《Chimera》


 01|One

    Hemlock was running.


    He didn''t know where his feet took him, just that he had to keep running. Dregan would be on him in no time, fueled by the raw power of ancient bloodlines and his own wrath, and Hemlock stood no chance as a bumbling newborn. But he had to go, and go far. So he did.


    Thorned branches tried clinging to his arms and whipped at his face. The mud threatened to drag him down with every step. Even the earth was against his defiance. But the wind whispered go¡ªgo here, go this way, go past this tree. Hemlock had no mind to question the whispers as Kaskan held far too many oddities to even begin narrowing down what it might be, and there was more chance of it being his paranoid mind fracturing completely than a natural oddity. All he could do was run, run, run, and push his exhausted body past its limits.


    Turn. Turn now.


    He heard too late. Hemlock''s foot slipped and he skidded, crashing onto his side and splattering mud everywhere. Thunder rumbled from above. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. His heart pounding in his ears drowned out the laughing owls and roar of the rain, but not loud enough to cover his fears. They paralyzed him. The what-ifs, the inevitable punishments. Would Dregan kill him for this? Or would he torture him for eternity, make Hemlock an example of what happened when the newborns tried to escape? Death would be preferable to whatever cruelty floated within Dregan''s mind. The shower of rain ran down his face in a parody of tears.


    The screech of bats in the distance kickstarted Hemlock''s adrenaline. The wind whipped and screeched back, and it almost felt like mini whirlwinds yanked at his limbs to get him up faster. Hemlock didn''t care. All that mattered was getting up, and he flailed like a panicked deer on its back before he managed to get himself on his feet. Turn. The whispers said turn. Hemlock bolted further into the woods.


    And just in time. He didn''t dare look, but he could hear the angry chatter of bats behind him as the hoard found where he had just been. The woods groaned and snapped in response. Grass twisted around his ankles, but he slipped through their rain-soaked grip. Gusts of wind battered him from behind and propelled him forward. Just a little further. He just needed to get a little further.


    Dregan didn''t continue after him. Either he lost the scent or gave up the chase, but Hemlock didn''t want to take any chances. He kept running until he couldn''t anymore. He kept going until he tripped yet again and collapsed into a heap on unforgiving concrete. He feared the worst until the cloud of bats didn''t follow him to his grave. Nothing more than a crumpled heap in the dirt, he sought out death and found the scythe nowhere to be seen. A whimpered wheeze escaped his lungs. With the last of his strength, Hemlock got to his elbows and flipped onto his back to get a glimpse of his surroundings.


    Angry grey clouds flashed with lightning and buried him under the promise of a flood. Craggy and ancient trees loomed just below with a crown of circling ravens. Just inside his peripheral stood a proud but equally as ancient stone building, with words carved into it that Hemlock couldn''t read. Just from the top corner he could see, he knew it was grand; likely once important, too, now left abandoned to rot. Hemlock felt a pang of kinship with the sentiment, though he felt far from proud and important.


    To his side, a headstone mocked him with a weather-erased name. Hemlock turned his head and let himself finally give up.


    **


    His mouth tasted like old copper. It had been weeks since his last feeding, and his stomach cramped and screamed in agony, but he had no way of knowing if he''d be allowed to feed again soon. The dark cell offered no promise of help.


    Years upon years of living like an animal, and yet it never got easier¡ªthe waiting, the hunger, the torment. Hemlock rested his forehead against the cell bars and closed his eyes, catalogued the scents drifting about and connected them to conjured images. The dungeon, his home, had been the only place he knew in this lifetime. An underground fortress full of twisting hallways with steepled ceilings, grand statues of different figures, massive braziers set an exact distance apart from one another, and layers upon layers buried deep within the earth, it housed not only him, but hundreds of others stuck in the same position as him. The stonework held memories of an ancient time, and spoke of builders proud of their work, but filth accumulated over the years from neglect. Now, whatever purpose it served before had fallen into ruin in favor of becoming a place of torment and misery. Death.


    He had no idea what else was hidden beneath the earth, what kind of horrors or hidden treasures the old stone held in other areas of the fortress. Hemlock wondered who else sat like him against the bars and pictured their life before and their life now, who else caught scents and turned them into pictures and possibilities. Did they smell the mold and think of a crack giving way to nature? Did they feel phantoms on their skin in every waking moment? Hemlock shuddered and dragged nails down his arm.


    A draft from somewhere brought with it the stench of rotting flesh¡ªand the salty tinge of tears. He wondered who he had been in his past life, before he became this. Had he deserved this life? Did he choose it? Did he know what he''d become? Hemlock could speculate all he wanted, but no memory surfaced to aid him.


    Undoubtedly, the master was hosting some kind of fancy feast in the mansion above the dungeon. He had fetched some of the more presentable ones and brought them to the surface, so they''d be forgotten for some time while he entertained and gorged himself on luxury and power. Hemlock itched to find the courage to bite back, to fight against the bastard and find a life of his own besides blood and death. But he couldn''t even figure out how to be himself, let alone find a version he liked. Forget finding a way to overthrow the man responsible for the misery of hundreds.


    A groan echoed in the silent dungeon from the side, and Hemlock winced at how it pierced his ears. Such a small sound, but so so loud when there''s nothing but your own breathing and the hanging reminder of death. The ancient fortress didn''t even have the decency to have water dripping from the old stones in a steady rhythm.


    Hemlock contemplated gnawing at the rusted bars in front of him before ultimately shuffling back against an uneven wall. Across from him laid Abel, stretched out on his back and arms cushioning his head. The both of them were reed thin beneath their scratchy and filthy rags, but through Abel he could see that their ethereal beauty still shone through the dirt and grime. Fucking vampires. Beasts, but beautiful ones. Abel''s particular brand of beauty shone in his effortless poise and sultry aura, and it''s one that got turned towards Hemlock far too many times to count. Or that he was thrilled about.


    Another groan. Abel remained still, but Hemlock knew better than to believe his cellmate''s false sleep. When the silence stretched for too long with Hemlock not answering Abel''s subtle bid for attention, the other vampire eventually gave in and rolled onto his side to pout. Hemlock blinked back, unmoved.


    "I can hear your hunger, babe," Abel purred. Long fingers stroked idle patterns on the cobbled floor. "I can help." Lashes lowered, and glittering onyx eyes peeked up from beneath them. "It''ll be our little secret."


    Absolutely not. "No."


    All the time. Hemlock could never figure out what Abel''s goal was when he tried this, but he simultaneously didn''t want to know either. Whenever the master pushed the limit of "forgetting" to feed them, Abel made his advancements. Tried seducing Hemlock into feeding from him, into sating his hunger with Abel rather than waiting and starving. Once... he had been tempted. Those first nights of confusion, with agony twisting his entire being into nothing but the single thought of getting some kind of food... it was tempting. Abel was older than him, in terms of their time as vampires, so it was easy to fall back on the assurance that the other knew what he was doing and to trust that he wouldn''t be led astray. But something had held him back from taking Abel up on his offer. Was it fear of repercussions? Perhaps. Fear of not knowing how to feed? Also possible. Disgust at the thought? Most likely.


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    Whatever held him back, it didn''t matter. His insistence on refusing Abel still failed to deter attempts, and each one proved bolder than the last. The man was one ''no'' away from begging at this rate.


    Just as he expected, Abel smiled. It was a slow ordeal and involved only half his mouth and the slightest peak of a fang. With his long black hair tumbling down his shoulders and artfully into his face, Hemlock could see how effective of a hunter Abel could be if let loose. But Hemlock would not be his prey.


    "Come on, babe." Twisting his body, Abel opened his neck up for viewing pleasure. Hooked a finger into the collar of his frayed shirt to expose the skin even more. Hemlock looked away. "I know you want to. You don''t have to starve. I can take care of you¡ª"


    "I said no, Abel. Give it up."


    Silence.


    It wasn''t so much footsteps Hemlock heard but rather a presence he felt when their bodies collided. Fight or flight already activated, Hemlock was ready for the inevitable tussle. He scrambled across the cobblestone, cracked fingers digging into thousand-year-old dirt, but Abel straddled his body and forced him down with strength he couldn''t match. Didn''t know how to match. Both newborns, but unequal. Imbalanced. Had he any pride left, it would''ve withered at how quickly the fight fell through his fingers.


    Lips pressed to his ear in an angry hiss. He could feel the extended fangs dangerously close to clipping his skin, and his heart pounded in both fear and instinctual reaction. His blood stirred and simmered, readying itself as a perfect meal for a hungry predator. Hemlock thrashed against the other vampire, but his untouched strength remained dormant and useless. How could Abel tap into what had never been taught? Had he been practicing this whole time?


    Those delicate hands now shoved Hemlock down and held him still, as brutal as their master''s. "You always make things so difficult," Abel hissed. Rage poured through every word despite his effort to stay quiet. "All you had to do was give in, but no. You had to deny me. Deny this." Body against body, power against powerlessness. Hemlock wanted to vomit. "My patience is waning."


    Three feet away sat an innocent stone. Hemlock traced the sharp edges with his gaze and ran through the odds. "From my vantage point, your patience is already gone."


    Once, Abel''s laughter soothed the restlessness of being trapped¡ªreminded him that there could still be good in life. But now it rang dark and cynical. How often had it been a lie?


    A cold and ghostly touch brushed against his neck, and he flinched. Abel paid no mind and continued pushing Hemlock''s hair to the side. Leisurely, like he had all day. "If it were gone, little flower," he purred, then leaned in to brush his fangs against Hemlock''s neck, "you''d already be dead."


    Hemlock moved right as his skin gave way to piercing fangs. The rock''s edges dug into his skin, but not as much as they did to Abel''s when he swung back and cracked him on the side of his face. Abel shrieked around a mouthful of blood, and his grip on Hemlock relented as he grabbed at the wound. Hemlock took the chance to thrash again and throw the man off, but Abel recovered far quicker than he anticipated. His shriek turned to a furious snarl as they grappled for leverage. They rolled and clawed at one another with their teeth bared and emaciated muscles working overtime to overpower the other. Too quickly, Hemlock ended up on his back with Abel bearing down on him, hunger and rage setting his stare ablaze.


    He got no warning this time. The dungeon filled with Hemlocks shouts and screams, but Abel''s teeth didn''t remove themselves from his throat. They tore at flesh and buried deep for more. Hemlock''s vision wavered. The walls caved in around him with every frantic beat of his heart. Blood coated his throat and chest, stained the floor crimson, and made a gruesome gloss on Abel''s curled lips.


    In a last-ditch effort, Hemlock slammed a knee up and tossed his body to the side. It threw Abel off just enough to give him space, and Hemlock clutched at his torn throat before scrambling away. He couldn''t scream anymore, too dizzy and weak, and maybe his vocal cords were too mauled to work. It didn''t matter. He picked a corner to collapse against and watched as a fading and bloodied Abel stalked closer and closer.


    **


    Death would not have him.


    Not before, when the master decided to turn him into something deadly and doomed. Not after, either. Between blurry moments of consciousness while still crumpled in the corner, his throat stitched itself back together. Abel disappeared at some point and never returned. None of the other newborns dared to whisper bits of concern, or even attempt to see if he was alive out of fear of their own lives becoming forfeit. Death remained his only companion¡ªheld his hand in the shadows and kept the scythe at bay. There would be no tug on his soul this time.


    Perhaps there should.


    Metal against stone grated against Hemlock''s ears in a metallic scream. It threw him out of his floating dreams and drew a hiss from his parched lips. Copper hung in the air. Fresh. Warm. Dipped in honey. His body moved before he cracked open his eyes, instinct driving him more than thought, and he found a tin bowl just within reach.


    The scent of another hit him just as the bowl slid back.


    Hemlock flinched, cowered back, and finally took notice of the vampire before him. Dregan had to be ancient¡ªpower hung from his shoulders like a king''s heavy cloak, speckled with blood and dipped in twisted cruelty. He ruled his castle above while they stayed slave to his whims and hidden from sight. Lower than scum, he always said, not worth being seen by even so much as a guest''s servant. But his ice blue eyes, sleek brown hair, and death-pale skin made him a typical vampire lord in looks alone, with the towering height and build to match. The expensive clothes tailored to his body had not a single speck of dust on them. Yet.


    Hemlock knew better than to expect kindness when clothes were on the line. Dregan had no qualms about getting his hands messy, no matter the occasion.


    Dregan crouched to Hemlock''s level, and the newborn bowed his head in respect and fear. A knuckle tucked beneath his chin and forced his head back up, then to the side as the vampire lord inspected his still-healing injuries. They''d scar, he knew. Vampiric healing didn''t create flawless miracles. Hemlock''s gaze skidded to the man''s face then away, unable to get a read on his fate.


    "Abel would''ve made a fine hunter with skills like his," Dregan murmured. Pondered, perhaps, like Hemlock was no more than a mirror to think out loud at. "Shame he turned them against my property. Now we''ll never know his potential."


    The touch moved to his face, and Hemlock closed his eyes against the gentleness. A ruse, a farse. Dregan was only soft on occasion, which meant a storm was due to pass any minute. And, similarly to Abel, it made Hemlock want to vomit for reasons he completely understood and knew.


    Property. Slave. Toy. They were what Dregan wanted them to be, and he liked to pick favorites for certain wants.


    His hair got tucked behind an ear, then Hemlock was released. He refused to look up, though, for fear of the man getting any other ideas. "I know that you know better, but consider this a warning if you ever try something like this yourself," Dregan said as he stood. "I won''t tolerate any of you thinking you can damage anything that doesn''t belong to you. Understood?"


    "Yes, sir."


    Dregan hummed, satisfied. "Good. Drink, heal, and I will be back for you again soon. I''ve had to put off our appointment because of this little stunt Abel pulled."


    Terror slammed through Hemlock''s mind, quickly followed by panic. He trembled in place and only nodded in response, but Dregan seemed satisfied enough to leave him alone without question or argument.


    No no no nononono¡ªHe had to leave. He had to go. The image of Abel tearing open his throat compiled with other images. Another vampire on top of him, overpowering him while laughing at the effort, hissing threats in the case of disobedience, slicing and bruising patterns into his skin, taking and taking and taking until Hemlock saw in blurs and the empty ceiling. He wouldn''t survive another call, even if Dregan let him feed and heal. He''d shatter the second he left his cell, with no will to put the pieces back together.


    He suspected he''s lost a few already, scattered about the mansion and lost forever.


    With trembling hands, he scooped up the tin bowl and brought it to his lips. Honey and copper, still warm. Hemlock imagined the source was a woman who loved to mix honey into her tea, perhaps coat sweets with it. The thought helped him drink it down in large gulps with less resistance. He nearly forgot about his doom. Nearly.


    Once the bowl sat empty at his knees, reality crashed back down around him in a brutal check. Hemlock had to go. Somehow, he needed to run.

 02|Two

    The empty bed mocked him.


    His body still remembered the trauma that had been done to it, still trembled when he saw the dried trail of blood his open throat had left on the floor, and yet his mind ached for company. Abel had been with him since his beginning. He had picked the newly born vampire off the floor and soothed his screams of agony as his body burned and tore itself apart. His flirting had been tolerable, even if it became skin-crawling after Dregan put his hands on Hemlock. Living in the cell deep below the ground felt less suffocating and lonely when someone else was with him to keep his sanity in check, no matter the kind of person.


    Abel''s absence left a void in Hemlock''s life, and the empty bed made sure to mock him for the hypocrisy.


    Hemlock paced the cell again and again until the stone beneath him started leaving a trail of red footprints in his wake. Time held no concept, even less without another''s companionship to idle away the hours. Breathing counted the seconds. In¡ªone¡ªout¡ªtwo. Repeat and repeat until minutes turned to hours turned to lost time and a need to restart. His fingers found themselves at his throat more than once and without conscious thought.


    He should be dead. Abel had killed him, yet Hemlock still lived, still had enough running through his veins to leave stains on the floor. Abel had killed him, yet Hemlock could only look at the empty bed and wish he had the lesser of two evils at his side.


    Dregan would be expecting Hemlock''s life in exchange for saving it, and he feared for what else would be taken from him.


    Hunger crept up on him; it slithered through his insides and constricted more and more as the presumed days went by. He''d need to feed soon¡ªwell, really, he should''ve already fed ages ago, but he could feel it eating away at his life the longer it went on. If Dregan wanted his repayment, he''d have no choice but to prevent Hemlock from starving. Maybe it wouldn''t be so bad if he did; he''d escape, just like Abel had.


    That thought alone left a worm of forgiveness for the other newborn. Hemlock forced the thought away and went back to pacing. He needed to find a way out, needed to find a way to feed, then figure out his new life. Maybe perhaps not in that exact order, if the hunger pains debilitated him enough to prevent an escape, but it solidified itself as a half-assed plan in his mind and he clung to the hope of it. Anything to survive his own head.


    The healing wound on his throat throbbed, and Hemlock mindlessly reached up to rub at it again. There would be no rest until he found a way out, but now would not be the time. He had to plan and play along¡ªand hope that Dregan didn''t break him before then.


    A clang startled him out of his thoughts. His body locked up in fear before he fully registered who it was, and his hand automatically fell from his throat as he turned.


    Dregan peered at Hemlock through the bars of the cell, head angled to look at him from beneath his brows in some kind of sensually dangerous gaze. It sent a frozen chill through Hemlock, and he dared not move a muscle as the vampire lord unlocked the cell and made his way inside. The bars screeched in protest of being moved, then swung shut the moment Dregan released the door. Flakes of rust skittered against the floor.


    "My beloved pet," Dregan crooned. Hemlock stared and stared and forced himself to breathe. He could''ve been a corpse with how cold and still he had become, but Dregan cared not for his frozen state. He couldn''t even feel himself enough to flinch as a hand found itself at his throat and forced his head back. Dregan squeezed, gently for him but still enough for Hemlock to swallow on instinct and check his breathing. That earned him a smile and a skin-crawling caress to his jaw. "You''re healing quite nicely. Perfect. Come."


    As much as he wanted to fight, his entire existence obeyed its master''s word, and he lurched into action against his mind''s screams. Dregan left the cell without a backwards glance, and Hemlock helplessly followed behind just a few steps back. Compelled. Forced. Each step had his mind slipping away piece by piece, back to a place of unthinking and unseeing. The hunger twisted and clawed, begged to be sated or else he''d be destroyed, and he could smell the trail he left behind himself from his walked-raw skin, but neither one of them paid anything mind. Around them, the corridor branched into even more corridors, each with walls full of nothing but cells called home to newborn vampires similar to Hemlock. They all watched with expressions devoid of pity or curiosity¡ªthey all knew what this meant. It would not be freedom. Jealousy couldn''t exist when hope held no home in their hearts. And Dregan¡ªhe walked on as if he couldn''t wait to get out of the evidence of his own cruelty. Like his own creations disgusted him by just existing.


    Hemlock would be angry if he could stand to think about anything but survival.


    The looming archways soon made way to a moss-covered tower wall. The curved stone displayed divots where eons of trickling water ran down among the greenery, and behind it hid the spiral staircase that would take them directly up to Dregan''s mansion. It would be an easy exit¡ªit at least took them out of the underground fortress¡ªexcept for two very glaring and very deadly problems: it led to the very heart of the twisting and monstrous mansion, and the tower itself had no accessible door to anyone but the vampire lord. Hemlock scanned the rock with distaste in a forced attempt to ignore the trepidation, and he of course saw no seam, no way to force himself in. A dead-end for them all, and likely by design. Only a fool would leave an obvious exit to a hoard of desperate prisoners.


    Dregan laid a palm on the tower and murmured beneath his breath in a tongue Hemlock didn''t recognize, just like always. And just like always, the stone crumbled to dust until a perfect archway let them pass into the tower and up the stairs. He braced himself for the sound of the impossible opposite at his back but couldn''t completely smother his flinch as the unnatural sound of the reverse rattled though his ears. Stone made to dust made back to stone. Unmade becoming made again. It felt a little like time had become a miniature sandbox in the vampire''s hands.


    Up and up they went, around so many times Hemlock had to close his eyes and trust the blood bond to keep him upright lest he tip over and be sick. Another game, likely, or perhaps just how deep beneath the ground they were. How many decades sat upon their heads?


    The trip never got easier, and Hemlock''s nausea refused to abate even when the world stopped spinning in a never-ending grey. He braced a hand against the wall to gather his wits for the split second he was allowed, then stumbled along to the tug of his invisible chains as Dregan continued onward.


    The mansion never got less imposing with each delegated visit. High ceilings exposed thick beams carved with subtle but artful reliefs, hauntingly beautiful in their depiction of vampiric cruelty. Polished ebony and mahogany wood decorated the walls, floor, and furniture, with splashes of gold and silver in strategically regal corners that caught the eye and drew them to the more fanciful d¨¦cor. Chandeliers galore burned with an eternal flickering flame¡ªone that Hemlock swore carried a tinge of blood red within them as if fueled by the same substance as its master¡ªand intricately crafted metal sconces lined the walls and gave off a similar light. No windows, to protect against the sun, but one could be tricked by the litany of heavy velvet curtains draped over walls and doorways. Most hid secret entrances and exits, rooms only accessible by Dregan and his closest allies, and guest chambers that were not to be disturbed. But others were for mere aesthetics, to give the illusion of a normal home and not a vampiric one. Hemlock always wondered if the illusion continued outside the mansion.


    The old woven rug beneath their feet muffled the sound of their footsteps as they walked through the labyrinth-like halls, and Hemlock counted steps out of habit and kept his head down. Unseen whispers and hushed footsteps seeped through the walls and drove needles into Hemlock''s sanity. On occasion, open rooms leaked with power as other vampires lounged and entertained themselves. Their laughter followed as they passed; they nipped at his heels and slid like claws over his skin and drew phantom blood. Hemlock shivered and tried to block it all out.


    One last turn, and he knew where they had stopped before Dregan even ushered him forward. His count had been a fruitless way to occupy his mind, but it also told him just where he stood before he lifted his gaze. Panic rooted him in place, and he cast a foolish glance over at Dregan. The master arched an impatient brow, waited a moment, then placed a hand on the back of Hemlock''s neck and forced him to move. The touch could''ve been mistaken as friendly, if not for the threat of claws hovering just out of sight, or the subtle squeeze of warning. The master would not be patient with him much longer; he had waited long enough for Hemlock''s recovery.


    "Come, my pet," Dregan crooned, using his grip to guide them over to the bed. Hemlock''s mind screamed at the sight, at the memories surging forward, but his body remained frozen. Compliant. What little he had left rattled the cages of his mind and roared at him to dig deeper into the well of power he had been given but not shown, to find what was owed to him and use it. But he instead knelt when signaled to, bowed his head in submission when the master came into sight, and controlled his breathing. A practiced ritual. Not even a shudder passed through him when he felt clawed fingers combing through his tangled hair. His stare stayed locked on the spot between the master''s shins.


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    "So beautiful." The master worked through the neglected strands with rough tugs, then trailed his touch down Hemlock''s face. "Such light, in a world like ours. It''s almost a pity how your skin will miss the sun, how it''ll long to be marred by its light just once more." Fingers hooked around his chin and jerked his face up, and he focused on the hollow of the master''s throat. "But it''s mine, now. My skin to mark, my body to claim. Understood?"


    Hemlock''s breath shuddered. "Yes, master."


    The vampire lord hummed, content with the submission, and all but tossed Hemlock''s face away. "Mora, Venette," he called. Two sets of scurrying feet entered the room from behind Hemlock, but he dared not look. He knew the next part of the ritual. "Get him ready for me."


    Twin echoes of ''yes master'' cued his temporary departure, then the two female servants scurried over and touched Hemlock''s shoulders. He rose to his feet, unsteady and nauseous for an entirely new reason, but offered them a reassuring smile nonetheless. The twins looked up at him with pity, apologies swirling in their unnaturally bright red eyes, but they all had roles to play in this place. They led him to the bathroom with gentle touches that still elicited flinches from him, then one got the bath ready while the other worked on undressing him. As per the master''s orders, he was not to do this himself lest he make an attempt to ''damage'' himself in any way.


    Venette paused in her ministrations, lips pursed and fingers hovering over the laces of his tattered shirt. Hemlock knew where her gaze had caught, and he swallowed on instinct. "You''re hardly healed," she murmured, just quiet enough to not be heard by prying ears, "It''s not right."


    "None of this is right," Mora snipped from the tub. She aggressively turned the knobs to get the temperature right, then snapped open some bottles of scented oils to flick into the water.


    Hemlock shook his head and took Venette''s wrist in a loose grasp to bring her hand back to his shirt in a silent nudge. "It''s fine," he told them. Venette wilted and continued to hesitate. "I''m still here," he added, as if that would help at all.


    "You shouldn''t be," they both said, and it sounded less a threat to his life than a deep sadness that reality kept him leashed to it. What a world they lived in, where life was mourned and death was strived for.


    Eventually, Venette went back to work until he stood bare before them. They wasted no time or breath before guiding him into the tub, and Hemlock couldn''t find shame in himself anymore after all this time, not even as they got to work scrubbing the grime and filth off his body. Their hands, while always gentle and thinner than the master''s, still sent his skin crawling as they worked, but they were efficient and kind enough that he fought back each flinch and cower. One of them encouraged him to tilt his head back against the rim of the tub with a soft pressure beneath his chin, and he gladly shut his eyes to the world.


    His hair, far too long to be completely healthy, got lathered in shampoo and determined scrubs to get the worst of it cleaned and untangled. Mora always lamented over how his loose blonde curls glinted like the sun when washed of dirt, complaining that it made her sun-sick, while Venette shushed her and said it was their own unique way of seeing the sun. Hemlock contented himself with simply listening to their soft whispers and bickering as always, and let it lull him into a false sense of normalcy.


    A light touch to his cheek brought him out of his delusions. His eyes fluttered open and found Venette leaning against the lip of the tub, cheek resting on her folded arms. Mora drew her touch away and rustled around behind him. "I''m sorry," Venette said, and his stomach bottomed out. Fuck. He always hated this. "But you know¡ª"


    "I know," Hemlock interrupted, face burning with humiliation as he looked away.


    A specific kind of bottle dangled just within sight, slightly dusty from whatever hiding spot Mora had put it in last time. Hemlock stared at it and focused on not hyperventilating. It would do no one any good if he fell into his panic now, not when the master would be waiting for him.


    Mora waited silently for him to overcome himself, neither pushing him nor taking it away. It had to be done. Agonizing seconds went by before the fear of waiting too long overrode his panicked embarrassment, and Hemlock took the bottle from her and uncorked it to pour its contents into his hand. The twins moved away to give him as much privacy as they could in the bathroom, and Hemlock closed his eyes once more to further the illusion. Then he reached down and ignored his trembling.


    The silence of the bathroom only heightened the sound of the water sloshing with Hemlock''s rushed but rhythmic movements and the soft whispers of the twins conversing. He caught snippets of their whispers despite himself, and it only drove home his shame.


    ''...Dregan... always so rough...''


    ''...has to know... the others are never...''


    ''...wish we could stop this...''


    Working as swiftly as he could, Hemlock shook against the cool porcelain and tried not to think of what he was doing, of what he had to do to save himself even more pain. He brought himself no pleasure doing this, but he couldn''t help the shame of it all washing over him as his body reacted to it as if he were. When he deemed himself as ready as he could be in the time crunch, he quickly abandoned his task and called out to the twins. They swooped in, murmuring gentle reassurances and reminders that they understood, they were there for him, all while buzzing about the tub to drain its water and guide him out of it with a towel ready to pat him down.


    They didn''t bother with dressing him again¡ªthere would be no point in it, not for what the master wanted from him¡ªbut they took care in making sure his skin was devoid of dampness and his hair was dried and detangled. Hemlock risked a look in the mirror and saw only a hollow being staring back at him. No past, no future, and hardly a present. What good was a plan of escape if his fate had already been sealed from the beginning? He looked away.


    Venette pressed her face to the top of his head and cupped the sides of his face from behind. "One day," she promised like always, her voice muffled, "One day we''ll be free."


    "Yeah," he replied automatically, robotically, "One day."


    Outside the door, they heard the telltale sound of the master returning to the bedroom, and the three of them stiffened. Venette pressed a fierce kiss to his head and backed away, and Mora fluttered about the bathroom to hide the bottle and clean up after themselves. Hemlock then followed them back out to face the master once more.


    Eyes trailed up and down his exposed body in a slow leer and didn''t leave him when the master dismissed the twins. They bowed, muttered their departing words, and left the two of them alone. Hemlock bowed his head and waited.


    "On the bed, my pet." A voice like serpentine velvet, sickly smooth and sultry, it left a slimy feeling on Hemlock''s mind and soul despite the lack of physical touch. "You owe me a great debt that I intend to collect."


    The last shred of Hemlock''s being shuttered itself away. "Yes, master."


    **


    His entire body ached even when splayed atop the plush duvet. Rivulets of blood ran down the contours of his emaciated muscles like a twisted lover''s caress. The red hardly stained the fabric beneath him; its threads had already been dyed the same color¡ªjust like Mora and Venette''s eyes. The master took great pride in his power and did everything to flaunt it, including staining everything he touched his favorite color. He always made sure Hemlock got a taste of it with each meeting.


    Hemlock couldn''t move, or else his body would seize up and drop him back down to writhe in pain. Laying on his stomach proved to be the only semi-comfortable way to position himself, everything else only serving to aggravate the claw-marks and searing pain settling itself deep within him. Somewhere, the master had gone off to make himself presentable once more¡ªto wash away Hemlock''s spilled pain and forced ''pleasure'', once again disgusted by the results of his own glee. Only with his permission could Hemlock leave the room, though, so he waited with shallow breaths and a flitting, unseeing gaze. Somewhere deep within his consciousness, he noted a fierce tremor from himself. Shaking from the physical or mental pain, he dully wondered? Did it even matter?


    A hand locked itself within a fistful of hair. Hemlock startled enough to let a whimper fall from his lips, and the master yanked a fraction. "You did so well, my beautiful pet," came the twisted praise. It did nothing but bury more lost pieces of himself. "You break so wonderfully for me."


    Maybe one day he''ll break enough to be disposed of. But Hemlock swallowed that thought and forced the practiced words to his tongue instead as he stared at the headboard. "Thank you, master." A hum, then the sharp pain eased as the vampire lord moved away. Moving would be a massive mistake, but he had one more torturous humiliation to endure during this dance. "Are you satisfied with my performance?" For the love of all the gods who held no love for him, say yes.


    Silence stretched, and Hemlock hardly breathed as he waited for the allowance to leave¡ªin comparison to this, his cell felt the closest to a sanctuary as he could get. An eternity might as well have passed before Dregan spoke. "More than satisfied as always, pet. But I''m not done with you just yet." The panic that sliced through Hemlock hurt more than the wounds crisscrossing over his body, and the room seemed to drop in temperature in time with his fluttering heart. Dregan, however, kept on as if nothing was amiss. "You are to stay here until I call upon you again. I trust you will behave in my absence."


    Hemlock needn''t see the deadly stare to know it landed on him. "Of course, master," he replied, trimming the panic from his tone that would get him flayed for insubordination. "I live only to serve you." More practiced words to weasel his way into good graces. It worked well enough, judging by the affectionate touch to his cheek.


    "I know. You''ve always been my favorite for a reason. My perfect poison." Hemlock squeezed his eyes shut when he felt lips against his neck, the ghost of fangs brushing against still-bleeding puncture wounds. "Rest up, pet; I look forward to later." Hemlock traced the barely-there pad of the vampire''s steps, then held his breath as the door clicked shut. Silence descended upon the room, but still Hemlock refused to breathe until he knew for sure that he sat alone.


    Minutes ticked into an hour. Not even the taunting whispers reached him in his silent whirlwind. Only then did he finally curl into a ball of gnawing pain¡ªand let himself scream.

 03|Three

    Time had long turned panic into a buzzing undercurrent beneath the numb. Still there, still setting his heart ablaze in a frantic flurry, but dulled by a wash of unfeeling that left Hemlock immobile and helpless atop the duvet. He hadn¡¯t even bothered with covering himself for some semblance of belated modesty. Movement felt too draining; it dragged him further down the spiral and beneath the suffocating waters. Breathing, too, almost became too laborious to bother with. Not for the first time, Hemlock wished to drown beneath it all.


    The softest whisper of footsteps roused Hemlock from his half-asleep state just enough for him to recognize the pattern¡ªscurrying, with just enough echo to betray the existence of two pairs. He settled back down and heaved a sigh. Even that pulled at his wounds to an uncomfortable extent. ¡°One of these days I won¡¯t be bare-assed in front of you two,¡± he mumbled into the pillow, already allowing himself a genuine rest.


    Feather fingers ghosted over his back before combing through his hair. His exhaustion had overridden the instinct to flinch ages ago. ¡°You men and your dignity,¡± Mora tsked. It was a gentle sound, with something akin to a motherly hush hidden within the words. Venette circled around to kneel to his level, chin and folded arms resting on the edge as she smiled and tapped his nose. Hemlock scrunched it mostly for her sake just to see her smile sparkle.


    ¡°Sleep, Hem,¡± she said, just as gentle as her twin, ¡°We¡¯ll take care of you.¡±


    Hemlock hummed and closed his eyes, once again submitting himself to the hands of another besides himself. ¡°You always do.¡±


    **


    While he slept, the twins worked their magic to patch him back up. Some part of him still felt the phantoms of their touch even in his dreams, which threatened to drag him down into an abyss that he¡¯d never wake from. Claws and teeth sunk into his flesh and demanded he give more more more, give everything he had and then some. To give up his very bones and soul like he owed a debt he never asked to receive. They caressed the delicate stretch of his skin with nails sharpened into daggers and whispered for him to obey their unsaid demands under threat of peeling him open cut by cut.


    Hands, all over his body. Grabbing and pulling and twisting him how he was wanted. Demanded. They held him down and lifted him up and power loomed over him like a shadowed threat all on its own. His fangs sunk into pillowed feathers in a bid to not scream, and hunger no longer stayed a priority. Only agony.


    Then, he dreamt of blood. Smeared across the floor like a ritual and spattered inside bowls. Tinged the musty air with iron and crimson. Flickering torches lit up the room and painted stone walls in ever-shifting shadows and light. Claws continued to skate down his back as he kneeled over those bloody sigils, but these ones counted the bumps of his spine and kept their touch to a mild sting as they skimmed over his scalp. He dreamt of distant screams, the chill of fear¡ªand the warmth of a hearth. The crackle of power more potent than even Dregan possessed.


    A feral hiss chased the demanding whispers away until they skittered off into an unseen void. Hemlock trembled in place where he knelt. Evidence of cruelty splayed itself out in front of him, as if proud, and he would be next. His place on the smeared whirls of blood told him that, because what else could he ever be but a sacrifice for someone else¡¯s wants? No binds held him down, though, and the clothes draped over his body were fine silks with glittering embroidery. He held out his hands and his wrists were bare of bruises and blisters. Not a fleck of blood stained him. ¡°Where am I?¡± he croaked.


    A torrent of voices flooded his mind, all screaming and whispering and speaking at once and converging into one overwhelming voice. Hemlock bowed under the force of it and clapped hands over his ears as if that would muffle the deafening onslaught as it spoke to him. ¡°Blood-drinker. You sit at the site of slaughter.¡±


    ¡°Is¡ª¡± He had to catch his breath. The echoes of the voice bounced around his skull and rattled his skeleton, knocking him askew even as he remained immobile on the sigils. ¡°Is that what happened here?¡±


    The answering rumble could¡¯ve been mistaken as amusement, if he were a fool. ¡°Not yet.¡±


    Hemlock opened his mouth to ask what that even meant¡ªhe was kneeling in dried blood for fuck¡¯s sake¡ªbut then the voice boomed through his skull before he could and rendered him immobile and mute. ¡°Listen well, for I only speak once. Your future is not settled, blood-drinker, but the others¡¯ are. Gnaw on your cage and see it open. Failure will deter; do not let it. When the storm breaks, find petals steeped in red. From there, you are on your own.¡±


    Mind reeling, Hemlock stared at the sigils at his knees and watched them blur together. Nothing made sense. What did it mean, his future was the only one not settled? Who was this? Some kind of figure of fate? It offered no other explanation as to what it had meant, only let him spin the words through his mind and find a meaning to them on his own. Gnaw on your cage and see it open. Did this mean he could escape? Could he really be free?


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t even make sense,¡± he blurted before he could get ahold of his tongue, and panic slammed into Hemlock before he registered the distinct feeling of being laughed at. No response chided him about his outburst, so Hemlock quickly covered up his blunder with a question. ¡°Why are you helping me?¡± Clarification wouldn¡¯t do him any good¡ªit had made itself clear that it wouldn¡¯t speak further on its disjointed prophesy¡ªbut he could at least solve that riddle.


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    Another rumble, and Hemlock wondered if it really was amused with him and his miniature interrogation. ¡°My words are not help; they are ones you have already known but fail to acknowledge.¡±


    ¡°But you still chose to tell me.¡±


    The voice hummed, a screaming dichotomy of a sound with the many voices mingling to form one. ¡°I care not if you succeed. It changes nothing; I will still get something. Perhaps I simply wish for the better of evils.¡±


    Better of evils. Site of slaughter. This voice spoke in riddles, and it hurt Hemlock¡¯s head. But something about the way it phrased its answer, about how it won either way, set off alarms as particular pieces put themselves together. It couldn¡¯t be, though¡ªhe was far beyond the reach of the gods, what influence could he have that made him a figure of interest in their own desires? Impossible felt too little of a word for what he had to be considering, but the bloody sigils stared back at him and dared him to deny it. The claws combing through his hair tugged and teeth snapped at his ear in a wordless hiss. He could almost hear the smile behind it.


    His throat worked as his next question surfaced. He feared the answer, but he had to know. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    That voice shrank into the shadows, but he still caught the echo of its reply. ¡°Death.¡±


    **


    He¡¯d never had that kind of dream before, but it left him more ragged than the others, as if it had thrown him into a spiraling tsunami then expected him to keep his legs. Hemlock woke to the scent of metal and herbs and briefly couldn¡¯t disentangle dream from reality; the two intertwined with one another too much for his tilted mind to puzzle out. But then he blinked away the flicker of a fire and the touch of reverent claws and came face-to-face with a goblet of blood held by familiar hands.


    Venette swirled it around to let the scent of it get stirred up and more potent. ¡°Thought you might be hungry,¡± she said. Hemlock caught a whiff of rosemary and something else tangy, and the image of a faceless figure standing in front of a cooking roast flashed before his eyes. Slowly, oh so slowly, he came back to himself as the twins pulled the frayed threads back together.


    Rubbing away the sleep and the heavy remnants of the dream, Hemlock sat up and took the offered goblet. ¡°Thank you,¡± he rasped, then winced at how destroyed his voice sounded. He took note of the sore points of his body as he sipped at the blood, savoring each drag over his tongue¡ªfor the most part, the least of his injuries were healed between his vampiric healing and whatever the twins did after each session. The worst of them pulled at stitches that would be removed in no time. All that remained as a full-body ache that radiated from within and out to everywhere else. Good enough, he supposed.


    Mora appeared at the foot of the bed and set down a pile of unfamiliar clothes. ¡°You were mumbling in your sleep,¡± she said. Hemlock raised his brows but didn¡¯t stop drinking. ¡°I mean, you usually do¡ªI can¡¯t imagine your dreams are really¡­ sweet.¡± She and Venette shared a look, and Mora grimaced. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m just saying that it was different this time. You weren¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t know. You weren¡¯t as wound up as usual, but the things you were saying were¡­¡±


    ¡°Odd,¡± Venette piped in, taking the goblet he handed over after draining it. ¡°Do you remember it at all?¡±


    Did he remember it? How could he forget? Hemlock could still feel the claws that had dragged over his spine and scratched at his scalp without drawing blood. The echo of the voice still rattled through him. The warmth of the room he had been in. The cryptic ass words that had been some twisted form of advice, and the knowledge that this being of death didn¡¯t care if he followed it or not. Yes, ¡°I remember it.¡±


    The twins leveled eerily identical looks his way, and he crumbled far faster than he wanted to. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a normal dream of mine. I don¡¯t know what really happened, but it was definitely¡­ weird. Felt more real than the others.¡±


    Venette disappeared, then reappeared with a comb and started dragging it through his hair. ¡°What was it about?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t really know.¡± Again, another look, but he had nothing more to say about it. ¡°I remember it, but I don¡¯t know what happened. Nothing, really.¡± He refused to say that he suspected he was contacted by a god, because as common as it was in Kaskan, they would never help a vampire. They were godless beings, separate from the mortals that were practically living toys, so they had no business entertaining the idea that Hemlock danced around.


    His explanation seemed to satisfy the twins, though, and they both shrugged it off and got to work once again. Mora left the clothes alone for the moment and instead came over with a plate of simple foods that she likely stole from the kitchen. He munched on those as Venette worked and chatted with them both about their day spent entertaining the pompous vampires that Dregan liked to bring around and impress. It mostly boiled down to a relatively boring day spent on their toes to avoid extra attention, and stealing bits of blood and food for themselves to share. Hemlock didn¡¯t envy their job, but he sometimes wished he could serve Dregan in any other way than what he had been forced into.


    Which meant he had to be prepared for his job yet again. It took a bit of expert weaseling on his part, but finally Hemlock got a hint as to what he was expected to do instead of going back to his cell. Unsurprising, it was Venette that caved to his subtle prodding, and Mora shot her sister a sharp look as Venette gestured to the clothes.


    ¡°The master is hosting a ball tonight¡ªa masquerade.¡± She pursed her lips and fiddled with his hair, twisting a loose curl around her finger to avoid looking at him. Hemlock¡¯s throat tightened. ¡°He wants you to be his armpiece for the night.¡±


    ¡°Armpiece,¡± he repeated. Venette nodded, and one look at Mora¡¯s tight expression confirmed it. Hemlock sucked in a breath and considered the revelation. ¡°¡­It could be worse.¡± The twins made a mirrored expression of disagreement, but he ignored them. ¡°If he¡¯s going to be parading me around in front of a bunch of people, then he won¡¯t have as much of a chance to do anything to me.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what his events are like, Hemlock,¡± Mora argued. ¡°He could very well use you as an example of how he keeps his newborns in check. He loves to entertain the other vampire lords, and he especially loves reminding them that he¡¯s more powerful than them. He¡¯ll eat you alive.¡±


    He glanced at the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, presumably his outfit for the night. ¡°Then I¡¯ll be on my best behavior and he won¡¯t have to. Just stand there and look pretty, right?¡±


    Their pinched faces remained, but Venette sighed in resignation and tugged at the curl in her hand. ¡°You are pretty.¡±

 04|Four

    Venette was right¡ªhe was pretty.


    Hemlock stared at himself in the mirror, unblinking, and almost felt a sense of horror that the person looking back at him followed his every twitch. The golden, sun-blonde hair was familiar, though the loose curls that normally fell to his hips in a tangled mess were now washed, combed, and tamed into an intricate updo containing braids and artfully sectioned out locks. It spilled over his shoulders and down his back and caught the flicker of a nearby hearth. His skin, too, was familiar in a sense, coated in freckles and sunspots and naturally tanned as if declaring itself a favorite of the solar rays¡ªexcept it was all too clean, and those freckles scurried up to a face he couldn¡¯t look away from.


    It was a stranger, surely, looking back at him. The man¡¯s wide-eyed gaze bore into him with shimmering green irises that had a mirrored slice of brown within them, almost like a cut of pie. He had a gentle face, but strong brows, and faint crow¡¯s feet around the corners of those eyes like he spent a long time grinning ear-to-ear. The sun had laid its claim around the man¡¯s nose and cheeks, smattering darkened spots wherever it could reach, including the downturned curve of his pointed ears. This was no vampire that stood before him; he was a child of the sun, who belonged far away from the dungeon of a mansion. And yet the man stared back at him, fear trembling in those mismatched eyes, and tilted his head when Hemlock did so.


    Hemlock opened his mouth, and the stranger mirrored him. The sharp points of fangs sat where canines ought to be. Tucked away, and yet they still betrayed their existence. He watched as the man poked at them with his tongue before he stopped and turned away.


    Venette grinned up at him through the mirror. ¡°Never seen yourself before, eh?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Hemlock murmured, still unsure if the reflection truly was his. Had he really gone this whole time without walking past a mirror? How had he gone this entire time without realizing he never knew what he looked like? Obviously, he had at some point, but ever since that fateful bite that dragged him into the depths, he couldn¡¯t remember a thing of his past. It made sense, logically, for his memory of his reflection to go along with it, but it felt uncanny to stare at himself and not recognize himself.


    Mora drifted around the room behind him, and he caught glimpses of her in the mirror as she gathered whatever she needed to get him ready. ¡°It¡¯s always odd, to see yourself for the first time. Hell, I was in denial that Venette and I were twins for ages before I finally got used to it. I can¡¯t imagine not having a living reflection of your own to see every day.¡±


    Hemlock didn¡¯t know how to respond, so he didn¡¯t. Venette fluffed about and sat him down, still in front of the damned mirror, and he watched them move about behind him. They looked like proper vampires. Skin bleached from the darkness, almost translucent to the point of seeing the red and blue of their blood and veins, they held no evidence of a life out in the sun. Their sleek black hair had always been cut to just graze their shoulders, and their features were all sharp bones and triangles. Long and pointed ears that flared out at the end, forked tongues, and magically altered bright red eyes¡ªVenette and Mora were every part vampire that he wasn¡¯t, except he had the height where they didn¡¯t.


    As he silently gazed at his reflection, Hemlock wondered if he¡¯d ever get used to it. Not just the discomfort of his unfamiliar self, but the not knowing. The empty space in his mind where his past should¡¯ve been. His fucking name, even. Who had he been, before he had been made into Hemlock?


    He didn¡¯t get time to dwell, though. With his hair done, Mora knocked his knees out of the way so she could stand over him and dust a bit of makeup over his face. ¡°Not a lot,¡± she told him, ¡°since the mask will cover it.¡± She ran a line of black along the bottoms of his eyes then dusted it out around the corners, taking care not to stab him in the process or get any of the powder into his eyes. Then she considered her work, glanced over at something behind him, and nodded her satisfaction and gestured to Venette.


    ¡°That it?¡± he asked her, confused. All that fuss for a bit of powder around his eyes?


    Mora flapped a hand at him. ¡°You¡¯ll see why once we get you dressed. Now, up on your feet, and no squirming. It¡¯ll make this process even more painful for all of us.¡± And he couldn¡¯t argue with that.


    **


    Hemlock had never been to the other end of the mansion before. Mora and Venette guided him to unfamiliar halls, both dressed in a sparkling silky blood-red gown with symmetrical slits up to their hips, and matching strapped heels clicked with each echoed step they took. They were beautiful, no doubt, but the black veils over their faces in lieu of masks denotated them as mere servants expected to wait on each and every established vampire in attendance. A haunting reminder of their roles, and Hemlock had his own that he had to play. His bare feet were silent against the carpet, but he could imagine the cold of marble once they reached the ballroom.


    Silk brushed against his skin, so different from the filthy rags he had worn for so long. It felt alien, and cruel. Of course Dregan only gave him luxury after tearing him apart, plucking out every roaring emotion within Hemlock¡¯s spirit and leaving nothing behind, and then with the caveat of this only being for another ploy. A game. Conflict warred within him¡ªnasty nervous nips at his heels mixed with the cool press of certainty.


    He had to do this; he had to play along. But how far would he be expected to go? Would Dregan expect him to bend and bend and bend until he broke in front of all the prestige within the room? Would he be humiliated in front of those that could¡ªand would¡ªtear him apart? Hemlock absently rubbed at the jagged scar along his throat as his vision shuttered for half a moment. Would he be expected to perform?


    Being good meant the closest thing to safety that one could find in this place, but he wasn¡¯t sure he could survive that. Not with his already fractured mind.


    ¡°Hey.¡± Hemlock blinked, and the churning thoughts skittered away. They had stopped in front of a set of grand doors, arching higher than necessary and certainly heavier than they needed to be. Mirrored carvings were etched into the wood and depicted a gnarled tree that had symbols within the branches. Four circled a fifth¡ªmarks of the Ancients, with vampires right in the middle of them all.


    Self-important bastards. His heart threatened to stop beating altogether with how much it skipped.


    Venette laid a hand on his wrist and twisted around to face Hemlock; her red eyes fierce but warm as they looked up at him. The question in them was obvious, and the answer was anything but what he needed to say. So he picked the lie and nodded, told her what he needed them to believe. Hemlock hated lying to his only true friends, but admitting his fears would do nothing but plunge him deeper within them, and he needed to trick himself into believing that everything would be okay. That he¡¯d be okay.


    A pair of guards stood in front of them, faces covered by polished helmets, and they nodded in acknowledgement before stepping back and opening the doors for the trio. Hemlock swallowed as the heavy wooden doors swung open and let the tsunami of power crash into him. He followed Mora and Venette as they floated into the room as if they belonged, veiled faces held high despite their positions, and tried to emulate their confidence with shaky results.


    Numbly, Hemlock wondered just how big this mansion could be as his eyes swept up and up to scan the ballroom. The ceilings arched so high he swore he swore there were clouds blotting out the paintings, even with the massive chandeliers and fancy, swooping carvings into the beams and decorative architecture. The dark atmosphere persisted with accents of Dregan¡¯s signature red and the reminder of wealth and power in the touches of gold. There were windows, stained glass and arching high up the walls, but they let in no sunlight¡ªa false corridor, maybe, to perpetuate the illusion. The floors themselves were indeed marble and cold, with intricate detailing in each tile tying them all together into a massive pattern that Hemlock wanted to admire. Music drifted from some shadowed corner. Food wafted about the air from heavy tables laden with dishes and treats, and another separate table displayed an array of drinks¡ªand blood.


    It was simple: be on his best behavior, play the game that Dregan expected from him, and he would escape this hell unharmed and only slightly worse for wear. Easy. But the immediate eyes on them as they coasted through the grand room made Hemlock itch at his skin. They knew what he was, what his role was, as they raked clawed gazes down his body. No one paid any mind to the twins as they whispered their farewell and good luck, then joined the other servers drifting about. He was alone. A target. A pet. Their fingers likely itched to yank at that invisible leash.


    Steeling his nerves, Hemlock weaved between the guests, ignored the snapping of snarling teeth and too-interested leers behind masked faces, and searched for Dregan. It wasn¡¯t hard, his very being called to Hemlock whether he liked it or not, and soon he found himself at his nightmare¡¯s side and forced to put on a mask of pretty indifference before his apprehension could be caught.


    The host of the party made sure that fact was known. A sweeping black cape full of gold and red embroidery spilled from his shoulders and circled his polished boots, and his tailored suit matched the flourishing style with extra flairs here and there. His mask, though a simple porcelain that covered the upper half of his face, had two pairs of curling horns, one reaching up and one dipping down. Feathered detailing flared out from the eyes and skirted around the outer edges. Beautiful, powerful, and an utter nightmare to most in attendance.


    Dregan spotted Hemlock and bared his teeth in a warning smile as he reached out an arm. Hemlock swallowed down his fear and took the offered arm with a small uptilt of his lip and a silent bid not to flinch. ¡°Sabien, old friend,¡± Dregan said, and turned to the vampire who stood in front of him, ¡°You remember this particular pup that I brought in, don¡¯t you?¡±


    Hemlock vaguely knew the man. Sabien, House Merle¡¯s lord. A relatively old vampire compared to Dregan, he had been present when Hemlock briefly came into consciousness during the change¡ªbut beyond that memory failed to serve him. For his part, the vampire lord also seemed perplexed as he eyed Hemlock.


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    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll say,¡± he finally muttered, and surprised recognition glinted in his crinkled forest green eyes. ¡°Last I saw this one, he was covered in muck and didn¡¯t know what was up or down. You sure know how to clean them up, Dregan.¡±


    Dregan hummed and glanced over at Hemlock. ¡°Yes, I do pride myself in elevating the filth that ruin our homeland.¡±


    Hemlock bristled. Of course, Mora and Venette had done an excellent job of getting him ready for the masquerade. They always took great lengths to take care of him¡ªnot Dregan, even if he had picked the clothing¡ªand he had to admit he likely looked the best he¡¯d ever been.


    His top was barely more than a swath of black silk that draped over his torso, the giant V barely covering his nipples where it eventually tapered off at the tied cinch around his waist, and the excess hung down at his hip. What little of the neckline remained hung loose over his shoulders, where long and flowing sleeves swooped down and hooked around his middle fingers like silken wings. Rubies were inlaid into the fabric along with golden stitching. Hanging low from his hips was a pair of similar bottoms. The flowing black silk gave the illusion of some kind of skirt, as the extra fabric layered upon itself while giving Hemlock¡¯s skin room to breathe and feel a breeze with each step despite the golden cinches around his ankles. Ruby jewelry hung from his hips and decorated the sliver of exposed stomach between the two halves of his outfit, each hanging accessory clinking with every movement.


    And his mask. The thin antique black metal crisscrossed and swirled over itself in a way that created strategic mesh-like detailing around the eyes, and thickened for the rest, to give the illusion of being blindfolded. Thin and curved golden points curled around the mask and towards his exposed nose and cheeks like reaching fingers, then curved up into a twisted crown atop his head and buried themselves into his hair to hold everything in place. More rubies decorated the mask itself, with a large one sitting right in the middle and settled within a detailed frame of its own. Thin black chains hung down over the rest of his face, with red beads breaking up the otherwise mundane addition.


    Dregan wanted him seen, but marked as property, and the clothes he had picked for Hemlock embodied that claim perfectly. Hemlock would¡¯ve admired how he looked if he didn¡¯t see right through them and to the heart of their purpose, and all he could feel was dirty¡ªlike some whore at Dregan¡¯s beck and call.


    And the way that Sabien¡¯s gaze caught on the pinkened skin of still-healing wounds on his exposed chest, Hemlock wasn¡¯t the only one that saw it that way.


    For a moment, the party fell away and he was back in the bedroom. Sharp nails filed into false claws dragged down his skin and tore it open. Teeth bit into his neck and dragged his blood to the surface, let it pool everywhere and be a waste just because they could. Fabric smothered his breath and caught the rolling tears. Hands on him, hands everywhere, holding grabbing pinning taking taking taking¡ª


    Dregan repositioned, drawing Hemlock into the curve of his side with a hand on his waist. This time, he couldn¡¯t hide his flinch, and that earned him a sharp pinch at his side. Hemlock wanted to vomit at the proximity and touch, so close to how they had been before, a mockery to true intimacy. He hated how Dregan still stood taller than him, even if he could look over the heads of a good few guests. Weak. Small. Powerless. Just a newborn in need of rescue and bottle feeding. A thing to use again and again.


    Still, Hemlock had to play his part or that touch would gut him in an instant. So he bore his teeth in a pretty smile to bite back the bile and leaned into Dregan. ¡°I can¡¯t thank my lord enough for his generosity. He¡¯s taken great care of us.¡±


    His words worked just how they were supposed to. Sabien¡¯s eyes flickered with a hint of competition and unwilling respect, and Dregan¡¯s hum was both indifference and praise. All Hemlock needed to do was talk the vampire lord up and perpetuate the reminder that he stood as the most powerful lord in the room. There was a reason they all flocked to him, and Dregan loved dangling that reason over their heads. Easy, Hemlock told himself. Easy, except he had to find a way to escape the man¡¯s clutches and convince the others he didn¡¯t want to crumble to dust.


    The two lords battled it out with clipped words and flowery praises hiding poisonous barbs, and Hemlock smiled and nodded when needed, but otherwise tuned them out. Instead, he listened to the other guests. Their whispers slid through the air in an undercurrent, bold but cautious. They wondered if Dregan held his position for far too long. They doubted he had the power he claimed he did. They wanted a taste of his collection after seeing the prize on his arm. Backstabbers and gossips, the lot of them, but Hemlock spun through thoughts of his own.


    Another¡¯s words floated between them. Gnaw on your cage and see it open. Maybe this was his chance. If he could weasel his way from beneath Dregan¡¯s arm and slip into obscurity, then maybe he could finally escape. He hardly noticed when Dregan began moving, drifting from one vampire to the next. His thoughts were too consuming, and the faces blurred together after a while anyway. Hemlock really wasn¡¯t needed. His only purpose was to be an object, an accessory. None of the vampires really expected him to say much, and their eyes skipped past him more often than not. He preferred it that way.


    The droning bell of a clock chimed. Mora, he thought, sidled up to him and Dregan as a young lord kissed the older vampire¡¯s ass and asked for pointers in maintaining his own House. ¡°A drink, my lords?¡± she asked, and held out a plate laden with goblets full of thick red liquid. The two happily took a helping, and Hemlock decided he¡¯d never get a chance if he didn¡¯t take it himself.


    ¡°My lord,¡± Hemlock smoothly interjected right as the two were taking a sip. Dregan cut a look over at him, but he refused to openly cower beneath the warning stare. ¡°Would I be allowed to excuse myself? I¡¯d like to welcome the other guests on your behalf.¡±


    Under the unblinking stare of the young vampire, Dregan had very little choices, and Hemlock allowed himself just a tendril of triumph. Those icy eyes narrowed, and the goblet lowered. ¡°Very well, pet.¡± Hemlock held still as a finger ran over his jaw in a false show of care. ¡°And help yourself to the delicacies, please. Wouldn¡¯t want you to wither away, now would we?¡±


    Bastard. Conniving, lying, cruel bastard. Hemlock bit back the words that threatened to hiss through his teeth and instead smiled in silence. Then he fled as gracefully as possible before he could be stopped.


    Hemlock didn¡¯t necessarily make a beeline for the food, but he didn¡¯t wind his path quite as much as he could¡¯ve before arriving at the table. The onslaught of scents nearly brought him to his knees, and maybe it would¡¯ve had he been alone and not in a room full of predators. No, he couldn¡¯t let his confidence falter regardless of its nonexistence, or they¡¯d tear him apart. Amazing how he had the fangs just like them but still stood beneath them in the food chain.


    Food, real food, had been a luxury that Hemlock rarely got. Abel sometimes got a plate of scraps here and there and would share a piece, but Dregan had always treated it like some kind of reward. A treat, like they were just a kennel of dogs. Hemlock did everything in his power to school his fury and desperation into a look of neutrality as he carefully plucked small bites. Vampires, he had learned, didn¡¯t necessarily need food to live so long as they had a blood supply, but they still enjoyed it. Perhaps it worked in tandem with the blood and provided extra nutrients. Hemlock had no clue how he functioned. No one had bothered explaining the biology behind what he had become, so he had been left with piecing it all together himself. The puzzle looked awfully ragged and incomplete.


    It didn¡¯t matter. Nothing mattered at the moment but his plan. He just needed some kind of opening, leverage to pull himself up and away from all this death and despair.


    Escape. Escape, escape, escape. Gnaw the cage, see it open, he needed out¡ª


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you a scrumptious thing?¡±


    Thin fingers tipped in stiletto nails brush against the back of his neck, and the hairs there stood to attention. Hemlock didn¡¯t move as a woman swung into view just within his peripheral; her grin was hungry and bright. She spoke again before he could.


    ¡°Dregan should really put a leash on his toys,¡± she purred, and those fingers brushed back his hair to expose his neck. Gooseflesh rippled over his skin. ¡°Else he might find a bite taken out of them.¡±


    Hemlock swallowed. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t seek to anger my lord,¡± he said, though the words came out more of a question than a statement. Her answering smile didn¡¯t reassure him.


    ¡°Dregan¡¯s House has been a bit cocky as of late.¡± More touches, light caresses over his neck and hair as she combed those nails through the loose strands. ¡°I¡¯m his neighbor, see, and our supply of newborns is getting dreadfully thin because of him. You understand, don¡¯t you?¡±


    Competition. Vampires loved their power plays, and Dregan most of all. But this woman sought revenge. He could see it in the spark in her eye, and maybe¡­ ¡°I could tell him.¡±


    That smile turned sly. ¡°You could,¡± she agreed, ¡°but what if we struck a deal?¡±


    Hemlock glanced over his shoulder and saw Dregan off talking to someone else, none the wiser to the conversation happening. ¡°A deal?¡±


    The woman hummed and played with the chains hanging from his mask. ¡°I get to take a bite from you, and you get something in return.¡± Her head tilted and she squinted her eyes in a knowing look, a smirk dancing over her painted lips. ¡°I bet I can guess what it is you want.¡±


    He refused to say it for fear of another overhearing, but he wouldn¡¯t deny that the wants of a chained newborn were pretty narrow. ¡°You can feed from anyone here, or even the offered blood over there,¡± he countered, and gestured to the table laden with bottled blood and empty goblets, ¡°This ¡®deal¡¯ seems quite one-sided.¡±


    She laughed and tugged on the chains, as if demanding he pay attention. Frantic glee glowed in her eyes, a haunting black that exposed more than it should¡¯ve. ¡°On the contrary, pretty pet. I get everything out of it. Lord Dregan¡¯s favored pet, whisked away and tainted right under his nose. It would be a spectacle. A circus of chaos, and I an agent. His reputation would crack, and it won¡¯t take long before it crumbles beneath its own weight. His arrogance could never sustain itself.¡±


    Hemlock swallowed and considered her words. ¡°And if I agree? You would ¡®whisk me away¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Like a stolen biscuit off a dinner plate.¡±


    Blood in exchange for freedom. It felt too good to be true, but what other choice did he have in that moment? She likely didn¡¯t care if he survived, and maybe would prefer he didn¡¯t just to rub it into Dregan¡¯s nose even more, so none of this was out of the goodness of her heart. No catch that he could detect. He just had to endure fangs sinking into his neck once again.


    Heart racing, Hemlock glanced over at the party once more. Mora and Venette blurred within the shadows of the room, but he pretended they were there with him. They wanted him out and safe. He wanted out and safe. But what would this safety cost him? This vampire had her own agenda on the line, but he would be putting everything out there. Plans took time, not impulses. He¡¯d surely suffer somehow.


    Memory flickered like a whispered scream. ¡®I care not if you succeed. It changes nothing; I will still get something.¡¯


    Fuck. Maybe that dream really did mean something. ¡°Okay. Deal.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s fanged grin sent chills down his spine. ¡°Excellent.¡±

 05|Five

    Hemlock would not panic.


    Evy¡ª¡°of the proud House Kaalis, not that Dregan would care to teach you about us,¡±¡ªhad grabbed his arm and promptly guided him away from the bustle of the party and towards a wall next to the food and drinks. Hemlock hadn¡¯t noticed it before, but as they got closer he could make out the outline of a door tucked away into the corner, likely where the servants came and went to keep the tables stocked and to rid of any dirty dishes that might mar the pretty atmosphere.


    ¡°Come,¡± she hissed into his ear, her cheek on his shoulder and thin form pressed against his side. Her own outfit did little to cover her body¡ªwhat was it with vampires and needing to show themselves off?¡ªbut somehow Hemlock¡¯s seemed more scandalous than hers when paired together. Looks from nearby guests burned like acid. Hemlock swallowed down his panic and followed her into the door after a quick glance back at an oblivious Dregan. He¡¯d never know until it¡¯s too late.


    No light flickered in the cramped hallway, but his eyes adjusted to the darkness in the span of a single blink. The walls crept as high as the ones in the ballroom, but it hardly mattered when they couldn¡¯t stand shoulder-to-shoulder, the path was so narrow. Evy hooked fingers through the dipped collar of his shirt and dragged him behind her as she walked. Hemlock had no choice but to follow; he had no clue where they were or where to go if he wanted to say fuck it to this predicament and find his own escape that didn¡¯t involve fangs in his neck. Trapped, yet again.


    He would not panic.


    Through the numbing silence and darkness, the walk felt endless. Hemlock intermittently heard the patter of servants rushing through the crushing labyrinthian halls, but even that couldn¡¯t stay the paranoia of not hearing anything else beyond the pounding of his heart. Dregan had built his home to deter escape, Hemlock was learning. Nothing made sense, and the twisting layout disoriented him into losing his sense of reality. How far had they gone already? Were they any further away from the ballroom than they had started? He felt dizzy.


    Evy¡¯s voice cut through the quiet like a jagged dagger. ¡°Here.¡± She let go of him but used her overbearing presence to trap him against a wall. His pulse skipped. Her fangs somehow seemed to gleam even in the dark as she grinned, and they slowly slid fully out of their sheaths in preparation for her next meal. The sharp ends would¡¯ve nicked her bottom lip had she not opened her mouth.


    She stalked closer. Her breath ghosted over the skin of his chest, and he shuddered. Panic. He would not panic. He would endure this, he would, and then he¡¯d be free. But gods, he couldn¡¯t stop the images flashing across her face, replacing black eyes with icy blue, making her loom over him instead of looking up, making her him. Teeth sunk into flesh, and she smelled of iron instead of flowers.


    Thick rivulets trailed down and scorched his skin. Hemlock closed his eyes against the hallucinations and tipped his head back against the wall, unintentionally baring his neck more for her. Her noise of glee nearly sent him to the floor. He couldn¡¯t breathe. He couldn¡¯t think. Phantom hands on his wrists and on his face and on his hips. The world tilted on its axis despite the shield of his lids hiding it away. No. No, he would not panic. Hemlock tried wrangling it back into control, but it fought against him and threatened to buckle his knees. Thrashed like a snake caught beneath a boot. It wanted to bite, to drag him down with it by its fangs, it would bleed him dry¡ª


    The whimper he let out sounded so pathetically loud in the empty darkness. Evy¡¯s laugh reverberated against his skin, but she didn¡¯t let up and continued to drink. It hurt. It always hurt. Whispers said a vampire¡¯s bite could be mind-bendingly pleasurable, or create a drugged-out fog that made you never want to flee. Hemlock disagreed. He felt each drag she took from his veins, the churn of his blood rushing to meet her fangs and be drawn to her tongue. The dizziness persisted¡ªhe couldn¡¯t think. Spots decorated his vision. Too soon, perhaps, after Dregan had indulged in his favorite snack. Or maybe the panic chose to hum beneath the surface and bring him down unawares. The fact that his mind spun in circles trying to reason with its own perceptions instead of the blood leaving his system nearly made him laugh if it didn¡¯t mean it was steadily slipping away from him, just out of grasp.


    ¡°Stop,¡± Hemlock said, or he thought he did. Evy didn¡¯t so much as flinch. He squirmed, winced at how that ripped her fangs through his flesh, and repeated himself, ¡°Stop. Please.¡±


    He didn¡¯t dare touch her. The thought never crossed his mind.


    Evy paused, and Hemlock¡¯s heart pounded from both fear and blood loss. The presence of her teeth in his neck settled on his awareness like an uncomfortable weight, a foreign unwanted invading him. It echoed familiarity. He shuddered.


    After too long of the world and his thoughts spinning in circles, Evy retracted her fangs and took half a step back from him, then another as she wiped a finger over the blood on her lips and licked it clean. ¡°Very well,¡± she said, ¡°I suppose we can¡¯t have you running off if you¡¯re half dead from blood loss, can we?¡± Evy¡¯s too bright blackened stare settled on him from beneath her lashes. Her lips were stained red. ¡°The exit is near here, and that¡¯s as far as I¡¯m taking you. This is your mad dash for freedom, after all. I had nothing to do with it.¡± She flashed a predatory grin. ¡°Are we clear?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± Anything to get rid of her. Anything to collapse against the wall for just a moment and catch his breath. She hadn¡¯t even sealed the wound, so it continued to seep blood over his neck and down his chest.


    Looking him up and down, Evy¡¯s grin turned mocking. ¡°Aww, you really are such a good little pet. A shame I can¡¯t keep you for myself, I¡¯d love to have a go at you. Or maybe have my husband do the honors. Now that would be a show to watch.¡± Hemlock¡¯s horror froze him to the spot, but she only laughed and waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Poor little pup, so easily broken. Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯ll be left alone. Ta-ta.¡± And, with a wiggle of her fingers, Evy strode off and disappeared into the shadows.


    Hemlock crumpled to the floor.


    **


    No servants walked this way. Or, at least, Hemlock had gathered that during this particular event, their efforts weren¡¯t concerned around an exit of the mansion. No one slipped past him as he silently broke down, head tucked between his knees and arms pressed against his skull, and no one tripped over him either. Not even a whisper of acknowledgement. He heard no footsteps, no intake of breath, hardly even an insect. He was alone.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    And close to freedom. As his body mended itself back together and wrestled back control of his mind, Hemlock started to take stock of his imminent future. Being alone had started to drive him mad after Abel had¡­ done what he did. On some twisted level, he would¡¯ve preferred the company of his assailant than be left to his own thoughts, his own world. But once he stepped foot out of that door¡­ Hemlock would be well and truly alone. No Venette and Mora to drift in and out of his life and stitch him back together with kind words and gentle hands. No Abel to pass the endless time with playful banter, insufferable flirting, and the occasional made-up game they could scrap together.


    No Dregan, either, though. No vampire lording over him, preventing him from growing out of the newborn stage and learning about his true potential. No forced helplessness.


    No cages or summonings, no overbearing fortress of pain and misery filled with vampire fledglings like him who had no hope for a future that wouldn¡¯t loop back in on itself again and again. No making the best out of the worst. Just freedom. Hemlock could make a new life for himself, make a home, maybe even find people willing to welcome him into their lives as a friend on the fringes. He would just have to endure the loneliness for a little while longer, only until he got on his feet and learned how to be a vampire, learned how to not be a danger to others and instead be in control of himself. Then he could start dreaming for more.


    But first: getting off the floor.


    Unlocking his limbs from their petrified state was an agonizingly slow process. His joints didn¡¯t want to yield to his insistence, and when they finally did, they moved with a hesitation that he would¡¯ve taken as foreboding if his goal didn¡¯t stand so close. Not once did he really feel his age¡ªwhatever age that might¡¯ve been¡ªuntil this moment, with bones so locked tight they groaned with every moment until he stood braced against the wall, limbs shaking. Tired. Emotions could be so tiring.


    Freedom. Just a little further, and then he would be free. Hemlock would never have to collapse under the rush of fear and adrenaline again. His heart wouldn¡¯t threaten to burst at every interaction with another.


    A quick brush against his neck confirmed that Evy¡¯s bite had healed itself, though that reminder sent a wave of nausea through him that he didn¡¯t need. Hemlock swallowed it down and forcefully pushed himself off the wall.


    ¡°Just stand up,¡± he hissed to himself, ¡°You¡¯ll never make it if you can¡¯t fucking stand on your own.¡±


    Only darkness and silence answered him. Hemlock lurched forward and onward.


    Thanks to his vampiric sight, he could make out an alcove set apart from the rest of the hallway and the seeping scent of outdoors. Hemlock briefly hesitated, wondered if Evy had been telling the truth or not and if it really was a door to his freedom, but he didn¡¯t have the time to question or doubt. Dregan would go looking for him soon enough, especially with the scent of his blood on Evy¡¯s breath.


    Just as Hemlock took a step toward the alcove, he heard it. No, felt it. The tremor of Dregan¡¯s fury. He tripped over his own feet as he spun around, eyes wide and heart pounding. ¡°No, no, no,¡± he whispered, but that didn¡¯t erase the reality of that instinctual pull in his gut. The anger rattling the very bones of the mansion. Dregan¡¯s fury was a quiet ordeal, but that only made its effects all the more terrifying. And Hemlock¡­ he had become the target of that fury.


    ¡°Fuck.¡± Stumbling back around, he bolted for the alcove. It gave away his location, no doubt, but he didn¡¯t care when it was so close. Hemlock pushed his limbs to move, move as fast as they could, to tap into that promised vampiric speed for just a moment and get him to and out the door quicker than he could be caught. Run.


    He slammed into the wall of the alcove but didn¡¯t stop to register the pain of it, not when he could hear the screech of bats making their way closer to him and see the doorway to his freedom right there in front of him. He launched off the wall and grabbed the handle, yanked it open, and¡ª


    Hemlock screamed. His fangs slid free without his say-so as his screams tore through his already battered throat and his knees and elbows hit gravel and grass. Sunlight poured over him, seared his eyes and skin with an unrelenting ferocity like it meant to scorn him personally for abandoning it to darkness. Faintly, he caught the scent of burning flesh. Heard the thunder of armored footsteps coming to a hasty stop behind him, felt the cool touch of grass on his cheeks as he curled in on himself. Hemlock couldn¡¯t move even if he wanted to. The sun chained him in place for its punishment, and he could do nothing but submit and surrender.


    Perhaps he should¡¯ve been considering the dream during his flight. Perhaps the words he should¡¯ve been repeating were those of death telling him what to look for, instead of the false promise of freedom from the lips of a scheming vampire. A pawn¡ªthat¡¯s all he¡¯d ever be to these creatures. They watched his agony from the side through snickers and careful distance from the morning sun¡¯s wrath.


    Hemlock¡¯s screams died down only because he lost the voice for it, instead turning into whimpers and groans as his skin burned off layer by smoldering layer. When Dregan spoke, he hardly flinched. ¡°Insolent fool,¡± the vampire lord snarled, though somehow the sound came across as dignified. ¡°I should leave you here to die for this stunt.¡±


    He would welcome it, despite the pain. As tears dropped over blades of grass and soaked into the dirt beneath his face, Hemlock gladly accepted that fate. Death was freedom, in a way. But of course Dregan would never allow that, because suddenly he felt hands on him yanking him back into the mansion and out of the sun¡ªaway from his only chance of freedom. He trembled from head to toe from the searing pain, so awful he no longer could register it beyond the shaking and paralyzed limpness, so he made no move to fight back against the goons dragging him to Dregan¡¯s feet.


    ¡°Look at me.¡±


    He feared he couldn¡¯t, but Hemlock dragged his gaze up to meet a predatory stare. Evy stood just behind Dregan¡¯s shoulder, a glass of whine in hand and a smirk painted on her lips. When their eyes met, she wiggled her fingers in farewell and stalked away. Hemlock couldn¡¯t dredge up the energy to curse her, only forced himself to look to the left and meet Dregan¡¯s eyes.


    The vampire lord, his master, still had his mask on and it made him look even more imposing than usual. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Hemlock had done something he¡¯d never come back from, like Abel had. If he had never done what he did, then he¡¯d be back to living a life full of bliss compared to whatever Dregan had in store for him.


    ¡°I should¡¯ve known better,¡± the master said, ¡°Even the most loyal of dogs can bite their owner. And here you are, embarrassing me in my own home.¡± He stared down at Hemlock, who knelt at his feet with the help of the two guards holding his shoulders up. ¡°What should I do with you?¡±


    Licking his lips, Hemlock croaked against better judgement, ¡°Disloyal dogs get put down.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The master stepped away and turned his attention to the guards. ¡°I will not reward you for this. Take him to rehabilitation, and do not leave your posts for even a second. Further orders will be sent later; I have a party to continue and a mess to clean up.¡±


    Hands roughly grabbed him beneath the arms and hauled him to his feet before dragging him away. Hemlock didn¡¯t know to where or how far it would be, but it didn¡¯t matter. He closed his eyes and submitted to it all.

 06|Six

    ¡°The pup¡¯s all grown up.¡±


    Hemlock woke to clawed hands clasped just above his ears in a possessive grip and a familiar bloodied floor beneath his knees. The voice that had spoken caressed the shell of his ear with a dark laugh. His head got pulled back, gaze averted from the floor¡¯s ominous sigil, and he fixed his attention on a sculpture he hadn¡¯t noticed before, a monstrous winged creature with too many curling horns perched on the sill of a squat, red-stained window high above. The laugh switched ears.


    ¡°Like it?¡± the voice asked. Glee laced the words. It would¡¯ve been childlike had it not had a fanatic edge making the question sound mad. ¡°Made from the bone of a fool who thought he could tame me. He fought so hard to keep his leg. Shame. Guess he shouldn¡¯t have grabbed the rope.¡±


    He should¡¯ve been horrified, but Hemlock instead felt a tinge of sympathy. If only he had the means and courage to fight back. When he didn¡¯t answer, the claws grazed the corner of his eyes in what felt like a warning. Ignoring his trembling and the question posed to him, he instead asked, ¡°Who are you?¡±


    Because the voice sounded different from the last one. Grounded, with only one smooth and low tone purring into his ears with a rolling accent that Hemlock had never heard before. Old but young. Godly but mortal. Not the voice of death that had brought him to this dreamscape before. Hemlock wasn¡¯t sure if he should be concerned about the change or thankful he didn¡¯t have to hear the echoing screams rattling through his skull this time.


    A nip to his ear; a neat row of carnivore teeth instead of the fangs of a vampire. The laugh moved behind. ¡°Inevitable.¡±


    The grip loosened and slipped to cup his neck instead, and Hemlock tensed when claws brushed against the suddenly opened gash across his throat. Abel¡¯s wound, his killing blow. He watched as his blood rained down to the cracked tiles, choked as it bubbled up into his windpipe. Helpless, weak, Hemlock could only bow over the sigil as it glowed stronger and stronger in time with the spilling of his blood. He couldn¡¯t breathe around the thick gurgle rising higher, tasted the copper as it ran over his tongue and dripped down his lips in a red drool. Panic paralyzed him. Dying, he was dying again and¡ª


    It stopped.


    Slowly, Hemlock touched his uncut and unbloodied skin. He stared at the hand in front of him, lithe and smaller than his but armed with pointed claws tipped in a gradient of inky black. Veins pressed against the delicate flesh of a pale wrist and underarm. His blood pooled in the waiting palm before it came to life¡ªswirled into a miniature storm of movement as it took the shape of a crimson blade. The razor¡¯s edge hooked beneath his chin, dented the skin of his throat, but did not cut.


    A breath in his ear. ¡°Do you trust me?¡±


    Shadows danced on the wall in front of Hemlock, where a tiered stone altar full of empty bowls sat just a pace away. They must¡¯ve been scrubbed clean of red gore and now pretended their innocence with immaculate wood. Candles of varying heights and colors flickered all over the steps. The scent of burning incense drifted from somewhere behind him. He could see no sign of worship, no signal of what god demanded his attention so fiercely. Why pray to an empty wall?


    The blade shifted.


    Thing was, Hemlock¡¯s trust had never been his to give. His soul belonged to Dregan, his killer and reviver, the master of his body and life. What good was his trust when he¡¯d be as good as dead in less than a fortnight, just a hollow husk of who used to be Hemlock the vampire. A ghost¡ªand ghosts don¡¯t trust.


    The candles flickered in time with Hemlock¡¯s soft exhale. ¡°You could slice my throat right now and I¡¯d thank you. Maybe you could make some more carvings from my offered bones.¡±


    Clawed fingers raked through Hemlock¡¯s hair, scratched at his scalp, and despite himself he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Opened his neck to the blade just to welcome the warmth. Against all odds, it was the softest treatment from another and he craved the unabhorrent intimacy. He had to be losing his mind to be so responsive and open with such a twisted person¡ªa person who he didn¡¯t know anything about, just that they admitted to murder and the morbid hobby of bone carving. But hands made for killing had done nothing to harm, and Dregan had broken Hemlock so thoroughly that it was enough.


    The blade disappeared. Warm touch pressed to his face, fingers hooked beneath his jaw; it encouraged him to lean back and seek the steady pillar of another behind him. Hemlock kept his eyes closed for some reason, but something told him that this was a test in trust as well. If he looked, it would all go away and he¡¯d be stuck, alone, with no one but his thoughts and the dread of his impending doom. He¡¯d be abandoned. So, he didn¡¯t look, only accepted the warmth of the other and basked in the tentative trust that he¡¯d be safe from harm.


    As the seconds ticked by, everything faded away. Dregan and his horde of groveling vampire underlings, his failed attempt at freedom, the impending end of his life without the sweet embrace of death¡ªeverything. Hemlock thought about nothing but the warmth of another behind him, the steady support holding him in place with nothing more than a loose grip. Though he still kneeled, and the position put him into a reflection of submission, the voice and touch did nothing more than act as support with the silent price of control. He could give it for a moment just to bask in the peace of warmth and nothingness, and the absence of his usual nightmares. Whoever held him, whoever the claws belonged to, was powerful enough to scare away the fears and demanding memories. Or perhaps terrifying enough, if even the worst of Hemlock¡¯s memories could be frightened into the shadows.


    Whatever the case, Hemlock wanted to keep it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to leave here,¡± he murmured, an admission that left his lips without his permission. Thumbs pressed against his cheekbones, like another miniature warning.


    ¡°You don¡¯t want to stay here,¡± the voice said. When Hemlock opened his mouth to argue, to insist that he¡¯d rather stay asleep forever with his eyes sealed shut than endure Dregan¡¯s wrath, the thumbs dug in. ¡°We will meet again; now is not our time. Listen for the storm and seek the red-soaked petals.¡± Hot breath fluttered over his lashes, then skirted around to his ear. Hemlock shivered. ¡°And mind the sun this time.¡±


    The next time Hemlock opened his eyes, he sat alone and cold.


    **


    There¡¯s something to be said about the psychology behind isolation. One can pretend they¡¯re not alone when the whisper of life echoes faintly from beyond their solitary home. But the moment every hint of another¡¯s existence is blocked by grimy stone walls, suddenly the reality of isolation becomes very very real¡ªand it drives one mad.


    Hemlock never thought he¡¯d miss the rusted bars of his cell, but once he lost the privilege, he wished to have them back if only to know that the other newborns were close. He¡¯d even take the absence of Abel back and not complain, because that had been nothing compared to the absolute nothingness of what Dregan called ¡°rehabilitation.¡±


    He sat in a stone box, a perfect cube of nothing but stone and more stone holding back the invisible threat of crushing earth. Evidence seeped through the spidering cracks, but no bloom of so much as moss creeped over the dirt. Hemlock represented the only form of life in the room, but he couldn¡¯t be counted for much considering he stood on the precipice between living and unliving. No chains locked themselves around his wrists, but the dried evidence on the walls suggested that they¡¯d be a small mercy. Whoever had been in there before him apparently tried clawing their way through the unforgiving stone until their fingers bled, and the dark streaks left behind told stories of their desperation. Rehabilitation indeed. Hemlock trembled in the corner and tried not to think of himself going mad just as others had before him. Of becoming so desperate for sensation that he¡¯d paint the walls with murals of his misery.


    He didn¡¯t know how he got in there when every stone seemed unmovable, so ingrained in their position that not even the greatest of technology and magic could pry them apart. But he had seen the way that the tower opened for Dregan despite the lack of door, and Hemlock could only assume that the rehabilitation room worked just the same. No escape. Only infallible despair.


    As he curled in on himself, Hemlock swore he wouldn¡¯t panic and pretended it didn¡¯t already have his body trembling or his heart pounding. He accepted his fate, so he had no choice but to go along with what Dregan wanted until the end finally came to him. It¡¯s what he wanted. He¡¯d just have to bend and take the abuse until that end came to him. But just as he got ready to start talking to himself to silence the silence, he heard something. The scratch of¡­ claws? Hemlock lifted his head and found himself staring into the eyes of a plump raven. It clacked its beak at him and hopped to the side, talons sliding on stone for purchase, and continued to stare at him. The red hue of its feathers must¡¯ve been his imagination.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Hemlock heavily debated the state of his sanity as the bird continued hopping and clacking at him. No light penetrated the room, no torch nor beam of light from another room, so the creature couldn¡¯t have snuck in on the very slim chance it got into the underground fortress. How long had he been down there already? Surely it couldn¡¯t have been long enough to start hallucinating.


    The raven clacked at him again, then shot forward to yank at the loose fabric of his pants. Hemlock startled and shooed it away on reflex, and it fluttered just out of reach without breaking its stare. ¡°Go away,¡± he told it, still thinking himself insane but annoyed enough to humor his broken mind. Another clack of a beak and a break for his clothes. Hemlock surged forward to swipe at it, fangs out in threat, and its retreating croak sounded an awful lot like a laugh. ¡°Go. Away,¡± he bit out.


    Safely out of Hemlock¡¯s reach, it gave him a definitive snap-snap that echoed in the empty room and repeated in a distorted croak, ¡°Go.¡±


    He knew that ravens could mimic others, but Hemlock thought it ironic that it chose that specific word to repeat at him. ¡°Yes, go. Leave me alone. I have no treats for you.¡±


    It almost seemed to huff at him before it turned away and flew at a wall. Hemlock watched it scratch at each one and took pity on the poor creature. If it truly did exist outside his own mind, then it must¡¯ve gotten stuck along with him. He couldn¡¯t help it, though, so he sat in his corner and could do nothing but watch it fly at each wall again and again with its feet poised to attack.


    ¡°They¡¯re not going to¡ª¡±


    One wall flared to life in a bloom of bright red whorls and symbols. Hemlock¡¯s words caught in his throat as he watched the wall crumble into rubble beneath the glowing lines, until everything settled, and a makeshift opening waited before him. The raven hovered in the air and resumed its staring, as if to say, See? I told you so. Hemlock blinked between it and the opening. And blinked some more.


    He couldn¡¯t. His last attempt had failed miserably; trying again would only make things worse for him. But Hemlock couldn¡¯t tell his body that, because he was already creeping over the rubble and investigating the newly revealed corridor. Absently, he felt the weight of the raven land on his shoulder while he investigated, but he paid it no mind as his attention caught onto something much more pressing. There, beneath the blocks of broken stone, were the bodies of the guards assigned to him.


    They were dead. Dead, and unable to report to Dregan. Dead, and unable to stop an escaping newborn.


    A brush of soft feathers against his ear. Strangely, the bird smelled of herbal incense. Hemlock breathed out a sigh and stumbled back until his outstretched hand hit ragged stone. ¡°I can¡¯t¡­¡± He huffed a laugh and combed fingers through his hair, then hissed when the movement tugged at the burns on his hand. He inspected his still-healing wounds that fought against whatever slowed the process down, considered how they would impact him, and found that he didn¡¯t care. If he could escape, he¡¯d take every chance he¡¯d get.


    A gust of wind whipped through the corridor, bringing with it the scent of rain. Hemlock strained his ears to listen for the source and faintly heard the whistle of air whipping over a crack. ¡°Is this close to the surface?¡± he murmured to himself. On his shoulder, the raven clacked its beak and took off flying towards the source, and Hemlock took it as an omen. Maybe¡­ maybe this time he¡¯d be free. The idea of it made him dizzy, but he ignored it in favor of following the raven.


    With each quick but limping step, Hemlock¡¯s seared skin pulled and tore, threatened to bring him back down in agony. But ignoring it was easy when he painstakingly climbed up a slick staircase and the sound of wind and rain got louder the higher he climbed. A storm raged outside¡ªit couldn¡¯t be anything else. Important words drifted back through his mind, and Hemlock debated on hitting himself for his stupidity.


    When the storm breaks, find petals steeped in red.


    Maybe fate had its plan after all.


    Hemlock heaved himself up the last step and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The corridor remained empty, with nothing but torches and empty walls the entire way down, but off to the side sat evidence of a minor collapse. Rain poured through a slim and craggy opening within the wall, split mostly towards the ceiling, and a pile of soaked rubble led up to it. Outside, a wall of dirt covered three-quarters of the height. Leaves twirled in on the dancing wind. And¡ªmoonlight. Not sunlight, but moonlight seeped through the crack. This portion of the fortress must be just barely above the surface, and the storm broke open a weak point.


    ¡°Oh, thank the gods,¡± Hemlock breathed. The raven perched on a rock that had rolled a bit aways from the crack and stared him down with a strangely disapproving glare. Hemlock sent it a look back. ¡°Don¡¯t look at me like that. You going first?¡± He gestured to the small opening right at the top. The perfect size for the raven and its personality, but it would be a bit of a squeeze for Hemlock to get through.


    Insane of him to be talking to a bird of all things still, but he had no one else to speak to, and the strange creature had helped free him somehow. He¡¯d start reciting poems if it continued to get him out of that place. But, instead of doing either of those things, the bird clacked its beak and disappeared in a burst of hazy red mist that settled over and stained the top of the poor rock¡ªthe only evidence that the odd raven existed at all.


    A twinge of loss tugged at Hemlock¡¯s heart, but he couldn¡¯t afford to linger any longer. Later, he¡¯d allow himself to sort through the mental box of every ignored thing and feeling, but for the moment everything got pushed to the backburner in favor of escape.


    Gritting his teeth, he approached the crack and got to work climbing up the rubble. Wind and rain slapped against his bare skin and made the ripped fabric of his clothes flutter and lash back. Hemlock sunk his fingers into the damp earth for purchase as he climbed higher and continued to mutter vague prayers under his breath that it wouldn¡¯t give out under him. He just needed to get to the small opening at the top where he could see the curious peek of grass, and then he¡¯d be free to go. Just a little further.


    His arms shook with effort and pain when he finally latched onto the harder-packed dirt of the grassy topsoil, but Hemlock continued to climb and pull himself up until he could wiggle his way through the opening. Rock and stone caught onto his clothes and opened wounds, begged him to go back and stay within the fortress, but he wouldn¡¯t be kept prisoner any longer.


    ¡°Come on, come on,¡± he panted. Just as he got his upper body out, the earth beneath his foot gave way and he slid back down. Hemlock flailed in panic, his heart skipping a terrifying beat, but he found purchase on an outcropping of the broken stone wall and kicked off that to launch himself the rest of the way. He tumbled out unceremoniously, spat out dirt and grass that had gotten into his mouth, then rolled onto his back to stare up at the rumbling and angry sky. It flashed lightning, as if knowing his escape.


    The smart thing would be to stop and catch his breath, considering he still had the ripped-open burns all over his body and something else slowing down his vampiric healing, but time didn¡¯t allow for smart thinking. So, Hemlock pushed himself to his feet¡ªand ran.


    **


    Branches tried hooking into his clothes and hair, tried catching him off-guard and ripping him down to his feet so that he¡¯d be discovered, but the wind roared and batted them away before they could. Hemlock¡¯s lungs burned from the sear of the icy storm cold. His legs wobbled with every desperate stride. He couldn¡¯t stop, though. Despite not knowing where he was, he knew he still existed far too close to the mansion and would be found in no time. He needed out of Dregan¡¯s hunting grounds, out of his domain¡ªonly then would he be safe.


    Red petals, red petals, red petals. The two words repeated over and over in his mind as he cast desperate and fleeting looks over the blurred woods. Between the anger of the trees threatening to rip him off his feet and the rain¡¯s assault battering his vision, he couldn¡¯t see shit. Please, if anyone is out there and taking pity on me, show me the damn flowers.


    As if some kind of god really did look down on him, Hemlock slammed into a tree and came to a teeth-singing stop. ¡°Fuck!¡± A string of curses flew off his tongue as he stumbled back, his head spinning from the impact. Thankfully, his nose didn¡¯t feel broken, but he did bite his tongue and it throbbed in time with his pounding heart. Now stationary, rain soaked him to the core in an unforgiving shower. It battered his wounds and washed away the blood, as if that made things better. But¡­


    Hemlock watched as a bloody stream of rainwater slid down his hand and fell through the spaces between his spread fingers. Beneath him sat a low bed of innocent white flowers¡ªthat slowly turned red from the makeshift waterfalls he created.


    ¡°Petals steeped in red,¡± he whispered. The wind picked up and carried the streams forward, soaking a new line of flowers with red. A direction¡ªhis direction. To freedom.


    And just in time. From the mansion came a distant furious screech of bats and the rumble of familiar rage. Hemlock swore again and took off in the direction the wind had shown him, trusting that he¡¯d be okay. He just needed to run.


    So he did. He ran and ran far beyond his breaking point, then ran some more. He ignored how the earth slowly turned to mud beneath the torrent of the storm, ignored the grip of the trees and grass that tried to slow him down and throw him into the waiting maw of Dregan¡¯s furious pursuit, ignored the ache in his skin and muscles and bones. The wind became his battering buffer keeping him upright when his body wanted to collapse. It became his ominous guide.


    Only when he stumbled into the protection of an empty cemetery and the cry of screeching bats softened into a silent memory did he finally stop running.

 07|Seven

    The cemetery remained quiet and safe. Hemlock suspected it had to do with something in the air, because even the wind quivered in his ear and the headstones offered no hint as to who rested beneath his feet. Almost as if they were afraid of speaking their names in the presence of whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªlurked in the shadows. It couldn¡¯t be Hemlock, he had no drop of power to his name, but the danger that kept him safe refused to poke or prod at him. Not a single nervous spider¡¯s crawl up his spine. Curiosity itched beneath his skin in its stead and begged him to stick his nose where it didn¡¯t belong, but hesitation picked at him too.


    Gaining his freedom had been a moment of desperation fueled by the unanswerable nips at his heels urging him to go. Death spoke to him in his dreams and a weirdly aware raven with magic in its feet guided him to an impossible crack in Dregan¡¯s defenses. That the gods ruled Kaskan was such an ingrained fact that even Hemlock still knew it despite his lost memories, but even those interventions felt strange.


    He remembered Dregan¡¯s backhand the first time he heard Hemlock whisper a prayer. His hissed words. Don¡¯t waste your breath on what¡¯s forsaken you. They lost all ears the moment your veins tasted my venom. Numbly, he wondered if Dregan had simply been upset that Hemlock cried and fought the first time he was summoned to his bed. He didn¡¯t know what truth would feel better.


    Still, though, Hemlock had gotten free and then¡­ And then what? What was he to do? He found an eerily unkempt cemetery that provided just enough shelter to keep him safe from Dregan, but then what? Keep running? Until Hemlock crossed the threshold of Dregan¡¯s territory, he¡¯d be running every night and begging the sun to keep him safe during the day. He had no means of food, water, or even a plan as to what to do with his life beyond survive. Sure, he had thought about it before, but reality had quite a way with dashing all kinds of thoughts of plans the moment it became apparent you had no idea what to do. Hemlock was alone, and scared, with no instinct for survival, no capability of making decisions on his own. He¡¯d be doomed by the end of the week.


    Scrubbing his face with a groan, Hemlock surveyed the cemetery with a stressed pinch to his eyes even he could feel. Nosing about would do him no good besides act as a distraction and¡­ and maybe let him pretend to have a normal life for once. The life of someone who could be nosy and investigate trivial matters. Realistically, too, he could do nothing until the sun went down and no longer stood as a threat to his still-healing state¡ªher scorching touch continued to pull uncomfortably at his barely stitched together skin, though the sluggishness of his healing started to lessen a bit. Maybe he earned a bit of poking around. A treat.


    Before he could comfortably settle on his decision, his feet already started moving.


    A good portion of the headstones had names long since worn away by time, but the relics of their origin persisted¡ªimmortal in their own right. Hemlock crouched in front of one such nameless grave and pressed a hand to the cracked but beautiful stonework of the towering statue. Whoever rested beneath him had to have been important, or at least loved enough to receive such an intricate memorial.


    Three tiers tall, the top-most part of the grave contained a detailed stone sculpture of a weeping winged man hunched over a cloaked figure. Multiple colors swirled within the stone, like it had been hewn from the earth specifically for its unique visuals and textures. The statue itself sat on top of a slightly bigger middle section, a faux plaque likely carved into it from the weathered but precise indentations and the remnants of a name and dedication. Around it were more carvings, some more visible as florals and others less discernible, and more carvings that he couldn¡¯t make out. The main base had a carved mural covering the entirety of it, on every visible side, and Hemlock picked out a few different aspects¡ªmore florals, some feathers, reaching hands, all an elegant blend along with others. Perhaps this person had a personal connection to the mural¡¯s contents, or it was an artwork they liked.


    Whatever its reason for existing, Hemlock pressed a reverent touch to the mural and whispered a prayer of good will, then stood.


    More littered the cemetery, all crafted in a similar style if not the same grandeur, and Hemlock had enough untainted memory to recognize that none of them were of the current style for burials. Between that and the weather-erased names, he thought it safe to assume that he stood on an ancient burial site, now untouched and out of use by the living. A true home of the dead.


    A shiver ran up his spine, and he sent out a quick all-encompassing prayer just in case.


    The plot of land wasn¡¯t large but not quite small either. The trees that surrounded it, however, gave it the illusion of being smaller as if it was curling up into itself. Their thick and leaf-burdened branches loomed from above and blocked out most of the sun, a happenstance Hemlock appreciated immensely, which left only dots of sunlit freckles all over the overgrown grass and flora. Across the cemetery, one grave had a wall of his namesake protecting a shallow sarcophagus. Right by his feet sat a cluster of small, low to the ground flowers with iridescent petals that shimmered in a rainbow. Various bushes of strange berries barricaded one side of the tree line while a thicket of thorns curled up and around gnarled trunks and crawled along the ground nearby. The only bird to sing a song was a lone raven somewhere above.


    Nothing stood out to him as particularly eerie, though, especially for being a place full of the dead. Nothing, that is, except the temple.


    Standing proud and grand in a beam of direct sunlight, the building he had seen just a corner of the night before taunted him with the promise of mystery and shelter. No windows let in the curious sunlight, leaving the golden glow to grapple at the unwavering marbled walls with slippery fingers. Pillars held the arching ceiling of a large porch aloft, while the wings of the temple shot up into spiraling and jagged spires. The main body mimicked the style of the branching wings, but stood taller, with what Hemlock assumed to be a glass dome peeking out from the middle of the spires. With the way the sun glared, at the very least, he thought it to be glass, but the framing stone spires and carvings of several creatures blocked it out too much to really tell.


    He itched to get it, to see just how heavy the double doors were as he slipped through them, to find out what the dome was, to see inside. What did the words carved into the porch¡¯s arched ceiling say? He assumed it to be a temple from the painstaking care that went into the construction and design, as well as just how proud it stood in the middle of a hidden cemetery. Was it a mausoleum for an important family long forgotten? Hemlock could already taste the dust and mothballs on his tongue. Surely it would be undisturbed. No other sign of life betrayed itself. But if this place could be his salvation¡­


    Curiosity aside, he also knew that he needed a place to hide before dusk, or else Dregan hunted him down after the last failed attempt. And the sealed temple would do just the trick¡ªonce he broke in. For the time being, though, he picked a safely shaded area to nap under and hoped the sun wouldn¡¯t hunt him down too, back for another taste of revenge.


    **


    Beneath his careful touch, the polished double doors were cool and empty of the sun¡¯s warmth, as if the rays had spent the entire day scrambling for purchase but never quite found a grip. The cold stung Hemlock¡¯s palm but didn¡¯t thwart him like it did the sunlight. With just a single push, the door opened on a whisper of a gravel groan and let its vampiric visitor slip inside.


    Once inside, Hemlock paused. The door swung back into its place at his back and pushed a small breath against his body, but he didn¡¯t move. ¡°Gods above,¡± he whispered.


    The building wasn¡¯t a temple or a mausoleum or even a simple graveyard church to one of the Dead Council¡ªit was a memorial. Down the stretch of the main room and beneath the arching dome high above, paintings decorated the walls on either side. Scattered throughout the room in an organized chaos existed elaborate stands that housed various items¡ªheld them aloft and drew the eye to them, told the viewer ¡®These are important, pay attention.¡¯ The polished tiled floor reflected the stars from the glass dome and Hemlock had the distinct feeling of walking the night sky as he inched forward and towards an intricate bow. No dust coated any surface. Silence hung like heavy cobwebs.


    Carefully, Hemlock ran the tip of a finger down the curve of the bow, felt how the golden metal still gleamed and emitted a warmth that nearly burned. Roaring wyverns curved in a mirror of each other over the limb, permanently leaping into stationary battle and guiding the direction of any fired arrow. Flaring rods of twisting flame spit from their open mouths. Its taut string winked with starlight.


    Hemlock¡¯s gaze flicked down from the displayed bow and found a plaque. At first, the words spelled a series of nonsense like the words carved into the building itself, but then they reshuffled before his very eyes into the common Kaskaran tongue.


    SPITFIRE


    The sacred weapon of Niiden, parotheia of The Sovereign of Cinders


    Though he wasn¡¯t familiar with the word ¡°parotheia,¡± Hemlock could gather that it meant divine-kin. The children of the gods. Which meant¡ª


    He spun around and looked to the paintings. The remaining items sitting out as if innocent ornaments instead of still-existing testaments to beings of power. Amulets. Knives. Swords, guns, staves, crossbows, javelins, tridents. A floating book whose pages idly flipped on their own. Sets of jewelry whose gems and metal radiated a feeling of something not quite right. Hemlock weaved between them on his way to a painting covered wall and passed a small, root-covered box labeled BEST BOY. A bright red feather pen and shimmering silver ink sat on the same display table¡ªFLUFFY BASTARD.


    He stopped at the first painting he came across. A young man grinned down at him from atop the head of a downed monster, dark skin shining with sweat and spots of blood, his flaming sword held high in the air in triumph. His cheeks dimpled from his grin and his eyes squinted against the spotlight sunlight. Golden armor covered him from neck to toe, and his full-face helmet lay forgotten off to the side, as if he couldn¡¯t wait to celebrate the kill and chucked it off his head the moment he could.


    A child. A child grinned down at Hemlock, with the dead head of a too-big monster beneath his feet and heavy armor that should never have been strapped to his body. A child with the pride of a boy who only wanted to impress his elders.


    Another shifting plaque beneath it. Hemlock didn¡¯t know if he should laugh or cry.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    DIUS OF THE SOVERIGN OF CINDERS


    Born as a beloved younger brother of parotheia Nadiir, lived as a great hero who wanted to rid the world of darkness with his fiery spirit, died in battle with his brother at 15 years of age.


    Fifteen. Fifteen. Next to his portrait hung one dedicated to his brother, Nadiir, who had died at seventeen. Young brothers, who both looked so proud in their portraits as they basked in their respective victories. Young brothers taken from the world before they could even grow into themselves. Hemlock backed away in silent horror. Looked at the items¡ªartefacts¡ªagain.


    Spitfire, Best Boy, Fluffy Bastard. More childish names for deadly weapons and objects of power because they were named by children, children who likely didn¡¯t see a reason to be more serious about it. Children who were just having fun with it.


    He had known that the divine-kin trained young, got their names whispered across Kaskan at a young age, so that when they came of age, they¡¯d be more trusted to be saviors and helpers¡ªheroes. But to be killing monsters, donning armor and carrying weapons into battle, and dying at fifteen? Hemlock backed away another step, then another, as if he could erase the realization hooking into his heart and threatening to pierce inward. He didn¡¯t stand within a memorial for great heroes¡ªhe stood within a memorial for bright souls snuffed out far too early, far too violently.


    Who told them to? Who sent them to their too-small graves?


    Right as he nearly stumbled back into Spitfire¡¯s sharp edges, a flurry of wind buffeted him away. Hemlock blinked, then blinked again. Wind. It swirled around him, picked up his tangled hair and yanked it to the side, and acted as though it wanted him away from the memorial. Hemlock cast a desperate look around the room and swallowed down the building lump in his throat¡ªhe couldn¡¯t do anything for them now, not when they¡¯d been buried for a long time already. He rubbed absently at the scar on his neck and did his best to divert his attention elsewhere, but it was hard when he imagined small ghosts peering at him from behind shelves and tables.


    More wind yanked at his hair and clothes, and Hemlock finally screwed his head on just enough to remember the lack of windows. He glanced back at the doors, but they remained stationary and sealed shut. ¡°Where are you taking me?¡± he whispered into the room. Yank, yank. When he didn¡¯t move, it changed direction and started pushing at the small of his back. ¡°Fine,¡± Hemlock relented, ¡°but you¡¯re showing me yourself later. I feel stupid talking to wind.¡± Its pushing eased up, and Hemlock hesitantly followed its urging to a lone archway he hadn¡¯t noticed earlier.


    The archway opened itself to a set of spiraling stairs that led downwards, deep into the ground beneath the building. Hemlock faintly smelled the tinge of familiarity¡ªold blood and stone. For a haunting, fleeting moment, he was propelled back beneath the mansion and under Dregan¡¯s thrall. He was locked within a stone-walled cage with nothing and no one with him. Starving and cut open and bleeding but unable to feed, stolen from, giving and giving and giving¡ª


    A noise sounding eerily like a person speaking and the clatter of something wooden drew Hemlock from his thoughts. The wind went back to pushing and pulling, more frantic than before, and he breathed in through his nose then let his exhale pass through his lips. No panicking, no Dregan. Safe. He was safe. With one last look at the artefacts and paintings, he descended one slow step at a time.


    The scent of blood sharpened the deeper he went, but so did the smoke of a hearth and its partner, heat. Hemlock grazed fingers over the crumbling stone walls that grew more cobbled with every few steps. Somewhere, the scrape of something sharp against wood echoed up into the staircase. Herbal incense snaked up through and lured him down to their origin, toward the flickering light of a fire inside a small room buried beneath the grand memorial. A tomb of its own in a way, yet cozier and more alive than the rest of the place.


    He didn¡¯t know when the wind left him, but when his feet hit the cracked tile floor, he finally felt the loss of its pressure against his back. Not that it mattered much, though, when his gaze flitted around the room and realization closed in on him.


    On the floor, innocently painted in a morbid dark red, was the sigil Hemlock had knelt on in his dreams. There, on the far wall, sat the stack of cleaned bowls on an empty altar. Candles still flickered, now burned down more than the last time he had seen it, and now he could see the hearth to his right burning on a low flame with little more than brightly glowing embers, the opening tucked into a nook in the wall with a curved stone sill protecting the too-curious from getting too close. On that sill sat various vases, all made differently, with smoldering sticks of incense leaning against their lips, as well as handfuls of bones scattered over it as if someone had tossed them aside while walking past. High above on the opposite end loomed the winged sculpture and the red-tinged window.


    The dreamscape.


    Just like the hearth, Hemlock noticed more details. To his left, books lay scattered on an old table along with an assortment of papers covered in a looping, elegant scrawl and delicate sketches of various sigils and doodles. Schematics of what seemed to be weapons and objects were pinned to the wall, and near the altar sat an innocent-looking box, but Hemlock could make out a copper tinge from its hidden contents. Up above, drying herbs hung from thin wooden rafters that seemed to only exist for that purpose rather than support.


    Not much else decorated the room, as the sigil on the floor took up most of the center while the altar took up the far wall, and the hearth dominated the other. Hemlock hesitantly skirted further into the room, too afraid to touch anything, but being in familiar territory felt¡ªwell, not exactly nice given how the place gave him uneasy chills, but better than being left alone in the unknown. He circled around the sigil, careful not to step on any of the lines, then looped the room to come back to the table. More of the strange language, but whoever wrote it possessed writing beautiful enough that he¡¯d spend hours looking at it no matter the contents.


    Curious, Hemlock freed one paper from beneath a book and inspected the drawing taking up the entire page. Heavy but flowing strokes of ink depicted a diagram of an open mouth, potentially in a roar or a hiss, with long fangs ending in sharp points. A vampire mouth. Thin lines pointed purposefully to different parts of the mouth, with notes and labels connected to the lines and along the open space along the edges. He couldn¡¯t read the words, but Hemlock guessed it was breaking down the capabilities of a vampire¡¯s fangs, or at the very least looking at their anatomy.


    Whoever occupied the room seemed to have some vampiric knowledge. Another vampire, or maybe a scholar? How much did they know?


    Hemlock¡¯s nerves lit up in warning just as someone spoke. ¡°Fascinating, aren¡¯t they?¡± Hemlock spun around and dropped the paper. Across from him, a man lounged over the highest point of the altar, his body draped over the stained stone as if made of languid liquid. His piercing eyes¡ªwhite? grey? blue? brown?¡ªmade a show of looking Hemlock up and down in all his ragged glory. He belatedly remembered he still wore his clothes from the ball, and tears had turned the fabric into little more than shreds.


    The man smiled, and it was a predator¡¯s grin. He dragged his body off the altar and stood fully before meandering over towards Hemlock. Lithe and on the verge of being considered short, the aura of his presence juxtaposed his more alluring appearance. An embodiment of the danger of beauty and deception. The man¡¯s lashes lowered, and his voice turned to a conspiratorial hum. ¡°Part of the Ancients, but like no other. Only vampires can turn others into one of them, can unmake and remake, be living lords over death. I¡¯m not surprised they get mistaken for being the creation of my father.¡±


    Hemlock tried to back up but hit the edge of the table. His gaze jumped all over the room, looking for clues, looking for a way out, looking for something. He could make a run for the stairs, but he didn¡¯t think he¡¯d make it in time with how his body still screamed its exhaustion. Out of options, Hemlock scrambled to stall. ¡°Your father?¡±


    The man tilted his head and stopped in the middle of the blood-drawn sigil. There, the hearth glowed a reverent light over him and gave Hemlock a full look at him.


    From where he stood, he looked just tall enough to tuck beneath Hemlock¡¯s chin if he lifted his head some to make room, but the look in his hooded eyes dared him to try it and live. His slim build didn¡¯t help his stature either, and it reminded Hemlock a bit of an imp, almost. A pretty imp, with smooth pale skin and rose tints that glowed in the firelight, full lips pulled back into a smirking grin, and thick inky black hair that fell in smooth waves around his face to just below his jaw. The color seemed to suck the light from around him, and his grin was a toothy carnivore¡¯s grin¡ªa full set of sharp carnassial-like teeth dissimilar to that of a vampire.


    His fancy black and white robe cinched around the waist and flowed open off his hips to showcase the thin pants and knee-high boots, and the billowed sleeves had deliberate holes that went from shoulder to elbow. Polished white jewelry decorated his neck and waist, and when he freed his hands from his pockets, his wrists and fingers too. Fingers tipped with¡ª


    Hemlock¡¯s stomach bottomed out, and the man¡¯s grin shifted ever so slightly. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ I saw you. In my dreams.¡±


    The man, his dream visitor, hummed and waved his clawed hand in a motion of dismissal. ¡°So he can think, how quaint. You saw part of me, vampire, but now you get to enjoy the full picture.¡± With that, he bowed dramatically at the waist, arms flaring out and hands turned up in an elegant stretch like waiting for applause. Hemlock could only stare.


    When he straightened again, the man eyed Hemlock before moving forward once more. Hemlock stood frozen in his spot as the familiar stranger stalked closer and closer, until they stood nearly toe to toe. He watched as the man deliberately dragged a claw over his own wrist until the skin broke without ever unlocking his stare on Hemlock. A river of blood slid down his hand and dripped on the floor. Hemlock¡¯s mouth dried, then watered as the scent of his blood filled the room.


    He didn¡¯t see it happen. One moment, he was tracking every movement of the man¡¯s blood and wishing to take a bite. A blink, and a crimson blade pressed against the underside of his chin and the wound started sealing itself. Hemlock grappled for the table¡¯s edge as that earlier fear spiked through him again and his heart started racing. A mirror to his dream, yet pieces started clicking together as the fire counted out crackling seconds.


    As if he didn¡¯t have a dagger to Hemlock¡¯s skin, the man started speaking, though it sounded more like talking to himself than to his knife-point captive.


    ¡°My father is a fickle sort of creature. A king by force, so it¡¯s no surprise he does whatever he wants whenever he wants.¡± A curious head tilt. ¡°But to get involved in a vampiric mess of his own volition is unprecedented. He could¡¯ve left you to die. He could¡¯ve done anything, really, but for once he chose to stick his nose into another¡¯s business. And, not only that, but he dragged me into it. Years of silence and hands-off ¡®parenting¡¯, then suddenly¡ªa gift.¡± Another head tilt, though this one changed focus to Hemlock instead of the man¡¯s musings. Under his breath, he added, ¡°So he does pay attention.¡±


    His father, creator of vampires. Hemlock¡¯s gaze bounced through the room and his heart sped up when the individual details started painting a picture. Bones and blood, blood to weapons. Blood to objects. An altar stained with a dark copper scent and no dedicated god in sight. That terrifying power that had scattered Dregan¡¯s nightmare touch with little more than a hiss. Eyes that gleamed yellow¡ªbone yellow¡ªin the dancing firelight. A rolling and thick iteration of the northern Kaskaran accent that didn¡¯t match Hemlock¡¯s or anyone else he knew.


    That red-hued raven.


    Fuck.


    Only one being in existence still walked Kaskan¡¯s earth and fit the slowly building image. An immortal fiend, feared across the entire continent, whose pseudonym got whispered in the dark and screamed in terror as his shadow haunted above. A ruthless killer and cunning seductor that lured victims into his bed before devouring them in a way that went far beyond the sexual figurative. Only one person bled his own power. Somehow Hemlock had escaped a monster just to run into the lair of an even worse one.


    Staring down at the man in front of him, a man who held a blade so close to his neck, Hemlock breathed both in hopes of being wrong and in unfiltered fear, ¡°Chimera.¡±


    The divine-kin¡¯s grin morphed into a manic beam. ¡°Hello.¡±

 08|Eight

    His vampire trembled beneath the blade¡¯s edge but so sweetly pretended otherwise. Chimera angled the dagger to force his chin up, and the vampire did so without resistance. If anything, he looked more afraid of his realization than the threat of getting his throat slashed. Curious.


    He received no other response, only silence that stretched for longer than he liked, so Chimera decided to break it himself as he inspected his newest gift. ¡°Took you long enough to figure it out.¡±


    The vampire¡¯s multicolored eyes¡ªunfairly pretty with that unique sliver of brown cut through their clover green¡ªjumped up and down Chimera¡¯s figure. He allowed the poor thing a moment to sort through his nerves and get his wits about him, then put pressure on the dagger. That got him talking.


    ¡°You helped me escape.¡± Chimera cocked his head, listening, and the vampire continued. ¡°Those dreams¡ªthe raven. Why?¡± Nerves dripped from his tongue and Chimera reveled in it. Such a gorgeous creature; so skittish.


    A simple question presented, though not an easy question answered. Chimera regarded the vampire and sorted through his own thoughts, his own theories, as to the fate that had been set up for the two of them. ¡°It wasn¡¯t me.¡± Disbelief flickered through the vampire¡¯s gaze for just a moment before he schooled back his expression. Chimera ignored it and explained, ¡°As I said, my father is the one to orchestrate your daring escape. He contacted you, yes? And in contacting you, he dragged me with him. I may be parotheia, but I don¡¯t have the power to enter one¡¯s dreams on a whim. Not yet, anyway.¡±


    Chimera¡¯s gaze caught on a detail he hadn¡¯t noticed before and used the dagger to angle his vampire¡¯s face up and to the side. A blotchy scar, jagged and recent, covered a good portion of his throat. He studied it as he continued. ¡°As for the why, I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t have much of a relationship with my father. Never did. But he¡¯s not as foolish as others like to claim he is; this was a deliberate plan of his.¡± He released the pressure, and the vampire slowly lowered his face back down. His stare never left Chimera¡¯s, and that alone tempted out a grin. ¡°You know of me.¡±


    Another flicker¡ªconfusion. Still, the vampire responded to the change in subject. ¡°I¡ªyes. You¡¯re rather infamous.¡±


    Chimera¡¯s grin sharpened and he leaned in. ¡°Oh?¡± he purred, and panic briefly crossed the vampire¡¯s expression. ¡°Do tell.¡±


    He opened his mouth, then shut it. Chimera waited patiently for him to cave, and it didn¡¯t take very long for him to do so. ¡°Chimera. Blood of the Slaughter. Son of the False Bloody King. They say you lure victims into your bed before you carve them up just for fun, like a land-bound siren with an even greater inclination to violence.¡±


    More stories were whispered about him than just that, but the one his vampire spoke of was the loudest whisper, and longest-standing. Just as he started to say as much, he was interrupted. The vampire looked down at him, all pathetic eyes and tangled blonde curls. Grim certainty. Acceptance.


    ¡°Is that what you intend to do with me?¡±


    Chimera reassessed. You could slice my throat right now and I¡¯d thank you. That¡¯s what this vampire had said to him before, the last time he had been under threat of a dagger. No doubt he continued to feel the same way. But as far as Chimera was concerned, he had been a gift¡ªa new toy to play with and own. A beautiful vampire to worship and study, to learn everything there was to know about the mysterious group of Ancients. Underneath the burns and grime and tattered clothes, he still had a glowing beauty to him that Chimera wanted to taste and touch¡ªto keep.


    He let the dagger dissolve into a mist and stepped away. ¡°No.¡±


    The vampire moved slowly, like he thought Chimera to be a rabid beast ready to pounce. To assuage his suspicion, Chimera made a show of stepping further away with splayed, empty hands. He couldn¡¯t quite wipe off the smile tugging at his lips, though. Oh, how he loved the fear his very presence elicited. The power he held by simply existing.


    Now standing next to Chimera¡¯s desk and closer to the stairs, the vampire regarded him in return. ¡°Why am I here?¡± he asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s a question for you to answer, but I have another one for you: What¡¯s your name?¡±


    That made him pause. Chimera watched as his vampire looked to the papers on the desk, then to the empty altar, then the ritualistic sigil on the floor. ¡°You can call me Hemlock.¡± He grimaced. ¡°It¡¯s the name I¡¯ve been given, anyway. What do you mean, that¡¯s a question for me to answer? I don¡¯t know the answer, that¡¯s why I asked.¡±


    Grinning, Chimera propped himself against the ledge around the hearth. ¡°So, you remember cultural details, but not personal. Just as I thought.¡±


    This caught the vampire¡¯s¡ªHemlock¡ªattention. ¡°What?¡±


    He moved again, this time stalking over to Hemlock in a flourish that startled the skittish creature. Chimera breezily blocked his way, then held up a hand with outstretched fingers pointed to his mouth. When he opened it to speak, perhaps in protest or in question, Chimera hooked a finger around a fang. It descended further from the abrupt stimulation. Just as he thought.


    Hemlock stood stone still in his hold and quieted. Satisfied, Chimera explained, ¡°Vampires turn their victims by injecting them with a venom that recodes their genetics to revert, in a way, back to their original code. Back to being vampiric. I would imagine that it is not only detrimental to physical well-being, but also mental, as everything gets undone and remade. It¡¯s no shock that you would lose all sense of who you once were.¡±


    Venom started to bead around the tips of his fangs, as well as drool. Chimera ran a teasing thumb over it and was rewarded with the smallest of shudders. Poor thing was likely hungry. ¡°But identity is partly separate from everything else. You remember the gods, me, Kaskaran customs. It erased the who, but not the where. I¡¯d always thought so, but no vampire is exactly willing to stick around and let me poke about. Until you, of course.¡± And, as a little reward for sitting still, Chimera let him go and backed away a pace.


    Hemlock licked away the dripping drool and venom, pink coating his cheeks and not quite hidden beneath his hand as he ducked his head to wipe at his mouth. ¡°I¡ªUm¡­ I guess that makes sense. What makes you think I¡¯m sticking around?¡±


    Chimera flared out his arms in an expansive gesture. ¡°Back to your question of why. Think. Answer it. I know you have a different question to ask me.¡±


    Yet another flicker of emotion, though the frustration lasted longer than the other bits and pieces. He seemed so determined to keep his thoughts and feelings locked away and buried, but Chimera thrilled in every reaction he got out of him. He wanted more.


    Silence stretched between them, neither of them budging from their metaphorical stances. Chimera had no reason to answer when what Hemlock sought was right beneath his nose¡ªhe only needed to think. Maybe he should¡¯ve given his vampire more grace, considered the reasoning behind his willingness to lie down and die, but he wanted to keep this one for longer than a minute. Entertaining that weakness would be counterproductive.


    Hemlock stared at the dark stairwell long enough that Chimera got concerned that his pet would run. But then he spoke, and it seemed to startle him more than it did Chimera. ¡°Can you¡­ Will you protect me? Please.¡±


    Perfect. Chimera got back into his space, and this time Hemlock stared him down with a bravery that was all false bravado, but still endearing. Ignoring the flinch, he grabbed his vampire¡¯s throat and pulled with enough force to keep his attention. ¡°On one condition.¡±


    Hemlock¡¯s breathing hitched beneath his touch, but he didn¡¯t pull away. ¡°You want to learn about vampires. I am one. If¡­ If you protect me, you can ¡®poke about¡¯ as much as you want.¡±


    The terms were vague, but Chimera didn¡¯t care. He¡¯d have his fun either way, and Hemlock got his protection from his mutt of a former master. If anything, Hemlock got the better end of the deal. But Chimera knew that he¡¯d have to teach Hemlock how to be a vampire¡ªhis prolonged status as newborn rolled off him in waves¡ªand in teaching, he¡¯d be learning as well. They both got what they wanted.


    ¡°It¡¯s a bargain.¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    **


    Given how skittish his vampire was, Chimera decided to be gracious and give him the space to settle and calm himself. Hemlock took no time to dart out of the small basement, but he made no attempt to leave the temple. Good enough, and Chimera could figure out what, exactly, he¡¯d be doing with his new pet.


    But first.


    The sigil on the floor glowed red as he flung drops of blood over it and whispered a soft chant beneath his breath. A matching crimson fog seeped from the bubbling drops, growing larger and spreading further out until it covered the entirety of the floor in an ominous red cloud. It swirled around Chimera, licked at his fingers and caressed the jutting bone of his cheeks. The heat of the hearth stood as no match against the chill of death as it sapped the warmth from the room. He narrowed his eyes and demanded in a tongue as ancient as Kaskan itself, ¡°Khymir Synns, speak to me.¡±


    No physical change, but he could feel the charged air as his father¡¯s power crackled in the small room. Chimera refused to bend¡ªthat very same power flowed through his own veins and forced others to bow; he would not be like them.


    ¡°My son.¡±


    Chimera lifted his chin and stared into the red fog, silently challenging his father to show himself, even in an avatar, rather than taking the coward¡¯s way out and remaining as nothing more than a disembodied emulsion of voices and screams. No face surfaced to meet him, and he bared his teeth in personal victory. Even his own father refused to face his feral blood. ¡°You meddle in the affairs of others, but not me? I¡¯m offended.¡±


    There was a suspended pause, like the Lord of Bloodshed himself didn¡¯t quite know how to respond to such an accusation¡ªjesting, or serious? No one ever knew. ¡°I believe you¡¯ll find that my ¡®meddling¡¯ has indeed involved you.¡±


    ¡°Not untrue.¡± Chimera stalked in a circle, searching through the crackle of power and magic, and turned on his heel to face the concentration of his father¡¯s presence. It froze and shuddered, but didn¡¯t flee upon discovery. ¡°But I doubt your reasoning is out of fatherly love. What are your motives, oh great king of untimely death? You told Hemlock his prison would be the site of slaughter.¡± He gnashed his teeth in a smile and spread out his hands. ¡°I taste no blood in the earth.¡±


    The fog rumbled. ¡°Is that his name?¡±


    He didn¡¯t like that tone. Chimera took a single step forward and felt the tightly constrained aspects of his body loosen, like seeping blood from desperately bandaged wounds. He didn¡¯t need a mirror to know that black inked his veins and dotted his skin in brutal black runes. ¡°Use it at risk. He¡¯s mine now.¡±


    ¡°Calm yourself, son.¡± Whatever his demand, the fog still retreated an equal distance and scattered to different points in the room, splitting Chimera¡¯s attention trifold. Nevermind how the god stayed untouchable in this way. ¡°I have no motive. This vampire has been seeking the touch of death for some time, so I thought to answer. It is not unlike that of others of my kin, and I care not what happens to him. I do not see how this is an exceptional circumstance befitting a tantrum.¡±


    A snarl slipped past Chimera¡¯s cracked cheer, but he quickly smothered it to slip into a beaming sneer. ¡°No tantrum here.¡± He didn¡¯t let his father respond before waving away the summoning magic, smearing the disappearing droplets for good measure. The room noticeably warmed in the absence of the death god¡¯s presence as the fog cleared, and soon only Chimera stood in the center, staring down the empty altar. He should¡¯ve known better than to look a gift horse in the mouth and question its existence. He¡¯d never done anything to assuage his own blood¡¯s questions and concerns. Foolish to think this moment of brief notice would change anything.


    A god would always be a god, especially one that slaughtered his way into his divine throne.


    It took an active effort to breathe and beat down the boiling change, the hints of his father¡¯s influence that bubbled to the surface of his perfectly painted fa?ade. He rolled up his sleeves to watch his veins lose the blackened tint, and the matching runes slowly faded away until all that remained was scarred but pretty pale skin powered with the natural rouge of his lifeblood. The tendons in his wrist jumped and contorted as he flexed his fingers. Control.


    ¡°Couldn¡¯t last long without me, hm?¡± Chimera straightened and faced Hemlock, who froze after being caught.


    The vampire hovered at the staircase, one foot on the last step and one foot in the basement. Hesitation trembled through him, but he didn¡¯t flee this time. Rather, his eyes found the expose skin of Chimera¡¯s wrist. ¡°I¡­ um. My master¡ªDregan¡ªhe¡­¡± He exhaled rather forcefully through his nose, and Chimera let his amusement show as the vampire tried to word his thoughts. Finally, Hemlock settled on saying, ¡°My healing is slow for some reason, and I haven¡¯t had blood in a while, at least none to heal some¡­ injuries.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re hungry.¡± Chimera reveled in the instant blush his blunt summary earned him. He took a stray pin sitting on his desk and used it to pin up his sleeve to avoid the extra fabric getting in the way, and all the while, Hemlock¡¯s gaze followed. Poor little hungry vamp. ¡°Come. I have no qualms with bleeding, as you surely know.¡±


    That pink remained as Hemlock hedged his way closer. Chimera allowed him his skittishness and took the slow approach to truly size up his vampire. It was hard to really tell beneath the evidence of prolonged capture, but he got lucky with this particular vampire. Tall, gorgeous, and a walking tragedy. Only the cruelest gods would allow someone blessed by the sun would force him to walk in the shadows, forever shunned by the light that had once so clearly loved him.


    As he got closer, he could see the lingering remains of burns, as well as old injuries. Scars. Bite marks pockmarked several spots of his exposed skin, hidden beneath freckles and dirt, as well as old healed-over lacerations. More recent ones stood out where they should¡¯ve been hidden beneath torn fabric, pink and angry.


    ¡°Sun-poisoning.¡± Hemlock blinked down at him, and Chimera elaborated. ¡°Exposure to the sun causes sun-poisoning. It slows, and sometimes outright halts, your vampiric healing for a period of time. Severity depends on a lot of factors, but the biggest one is being a newborn.¡±


    Hemlock scowled down at him, though he chose to believe it was more related to the information than Chimera himself. He held out his arm in offering, and Hemlock stared at it as he said, ¡°If you already know so much, why do you need me?¡±


    Chimera shrugged and watched him in return. Still no attempt to feed. ¡°Observation only reveals so much. I may know more information than you, but only you know how it feels.¡±


    No response to that, and Hemlock continued to stare hungrily. When he opened his mouth to speak, his fangs were descended and dripping with venom. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ I only ever drank out of bowls.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Chimera changed his tactic, using his outstretched arm to grab Hemlock and move him into the nearby chair at the desk. Hemlock made a noise of protest but sat, and Chimera positioned himself behind the vampire. Brought his wrist close to his mouth as a temptation. He could feel Hemlock¡¯s stuttered breath against the fragile skin. Explaining would only make the vampire overthink the process, so he slipped his free hand around to grip Hemlock¡¯s chin and tilt his head back ever so slightly, just to give himself leverage, and pressed his wrist to Hemlock¡¯s lips before he could react.


    Fangs sank into his skin, and a rush of venom flooded his veins. The calming effect quickly settled over his mind in its wake. Hemlock drank greedily¡ªpressed his tongue against Chimera¡¯s skin to catch every drop and reached up to hold his arm steady. Chimera resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean into his vampire, but he couldn¡¯t entirely fight the sense of satisfaction curling through him. He¡¯d always wondered what it felt like to have a vampire bite him. Now he could offer it to Hemlock whenever he needed it, that that idea made him giddy.


    Years, he¡¯d wanted this. Waited for an opportunity to set his fixation upon a vampire who tolerated his attention. Worship sounded so plain and unfulfilling when placed upon the gods. But being the sustenance for another, devoting his attention and purpose to a mortal that straddled the line just enough that it felt worthy, had become an idea fixed into Chimera¡¯s mind for as long as he could remember.


    He could never quite scrub that mentality from his existence, but at least his zeal could be centered around a pet project rather than ill-fated glory-seeking.


    Right as he noticed the various wounds beginning to heal, the fangs slowly retracted from his wrist and Hemlock¡¯s tongue swiped over the puncture wounds. Chimera had a feeling it was less a courtesy¡ªvampire saliva healed just as much as the rest of their body did¡ªand more an instinct to get every last drop. He didn¡¯t say anything about it, just released Hemlock and let the vampire come back to himself.


    Of course, he couldn¡¯t resist saying, ¡°I should probably admit that I don¡¯t know what effect my blood has on your kind.¡±


    Hemlock shot him a look, and Chimera offered a beaming smile as he danced away. ¡°You don¡¯t know? What if something happens?¡±


    He unpinned his sleeve and tossed the object back onto the desk, then wandered over to the smoldering sticks of incense to snub them out with licked fingers. ¡°Then we¡¯ll learn together. But you¡¯re healing, the sun-poisoning should be gone soon, and I see no immediate effects. For now, you¡¯re fine.¡±


    Hemlock¡¯s frown could be felt across the room. A moment of silence passed, and Chimera worked through it without thinking much of it, steadily ridding the room of small flames. They¡¯d be leaving soon, and he didn¡¯t want his things to go to waste.


    Quietly, Hemlock broke the silence to say, ¡°I¡­ didn¡¯t hurt you, did I?¡±


    Chimera glanced up from snuffing out a candle and cocked his head. ¡°A vampire¡¯s venom calms the nerves and dulls the pain, beyond the initial bite. It¡¯s just a bit of pressure, nothing else.¡± Shrugging, he went back to the candles. ¡°If you did, it¡¯s nothing I¡¯m not used to.¡±


    The chair creaked in time with Hemlock¡¯s fidgeting. ¡°Right.¡±


    When the room was sufficiently scoured and removed of any flames, besides the eternally burning hearth, Chimera beckoned for Hemlock to follow him back up the stairs. ¡°Come. I¡¯ll properly teach you about biting and venoms later. But I¡¯d rather be home for that conversation, and you need cleaned up.¡±


    Hemlock did as he was told, and his size shadowed Chimera even as they climbed the stairs. He couldn¡¯t help but smile when he heard the vampire mutter under his breath, ¡°What I need is to be away from murderous psychos."