before he delivered that astounding roundhouse kick to that last standing grave. Cement and debris was sent flying in every direction. Several chunks of that stone sent rocketing over a number of fields to land so far within the distance even his own hearing could barely detect the strike. That energy rapidly fading all at once until Darcy was merely left standing with little but dust at his feet. Just as that caretaker so finally crested the hill with paper in hand. My God! What have you done, I-

How quickly Darcy seemed to whirl in place. That old man hurriedly silenced as he shuffled nervously forward. His gaze darting from Risque, perched like a Queen of the Damned atop her grave throne and Darcy hom lingered like Death itself amongst the rubble. That piece of paper, that title deed, was held nervously toward the vampire with the curious eyes as Darcy all but snatched it from him. His next actions, he knew, so likely to be anything but understood by his mate. This, for perhaps the first time in a long time, sure to...surprise Risque and yet his mind had set upon it all the same. Darcy's hand was held out once more in silent request that the old man, thankfully, seemed to understand. The elderly caretaker nervously passed him a pen. Darcy's gaze lingered for several moments on that paperwork, his eyes scanning it quickly before he brought that pent to paper. The vampire singing his name at the bottom. Darcy Colt Van Dellan. The last time he would ever sign that name. That piece of paper was thrust with such force back into the old man's arms it was a surprise he remained standing at all. Confusion seemed to explicpse his aged features as he glanced from that paperwork to Darcy and back again. Darcy's voice, at last, breaking that silence. An explanation offered to that caretaker and Risque both.

"Me old man swore up and down dat dis piece o'shit land would never belong ta no one but our family. He 'ated me and i 'ated 'im and he still left it in me name. Dat's 'uman stupidity. I want nothin' from 'im, nothin'. He'd sooner 'ave me burn dis place den let me sign it away. So dat's what I fuckin' did. Right 'ere on 'is grave. Dis land belong to da National Trust now, so da town don't gotta pay for it no more either. It ain't Van Dellan land no more. It ain't mine. Do whatever da fuck yar want wit it."

One hand reached out to take the offered bottle from Risque then, Darcy unscrewing the lid as he walked, leading the way down that hill and back toward the truck. That Risque had procured that drink for him was hardly lost upon him. His mate's....care....a near curious twist to this night. One he would not forget. The moonshine all but burned his throat as he lifted it to his lips, Darcy near downing half that bottle in several strides as that truck launched into life. The vampire settled himself in the driver's seat, the passenger door obediently opening at his command for Risque to seat herself. That bottle passed to her the moment she did. Christ. That was strong liquor. The road ahead near momentarily seeming to....blur. Huh. Maybe Mary Beth hadn't lied about that drink.

"Yar should try dat. Dat's good shit. Tanks for gettin it, Darlin'."

The engine roared beneath his hands as his foot found that excelerator. The truck sent flying from that hill and down onto the road at a significantly faster speed then they had arrived. Darcy narrowly missed a tree as they wound their way along the dirt track that led back to the road itself. The vampire suddenly swerved for no apparent reason before steering back onto the road.

"Damn 'coons."

That mailbox, it seemed, had been mistaken for a racoon. That liquor was far more potent than Darcy had anticipated. The man shaking his head slightly to clear it. The road coming into far sharper focus as those vampiric senses fought back agianst the liquor.

"We got a party ta go to. Den, after dat, I ain't never bringin' yar to somewhere as bad as dis ever 'gain."

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet
Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth