Subspecies: Bloodpact -- Chapter Four
Hello lovelies! I have been largely sidetracked by my NaNoWriMo project (which you can read here with the password of 'temperance' if you are at all interested; it too is a horror story, though of the much more personal kind), but I do not mean to leave you entirely stranded!
I must also take a moment to both brag and pimp--the good folks of forsaken_fandom have recognized this story for Best Characaterization and Best Overall, as well as giving me a special nod for Best Dark Author. You might want to give them a look if you are at all interested in horror/thriller media; while I am unfamiliar with several of the fandoms they include, vampire stories abound, and I was introduced to several great new authors via their awards.
Anyway, without further ado...
Subspecies: Bloodpact
Chapter 4/? (probably 8)
Author: memoriamvictus
Rating: R
Summary: Radu Vladislas may prove the lesser of two evils when Michelle is forced to attempt to undo the devil's deal Rebecca has made in a bid to save her soul.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Charles Band, Ted Nicolaou, and other wonderful people who have provided me with a great deal of entertainment; I'm just playing around.
Wordcount: 5,733
Begin at the beginning.
02020603050405020304020b0604030504040204Unknown;Microsoft Word 10
The old woman had been the first. Technically, she supposed, the true first had been Lillian; but the old woman had been the first to die, for no greater crime than sharing the lore of the castle with three eager young girls, her corpse defiled and dismembered by her own neighbors.
Michelle did not even know her name.
Then had come Lillian. Her lips twisted with bitter humor at the memory of how they had acted when she had fallen ill, assuming it was tetanus or some sort of blood borne infection given her by the rusty castle door. Then Mara.
Then Stefan.
Then that poor boy in the nightclub-another innocent stranger she had never even bothered to identify. Then the fiddler. Then Professor Popescu. Then Bob. Then the secretary Radu had abducted from her evening constitutional along the streets of Bucharest.
And now... last night... the... the man who...
So many. So many. And so few names. What did that make her, then, if this only concerned her now? That those individual, special, unique lives had all been snuffed out, and she had taken no more notice than she had of any other part of this tragedy? “To begin to prepare you for what you must become,” Radu had said to her the night she agreed to follow him, and she shuddered at the memory. Had he even then sensed some unknown potential within her? The cold soul of a heartless killer? Was that why he pursued her so ardently-because he knew she was capable of joining him?
She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly; a tattered, rotten carpet protected her rump from the worst of the floor’s chill--and, truly, she didn’t seem to be much affected by temperature any longer--but a pervasive cold clung to her bones, dogging her movements and deepening her unease. She wasn’t quite sure where she was within the castle, or what purpose this chamber might have served in a former incarnation, but it had seemed as good a place to stop as any when the melancholy overwhelmed her.
She had been doing so well.
She had woken up alone once more, now almost used to opening her eyes to a dank crypt rather than the friendly confines of a bedroom; had seemed to truly be alone as she made a brief and hesitant survey of the great hall. That was fine. That was wonderful. That made it possible for her to put it all aside for the moment, to focus on nothing more pressing than how filthy she was. Sweat, dirt, and body oils no longer seemed to present an issue for her, but the dress was done for, matted with dried blood and ground-in filth, and she hadn’t exactly had time to pack a change of clothes. Briefly considering attempting to make the subspecies find something for her, she set out to examine the castle’s many rooms; surely she would be able to find something, and not have to stoop to stealing from clotheslines just yet.
And that, really, had been the thought that triggered it, innocuous as it seemed; her new status was so changed she was unable to even locate a pair of jeans for herself. How would that carry over? No one back home knew that she had... well, she wasn’t dead, so there would be no difficulties with the paperwork for now, but it would rise up to entangle her in a thousand little ways. Her bank accounts were still open, but she’d have to find a job with which to fill them, and there weren’t many overnight curator positions that she’d ever heard of. Even if there were one she could obtain, how would she get to it? Her driver’s license would expire in another year or two, and she wouldn’t be able to renew it after sundown. Vision tests, physical examinations, reflex tests... what would they reveal? How could she keep the horrible events of her unwitting ambulance ride from repeating themselves inadvertently?
This wasn’t lupus, to be borne with heavy doses of sunscreen and a bit of patience and understanding. She had been telling herself it was merely a disease, something that could be dealt with and controlled with a little accommodation, but… no. There was no point in trying to fool herself any longer. Last night had shown her that in more ways than she could have imagined.
He had-
Michelle leapt to her feet and launched herself from the room, as if she could leave her recollections behind. Her heels clicked resoundingly in the narrow hallway-the soft shoes were an equal loss, but she held out no hopes of replacing them here-and entered the first doorway she passed, shouldering the battered door aside, heedless of its splinters.
All of the rooms along the upper gallery appeared to have been inhabited at some point; many still featured massive wooden bedsteads, some still bearing their rush-stuffed mattresses, heavily carved chests, thin dividing screens, and other accoutrements that betokened occupancy, and this one was no different.. She couldn’t guess at how long ago it may have been-she had never achieved much skill in eyeballing artifacts for their proper periods-but most of it seemed to suffer mere neglect and disuse, as opposed to rot and ruin. She knelt before the solid, darkly stained trunk at the foot of the bed; surely sturdy wool or heavy brocade might well have survived locked away in a chest like that.
The latch opened with surprising ease, as if eager to yield up its contents. She averted her face as she hoisted the lid up, but no puff of dust or wash of disused air greeted her; instead she found what appeared to be a pile of linens, pale, but only lightly yellowed with age, smelling faintly of the ghost of bitter herbs. Puzzled, she carefully lifted one end from the pile, cautious of anything that might be lurking within; her lip curled in distaste when she realized exactly what it was she had found. She had first seen one adorning Lillian, and had shed the one her friends had forcibly changed her into in the not too distant past: those strange white gowns, somewhere between a chemise and a chiton, which seemed the preferred mode of feminine dress at Castle Vladislas. Well, it’ll cover everything, she thought dispiritedly as she straightened, shaking the gown out in front of herself to ensure it was still intact. Were they some kind of uniform? A mark of honor, or servitude? Had some long gone resident of the castle favored them, or worn them as undergarments? Why so many? Yet another of the endless mysteries that comprised her life these days-but small, almost silly, and thus easier to wrap her mind around.
Dismissing her curiosity for the moment, she laid the garment out carefully on the bed. She grabbed the edges of her skirt and stripped the dress off in one smooth movement, the sleeves sticking a bit where blood had crusted them over; she shuddered at the prickling sensation. The movement of air was strange against her nude body-she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been fully undressed-so she reached quickly for the gown, bunching it up to facilitate dropping it down over her head. The fabric wasn’t simple linen, after all, but something smooth and sinuous that glided down her body with slinky ease. Yet her skin crawled as the fabric slid over her hips and buttocks; the sensation reminded her too much of bony fingers slithering over her skin, the inadvertent scrape of claws, the dull, pounding ache of--
Michelle shivered violently, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, biting her lip to stifle the low whimper. Shock. It’s just shock. Shock and... hunger. For there was another looming horror she could not entirely dismiss: the dry tickle at the back of her throat was no mere ailment, and ignoring it would not drive it from her thoughts; soon it would drive her, sending her forth from the castle to seek whatever she might find to alleviate it.
It had taken her some time to locate the cache, its pivoted stone front blending smoothly with the almost seamless wall that housed it; figuring out how to work the catch, a tricky series of counterbalances, had taken even longer; yet she had been unsurprised, in a dull, hopeless way, to find it empty. Of course he had hidden the Bloodstone elsewhere, perhaps even carried it upon his person, or had stashed it away in the Bucharest crypt.
She had been foolish to think it would be a simple matter of spiriting herself away with such a prized and irreplaceable relic. Foolish to ever place herself within his reach willingly. Foolish to ever doubt his power.
Shock. Just shock, she tried to reassure herself, but even her thoughts rang hollow. It’s easy to get discouraged. I’ve... had a bad night. But it’s not the end of the world. I’m not dead. Neither is Becky, neither is Mel. It could be worse. It’s... not so bad.
For therein lay the real crux of the nightmare, the awful truth she had sought to flee among the honeycombed chambers of the upper bailey: it had almost been a relief. Rape... sex... it was something she understood, could, in some wicked, primitive part of her mind, even relate to: power, aggression, dominance, all wrapped up in one vile, assertive act.
But it was not supernatural. No blood, no black sorcery, no skills and visions beyond human ken. Radu had forced her into so many things… but now, now he had finally found one close to home, that might have befallen her in any situation. She had thought to outwit him, and had succeeded in some small part; but even now, with the benefit of her new abilities, speed and sight and shadow, she was still vulnerable to him in the most fundamental of ways; she was vulnerable to him in all ways.
He had asked her if it had truly been necessary.
The idea that he knew her well enough to use her own blind spots to goad her to suit his aims was truly terrifying. Perhaps he truly did know better. Perhaps it was time to give up her pretense to normalcy, her charade of humanity, and allow him to show her what horrors and wonders lay down the grim path she had unwittingly embarked upon with a willing heart. He had treated her fairly, in his own twisted, demanding way; she had only to recall the dark glory of lapping at his opened throat to know how open-handedly he meant to treat her. Perhaps it was time to revel in what he offered, rather than reject it.
She knew that was wrong. She knew that was sick. She knew that was the trauma she had suffered addling her rational mind. She wondered if it might not even be the bond he had spoken of, some strange, unlooked-for new instinct compelling her to cleave to the one who had engendered her.
She also wondered what it would be like to be bent over the trunk she still stood before, with his fangs buried in her as deeply as his cock had been. Perhaps both at the same time: the nights were long and full of wonders, if one truly meant to indulge.
And that was the hell of it. The excruciating, loathsome, undeniable hell of it.
Whirling on her bare heel, she strode from the room, suddenly possessed by some unspecified need for movement, action, anything to keep her mind free from the alarmingly unwholesome track it was following. Surely the Bloodstone was somewhere within reach, and wasting the time she had free of Radu’s attentions with fretting instead of searching for it wasn’t going to help her. Perhaps she could lay hands on that strange, stolen subspecies she had created, and discover just how well it worked as a voodoo doll. Perhaps she could simply flee into the night, if there were no other option available to her. Perhaps it was better to be a regretful murderer, for a time, at least, than it was to be the acolyte of such a creature as Vladislas, even if only for a short while.
She wasn’t certain what to do about Becky and Mel, though; was she even safe to be around them, in her current state? Her footsteps faltered as she rounded the curve of the main staircase, resuming at a more measured pace. If she left without them, Radu would surely kill them; the only question being whether he would keep them in an attempt to lure her back, or slaughter them outright in a rage. But if she went to them… what if she hurt them? All of their plans had always been predicated on her possession of the Bloodstone. Without it, she was little better than the one she sought to flee; guilt did not excuse act, and she somehow doubted Becky would blithely accept Michelle’s choice to draw sustenance from the ranks of outlaws.
Mel might well, though. Michelle had always wondered at the deep reserves his implacable pragmatism hinted at. And Mel might be able to talk Becky around. Mel might also shoot her, put her out of everyone’s misery; but she bet he would do her the kindness of making sure she never saw it coming.
Yet she could not take solace in the nobility of her resolve as she padded into the great hall. Once she would have vowed that being at Radu’s side was a fate worse than death. Once she would have fought for her life last night, would have preferred being killed to submitting to that. Once she wouldn’t have wondered what it was like to share a kill with him, free from guilt or shame; to gorge themselves and rut in an orgy of sustenance, sensation, superiority.
She needed to leave. Oh, God, she needed to get away from him, no matter the cost.
Right. Okay. One last check. She’d never been very far into the interior of the castle; while she suspected most of it was as disused as the upstairs, it couldn’t hurt to look. Though for all she knew, Radu’s personal chambers were back there… or his mother’s… they’d been keeping victims somewhere; it was entirely possible some new perversion lurked back there. Well, I haven’t heard any screams, she thought, infusing her mental tone with a brusqueness she did not feel. Balling her hands into fists, she began to stride purposefully across the hall towards the inner gallery; she had made it almost halfway across when she was startled by the soft rustle of paper.
A bolt of pure, superstitious terror lanced through her; she flinched as she turned towards the sound, cringing defensively. “M-“ Master: the term sprang unbidden to her lips, and she raised a hand to her throat as if to choke it off; it galled her, even in the extremity of her startlement, but she lacked the emotional stamina to try starting off on an aggressive footing. “M-m-my lord,” she finally managed. Close enough, she hoped; close enough to that hateful term to flatter him-it had probably been his rightful form of address, once upon a time--yet far enough away that it sounded silly to her ears; she could pretend, try desperately to convince herself that she was merely play-acting.
Radu sprawled lazily across the rough granite throne that crouched against the wall, one knee thrown casually over a stone arm in a deliberately casual pose. He seemed thoroughly engrossed in the tome that lay open against his thigh, a massive folio bound in wood, leather, and tarnished brass. The scritch of paper against paper had come from him turning a page with slow, meticulous care; he did so again as she watched with startled confusion, raising one hand to his chin with a thoughtful frown.
Michelle paused, caught in a web of uncertainty and disappointment. There was no way he could be unaware of her presence, yet he had not so much as raised an eyebrow at her startled address. She watched him carefully as he sat, relaxed and studious, her mouth growing dry with anguish as she contemplated his repose. This, it seemed, was the proverbial insult to injury: the knowledge that he could sit there reading calmly, reading as if he hadn’t a care in the world, in spite of what had happened-of what he’d done to her. As if it didn’t matter.
Perhaps, to him, it didn’t.
She shrank away from that thought, alarmed and thrilled by how much it angered her. Not the violence and humiliation he’d inflicted on her; the idea that he found it meaningless, all in a night’s play. That he could dismiss her pain, her subjugation, her submission…
Wrong. Sick. Addled.
Yet she couldn’t just leave, not now that he had materialized like shadows made flesh, returning from wherever it was he had absented himself these last few twilights. And that sparked another alarming thought: what if he were not absenting himself at all, but merely haunting her as a shade, observing her for some unknowable purpose? Perhaps this was all a test of some sort, one of the bizarre initiation rituals he refused to explain; or perhaps he meant for her to wonder, that he might observe her more easily. But why? She licked her lips; the dustiness of her throat indicated that such academic questions were going to be rendered moot in the near future, and decided to try again.
“Radu…”
He tucked a strand of loose brown hair behind one ear, but never raised his eyes from the page.
She licked her lips again. There was absolutely no question that he was ignoring her deliberately, but she could not fathom a reason for it. The gnawing pangs of hunger combined with the faint embers of rage to allow her confusion and agitation to rise above her fear, allowing for another few moments of almost calm contemplation. She didn’t dare approach him-even if she did, she didn’t think that she could bear to touch him-but she didn’t dare turn her back on him, either. His behavior was deliberately designed to provoke her; perhaps he hoped she would grow so frustrated she would attack him, so he would once more have cause to dominate her physically. Perhaps he hoped she would flee, giving him license to follow her in darkness and learn what activities she set about. Perhaps the throbbing ache of empty thirst was meant as punishment for some incomprehensible slight that he perceived.
Exhausted and dazed, Michelle could not fathom a way through this; could not imagine what aims he hoped to accomplish with this performance. But she knew that she could not bring herself to show him her back, figuratively or literally, having already lost too much ground. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, she chose the shore: crossing her ankles, she carefully sank to her knees, sitting back on her heels.
Radu shifted his weight, unhooking his leg to straighten and set both feet on the floor. He turned another page, his frown deepening.
No torches were lit, but the nearly full moon dancing through the window-slits provided more than enough illumination for her newly attenuated eyes to see by; still, she marveled that he could read by such mottled light. Not that they were of a kind, or even necessarily the same order of being-ridiculous as it was, she seemed to conform to a large part of the folklore; he might as well have been a demon for all the similarities he showed-but she had nothing else to compare herself against. Squinting, she was just able to make out the letters stamped on the thick heavy spine, and was even more surprised at their swooping, rounded shapes. It took a moment for the memory to coalesce into knowledge, and she blinked in puzzlement once it did. “The Odyssey?”
“You can read it?”
She gasped, a startled, reflexive sound; she hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until he’d made his rejoinder. Radu stared at her levelly over the top of the book, his face a collection of planes and hollows in the faint, uncertain moonlight. “Yes, I… yes.” She shook herself. The memory of a sleepy classroom on a warm summer day, the shy, competent pride in the realization that she was not reciting, but actually reading a language that was not only foreign, but disused for thousands of years, seemed utterly incongruous with her current circumstances. “I… it’s been a while.”
His mouth quirked in a disdainful smirk, but his fingers beckoned in a graceful gesture of summons. Michelle rose to her feet uncertainly, unwilling to approach, but he waited, hand held out expectantly; slowly and deliberately, hoping to hide her hesitation in measured aplomb, she made herself go to him, halting dutifully at his side. That was not enough for him, however; his raised hand curved gently around her hip, pulling her towards him.
For a moment she thought that would be it: the dry-twig touch of his fingers, the insistent pressure, would finally send her over the edge; but the bright brassy gout of revulsion and panic passed, and she was able to allow him to pull her down. The hard stone seat was almost wide enough for two; she began trembling when the sharp jut of his hip dug into hers, nearly leapt to her feet again when he embraced her loosely. He turned his face to her, and seemed almost about to speak; but he instead merely pointed to the text, a particular section most of the way down the left-hand page.
She was grateful for the task to focus on, an excuse to focus on anything other than the unwanted closeness, the involuntary shaking, the fact that she was practically sitting in the lap of the man-the thing-who had… had…
Blinking furiously, she forced herself to stare down at the book, to the passage of text indicated by the curved yellow nail. She stared at it hopelessly for a moment, rising despair and despondency wreaking havoc on her concentration; but sooner than she might have hoped she was able to make the transition, the odd mental shift that changed the marks on the page from inscrutable pictograms into flowing, beautiful prose. Peering down to make doubly certain she had the right place, she began to read in a slow, declaratory tone.
“When I had prayed sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up from Erebus- brides, young bachelors, old men worn out with toil, maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been killed in battle, with their armor still smirched with blood; they came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear…”
Curiosity overcoming her discomfort, Michelle looked up to find Radu regarding her with a bemused air. She knew the story well: Odysseus, instructed by a great sorceress, offers a blood sacrifice in exchange for critical information from the ghost of a dead companion; the blood attracted all sorts of spirits, however, and he had been forced to fend them off with the sword of his father. It was no surprise she had never made the connection before, but the implications were staggering: Troy had been found exactly where Homer had said it was located. “Is this… is this history?” she asked disbelievingly. “Is Teiresias…? Are you…?”
Radu grinned, an alarming experience from only inches away. “If you do not jest, you flatter,” he rumbled. “I do not think any of us possess such an age. My father, perhaps…” He shook his head. “But the story, ah… perhaps, and mayhap.” He shifted his weight, his arm wrapping more tightly around her waist as he traced the story of the starving ghosts with one yellowed nail. “It may be one of our stories that has made its way into literature. It may even be that Homer once knew one of us who wielded it; for the sword… the sword is real, and we name it the Blade of Laertes in accordance with this tale.” He tapped the page firmly, pointed talon dimpling the rich parchment. “It is a great treasure of our kind, that was stolen long ago. You asked what kills us…”
“Like the dagger,” she breathed, recalling the desperate struggle in the crypt.
“Something like it,” he agreed solemnly. “Laertes is bane to us all.”
Her mind raced at the implication as she tried to pick her words, phrase her thoughts as fear for her safety rather than piqued interest. “The knife was something of your mother’s,” she said quietly.
“So once did the Blade belong to the Vladislas,” he said, “but even her sorcery was no match for that which created the sword. Its wounds are fell to any of us, not merely our line.”
The dry, swelling ache of her thirst made it difficult for her to focus, but she seized on the idea. If she understood correctly, the dagger was a weapon meant to kill Vladislas-probably something given him by Circe to enable his father’s assassination-something she had created. And now talk of this slaying sword… if one could be made, so could others. “It’s not… not something I understand,” she admitted. “Both of you can do so much…”
“I shall be willing to instruct you, should you display the wit and the aptitude,” Radu said softly. “Yet as you are not yet even comfortable with your teeth, well…” He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, his regard suddenly softening. “So biddable tonight,” he murmured. “Had I but known, I would have lain with you that first night.”
Michelle froze, undone by the sickening turn the conversation had taken; but, as she thought about it, found that she did not mind the idea as much as she might. Thinking back to how innocent and inexperienced she had been those few short weeks ago… had she awoken one night to find such a horrific creature mounting her, she most likely would have simply lost her mind, which would have spared her a great deal of suffering.
Yet it all bore down on her now: the rough unyielding edge of the stone scraped against the backs of her thighs as Radu pulled her closer, pressing her legs against his. His eyes gleamed wetly in the dark hollows of their sockets, and he regarded her earnestly. With his free hand, he shut the heavy tome with a reverberating snap, and casually dropped it over the side of the throne. Michelle flinched in anticipation of the bang of it hitting the flagstones, but instead there was a soft, scrabbling scuttle as one of the subspecies hurried to catch it. Of course they’re back there, she thought hysterically, face to face with the monstrous, murderous rapist who was the architect of so much sorrow, that’s where he threw the head, they’re probably eating it.
And that thought, finally, after all she had suffered, proved too much; the barriers were overwhelmed at last and she began to cry, honestly, heartbrokenly, thin, bitter tears wrenching their way out of her to burn aching trails down her face. Radu watched her quietly for a moment, letting her sob hoarsely, choking on her grief and misery. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, heedless of her elbow digging sharply into his ribs, heedless of anything but her own sorrow.
But even that seemingly endless, wracking storm passed; some unknowable time later her shaking eased, the mindless demand of mourning eased its grip on her. It was only then that she felt the knuckles gently stroke her cheek, the breath of his speech cool on her face. “You’re so lovely when you weep,” he whispered reverently. She flinched away from his skeletal touch as his nails delicately found their way down the curve of her jaw, but he grasped her firmly, cupping both of her cheeks. “No,” he told her gruffly, gripping her tightly as she attempted to duck her chin to escape his grasp, “no.” All she could do as he slowly drew closer was squeeze her eyes shut tightly and pray that whatever he intended would be over soon.
He paused and for a moment, sensing his nearness, she thought he meant to taste her tears, licking the droplets from her cheeks; the soft, feather light touch of his lips against hers was almost more of a shock. She jerked away from the unexpected contact, but he held her tightly, pressing his mouth against hers with gentle insistence. She raised her hands defensively, meaning to flail, to shove him away, but somehow found herself cradling his face, running her thumbs along his sharp cheekbones. His skin was rough under her palms, more reminiscent of hide than skin, but his lips were cool and dry, demanding, but not forceful. His long fingers wound themselves through her hair, gently massaging her scalp, and he sighed as he pulled her closer. Alarmed and bewildered by his sudden attempt at tenderness, she still could not quite bring herself to withdraw from his unwanted attentions. Not while he’s being so nice…
Michelle shot bolt upright, breaking their kiss and reeling backwards, sickened and dismayed by such a cowardly, low thought. She braced a hand against Radu’s chest, not quite resisting, not quite leaning against him; he held her still, one hand slipping down to knead the back of her neck, but did not press her. “Radu, you… you hurt me,” she gasped by way of explanation. “I… you…”
“Shh,” he murmured soothingly, reaching up to smooth her hair back from her brow, as if comforting a frightened child. His claws pricked the soft flesh under her chin as he forced her face upward to meet his gaze, disconcertingly guileless and entreating. He raised his hand to tuck her bangs behind her ears, lingering over the gesture. “I have never sought to cause you undue pain,” he said simply. “You are so young… you cannot yet understand that one night, this will all seem a distant memory of willful foolishness.”
And that, she realized, was the true, inescapable hell of it: he meant that, every word of it. It was not the first time he had said such things, and indeed, when had he ever acted contrary to them by his own lights? He had laid the lives of his own family, ancient, ageless and rare, at her feet as another man might offer flowers, had offered her those of Mel and her sister the same way; “courting gifts” had been the exact phrase he’d used. Of course he saw nothing wrong with their condition, and was genuinely, frustratedly baffled by the fact that she did. In his own brutal way, he was trying to do what he thought was best for her: teach her to hunt on her own so that she could feed herself; teach her to cower at his heel, for where else would she be safer? He was simply so fundamentally different, so utterly unable to relate to her needs and way of thinking that it seemed a completely uncrossable gulf. She was sickened by the realization that he was, in fact, quite piteous: he was trying, harder than most ever would; but for all of that, he would never, ever understand.
He watched her intently, but she turned her head away, aware for the first time that what she took for predatory intensity might simply be an ardent hope for a positive response. After all he’d done, all she’d been through, she couldn’t stand this; hatred, fury, and vengeance were new emotions she was willing to carry in her heart, but she could not abide the thin thread of sympathy that now struggled to take root. “You…” She shook her head slowly, sifting through her memories, grasping at the abuse, the torture, the vileness. “That very first night,” she said finally. “You had one of our spears… you were going to kill me.” She caught the slight movement of his hair as he nodded in her peripheral vision; she turned back to him, meeting his gaze forthrightly. “Why didn’t you?”
He smiled, then, a slight, sad expression, and gently withdrew his hand from her neck. “Because even I can put off fate for only so long,” he replied, the softness of his tone almost denuding the gravelly rasp from his voice.
The hopeful resignation in his face was too much to bear; unable to fathom what that statement might mean, unwilling to extend any further sympathy to his monstrous situation, she raised a hand to her face, covering her eyes. “I…” She shook her head briefly, trying to dispel the thick dryness of her throat, the steadily building throb in her temples. “I just…” She shuddered. “I’m so hungry, Radu, I can barely think…”
“Do you wish me to accompany you out this evening?”
No. Oh God, no. Not again… never, ever again… But even as she thought it, she knew it was merely a futile protestation; he would not share the Bloodstone with her, and there was little else she could do. She knew well what would happen if she denied her hunger for too long, and that she truly never meant to repeat. While what had befallen her victim last night was hideously unholy, it was avoidable; he had, to some extent, deserved it. He had. She had to believe that. She would find another like him, and she would finish them immediately, no matter how Radu sought to distract her; no matter how tempting that distraction might be, in the heat of the moment. Yes. But the only response she was able to muster was, “Please.”
The flesh of his palm was rough as he sought her hand, but his lips were soft and gentle as they brushed the backs of her knuckles. “It would be my honor.”
I must also take a moment to both brag and pimp--the good folks of forsaken_fandom have recognized this story for Best Characaterization and Best Overall, as well as giving me a special nod for Best Dark Author. You might want to give them a look if you are at all interested in horror/thriller media; while I am unfamiliar with several of the fandoms they include, vampire stories abound, and I was introduced to several great new authors via their awards.
Anyway, without further ado...
Subspecies: Bloodpact
Chapter 4/? (probably 8)
Author: memoriamvictus
Rating: R
Summary: Radu Vladislas may prove the lesser of two evils when Michelle is forced to attempt to undo the devil's deal Rebecca has made in a bid to save her soul.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Charles Band, Ted Nicolaou, and other wonderful people who have provided me with a great deal of entertainment; I'm just playing around.
Wordcount: 5,733
Begin at the beginning.
02020603050405020304020b0604030504040204Unknown;Microsoft Word 10
The old woman had been the first. Technically, she supposed, the true first had been Lillian; but the old woman had been the first to die, for no greater crime than sharing the lore of the castle with three eager young girls, her corpse defiled and dismembered by her own neighbors.
Michelle did not even know her name.
Then had come Lillian. Her lips twisted with bitter humor at the memory of how they had acted when she had fallen ill, assuming it was tetanus or some sort of blood borne infection given her by the rusty castle door. Then Mara.
Then Stefan.
Then that poor boy in the nightclub-another innocent stranger she had never even bothered to identify. Then the fiddler. Then Professor Popescu. Then Bob. Then the secretary Radu had abducted from her evening constitutional along the streets of Bucharest.
And now... last night... the... the man who...
So many. So many. And so few names. What did that make her, then, if this only concerned her now? That those individual, special, unique lives had all been snuffed out, and she had taken no more notice than she had of any other part of this tragedy? “To begin to prepare you for what you must become,” Radu had said to her the night she agreed to follow him, and she shuddered at the memory. Had he even then sensed some unknown potential within her? The cold soul of a heartless killer? Was that why he pursued her so ardently-because he knew she was capable of joining him?
She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly; a tattered, rotten carpet protected her rump from the worst of the floor’s chill--and, truly, she didn’t seem to be much affected by temperature any longer--but a pervasive cold clung to her bones, dogging her movements and deepening her unease. She wasn’t quite sure where she was within the castle, or what purpose this chamber might have served in a former incarnation, but it had seemed as good a place to stop as any when the melancholy overwhelmed her.
She had been doing so well.
She had woken up alone once more, now almost used to opening her eyes to a dank crypt rather than the friendly confines of a bedroom; had seemed to truly be alone as she made a brief and hesitant survey of the great hall. That was fine. That was wonderful. That made it possible for her to put it all aside for the moment, to focus on nothing more pressing than how filthy she was. Sweat, dirt, and body oils no longer seemed to present an issue for her, but the dress was done for, matted with dried blood and ground-in filth, and she hadn’t exactly had time to pack a change of clothes. Briefly considering attempting to make the subspecies find something for her, she set out to examine the castle’s many rooms; surely she would be able to find something, and not have to stoop to stealing from clotheslines just yet.
And that, really, had been the thought that triggered it, innocuous as it seemed; her new status was so changed she was unable to even locate a pair of jeans for herself. How would that carry over? No one back home knew that she had... well, she wasn’t dead, so there would be no difficulties with the paperwork for now, but it would rise up to entangle her in a thousand little ways. Her bank accounts were still open, but she’d have to find a job with which to fill them, and there weren’t many overnight curator positions that she’d ever heard of. Even if there were one she could obtain, how would she get to it? Her driver’s license would expire in another year or two, and she wouldn’t be able to renew it after sundown. Vision tests, physical examinations, reflex tests... what would they reveal? How could she keep the horrible events of her unwitting ambulance ride from repeating themselves inadvertently?
This wasn’t lupus, to be borne with heavy doses of sunscreen and a bit of patience and understanding. She had been telling herself it was merely a disease, something that could be dealt with and controlled with a little accommodation, but… no. There was no point in trying to fool herself any longer. Last night had shown her that in more ways than she could have imagined.
He had-
Michelle leapt to her feet and launched herself from the room, as if she could leave her recollections behind. Her heels clicked resoundingly in the narrow hallway-the soft shoes were an equal loss, but she held out no hopes of replacing them here-and entered the first doorway she passed, shouldering the battered door aside, heedless of its splinters.
All of the rooms along the upper gallery appeared to have been inhabited at some point; many still featured massive wooden bedsteads, some still bearing their rush-stuffed mattresses, heavily carved chests, thin dividing screens, and other accoutrements that betokened occupancy, and this one was no different.. She couldn’t guess at how long ago it may have been-she had never achieved much skill in eyeballing artifacts for their proper periods-but most of it seemed to suffer mere neglect and disuse, as opposed to rot and ruin. She knelt before the solid, darkly stained trunk at the foot of the bed; surely sturdy wool or heavy brocade might well have survived locked away in a chest like that.
The latch opened with surprising ease, as if eager to yield up its contents. She averted her face as she hoisted the lid up, but no puff of dust or wash of disused air greeted her; instead she found what appeared to be a pile of linens, pale, but only lightly yellowed with age, smelling faintly of the ghost of bitter herbs. Puzzled, she carefully lifted one end from the pile, cautious of anything that might be lurking within; her lip curled in distaste when she realized exactly what it was she had found. She had first seen one adorning Lillian, and had shed the one her friends had forcibly changed her into in the not too distant past: those strange white gowns, somewhere between a chemise and a chiton, which seemed the preferred mode of feminine dress at Castle Vladislas. Well, it’ll cover everything, she thought dispiritedly as she straightened, shaking the gown out in front of herself to ensure it was still intact. Were they some kind of uniform? A mark of honor, or servitude? Had some long gone resident of the castle favored them, or worn them as undergarments? Why so many? Yet another of the endless mysteries that comprised her life these days-but small, almost silly, and thus easier to wrap her mind around.
Dismissing her curiosity for the moment, she laid the garment out carefully on the bed. She grabbed the edges of her skirt and stripped the dress off in one smooth movement, the sleeves sticking a bit where blood had crusted them over; she shuddered at the prickling sensation. The movement of air was strange against her nude body-she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been fully undressed-so she reached quickly for the gown, bunching it up to facilitate dropping it down over her head. The fabric wasn’t simple linen, after all, but something smooth and sinuous that glided down her body with slinky ease. Yet her skin crawled as the fabric slid over her hips and buttocks; the sensation reminded her too much of bony fingers slithering over her skin, the inadvertent scrape of claws, the dull, pounding ache of--
Michelle shivered violently, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, biting her lip to stifle the low whimper. Shock. It’s just shock. Shock and... hunger. For there was another looming horror she could not entirely dismiss: the dry tickle at the back of her throat was no mere ailment, and ignoring it would not drive it from her thoughts; soon it would drive her, sending her forth from the castle to seek whatever she might find to alleviate it.
It had taken her some time to locate the cache, its pivoted stone front blending smoothly with the almost seamless wall that housed it; figuring out how to work the catch, a tricky series of counterbalances, had taken even longer; yet she had been unsurprised, in a dull, hopeless way, to find it empty. Of course he had hidden the Bloodstone elsewhere, perhaps even carried it upon his person, or had stashed it away in the Bucharest crypt.
She had been foolish to think it would be a simple matter of spiriting herself away with such a prized and irreplaceable relic. Foolish to ever place herself within his reach willingly. Foolish to ever doubt his power.
Shock. Just shock, she tried to reassure herself, but even her thoughts rang hollow. It’s easy to get discouraged. I’ve... had a bad night. But it’s not the end of the world. I’m not dead. Neither is Becky, neither is Mel. It could be worse. It’s... not so bad.
For therein lay the real crux of the nightmare, the awful truth she had sought to flee among the honeycombed chambers of the upper bailey: it had almost been a relief. Rape... sex... it was something she understood, could, in some wicked, primitive part of her mind, even relate to: power, aggression, dominance, all wrapped up in one vile, assertive act.
But it was not supernatural. No blood, no black sorcery, no skills and visions beyond human ken. Radu had forced her into so many things… but now, now he had finally found one close to home, that might have befallen her in any situation. She had thought to outwit him, and had succeeded in some small part; but even now, with the benefit of her new abilities, speed and sight and shadow, she was still vulnerable to him in the most fundamental of ways; she was vulnerable to him in all ways.
He had asked her if it had truly been necessary.
The idea that he knew her well enough to use her own blind spots to goad her to suit his aims was truly terrifying. Perhaps he truly did know better. Perhaps it was time to give up her pretense to normalcy, her charade of humanity, and allow him to show her what horrors and wonders lay down the grim path she had unwittingly embarked upon with a willing heart. He had treated her fairly, in his own twisted, demanding way; she had only to recall the dark glory of lapping at his opened throat to know how open-handedly he meant to treat her. Perhaps it was time to revel in what he offered, rather than reject it.
She knew that was wrong. She knew that was sick. She knew that was the trauma she had suffered addling her rational mind. She wondered if it might not even be the bond he had spoken of, some strange, unlooked-for new instinct compelling her to cleave to the one who had engendered her.
She also wondered what it would be like to be bent over the trunk she still stood before, with his fangs buried in her as deeply as his cock had been. Perhaps both at the same time: the nights were long and full of wonders, if one truly meant to indulge.
And that was the hell of it. The excruciating, loathsome, undeniable hell of it.
Whirling on her bare heel, she strode from the room, suddenly possessed by some unspecified need for movement, action, anything to keep her mind free from the alarmingly unwholesome track it was following. Surely the Bloodstone was somewhere within reach, and wasting the time she had free of Radu’s attentions with fretting instead of searching for it wasn’t going to help her. Perhaps she could lay hands on that strange, stolen subspecies she had created, and discover just how well it worked as a voodoo doll. Perhaps she could simply flee into the night, if there were no other option available to her. Perhaps it was better to be a regretful murderer, for a time, at least, than it was to be the acolyte of such a creature as Vladislas, even if only for a short while.
She wasn’t certain what to do about Becky and Mel, though; was she even safe to be around them, in her current state? Her footsteps faltered as she rounded the curve of the main staircase, resuming at a more measured pace. If she left without them, Radu would surely kill them; the only question being whether he would keep them in an attempt to lure her back, or slaughter them outright in a rage. But if she went to them… what if she hurt them? All of their plans had always been predicated on her possession of the Bloodstone. Without it, she was little better than the one she sought to flee; guilt did not excuse act, and she somehow doubted Becky would blithely accept Michelle’s choice to draw sustenance from the ranks of outlaws.
Mel might well, though. Michelle had always wondered at the deep reserves his implacable pragmatism hinted at. And Mel might be able to talk Becky around. Mel might also shoot her, put her out of everyone’s misery; but she bet he would do her the kindness of making sure she never saw it coming.
Yet she could not take solace in the nobility of her resolve as she padded into the great hall. Once she would have vowed that being at Radu’s side was a fate worse than death. Once she would have fought for her life last night, would have preferred being killed to submitting to that. Once she wouldn’t have wondered what it was like to share a kill with him, free from guilt or shame; to gorge themselves and rut in an orgy of sustenance, sensation, superiority.
She needed to leave. Oh, God, she needed to get away from him, no matter the cost.
Right. Okay. One last check. She’d never been very far into the interior of the castle; while she suspected most of it was as disused as the upstairs, it couldn’t hurt to look. Though for all she knew, Radu’s personal chambers were back there… or his mother’s… they’d been keeping victims somewhere; it was entirely possible some new perversion lurked back there. Well, I haven’t heard any screams, she thought, infusing her mental tone with a brusqueness she did not feel. Balling her hands into fists, she began to stride purposefully across the hall towards the inner gallery; she had made it almost halfway across when she was startled by the soft rustle of paper.
A bolt of pure, superstitious terror lanced through her; she flinched as she turned towards the sound, cringing defensively. “M-“ Master: the term sprang unbidden to her lips, and she raised a hand to her throat as if to choke it off; it galled her, even in the extremity of her startlement, but she lacked the emotional stamina to try starting off on an aggressive footing. “M-m-my lord,” she finally managed. Close enough, she hoped; close enough to that hateful term to flatter him-it had probably been his rightful form of address, once upon a time--yet far enough away that it sounded silly to her ears; she could pretend, try desperately to convince herself that she was merely play-acting.
Radu sprawled lazily across the rough granite throne that crouched against the wall, one knee thrown casually over a stone arm in a deliberately casual pose. He seemed thoroughly engrossed in the tome that lay open against his thigh, a massive folio bound in wood, leather, and tarnished brass. The scritch of paper against paper had come from him turning a page with slow, meticulous care; he did so again as she watched with startled confusion, raising one hand to his chin with a thoughtful frown.
Michelle paused, caught in a web of uncertainty and disappointment. There was no way he could be unaware of her presence, yet he had not so much as raised an eyebrow at her startled address. She watched him carefully as he sat, relaxed and studious, her mouth growing dry with anguish as she contemplated his repose. This, it seemed, was the proverbial insult to injury: the knowledge that he could sit there reading calmly, reading as if he hadn’t a care in the world, in spite of what had happened-of what he’d done to her. As if it didn’t matter.
Perhaps, to him, it didn’t.
She shrank away from that thought, alarmed and thrilled by how much it angered her. Not the violence and humiliation he’d inflicted on her; the idea that he found it meaningless, all in a night’s play. That he could dismiss her pain, her subjugation, her submission…
Wrong. Sick. Addled.
Yet she couldn’t just leave, not now that he had materialized like shadows made flesh, returning from wherever it was he had absented himself these last few twilights. And that sparked another alarming thought: what if he were not absenting himself at all, but merely haunting her as a shade, observing her for some unknowable purpose? Perhaps this was all a test of some sort, one of the bizarre initiation rituals he refused to explain; or perhaps he meant for her to wonder, that he might observe her more easily. But why? She licked her lips; the dustiness of her throat indicated that such academic questions were going to be rendered moot in the near future, and decided to try again.
“Radu…”
He tucked a strand of loose brown hair behind one ear, but never raised his eyes from the page.
She licked her lips again. There was absolutely no question that he was ignoring her deliberately, but she could not fathom a reason for it. The gnawing pangs of hunger combined with the faint embers of rage to allow her confusion and agitation to rise above her fear, allowing for another few moments of almost calm contemplation. She didn’t dare approach him-even if she did, she didn’t think that she could bear to touch him-but she didn’t dare turn her back on him, either. His behavior was deliberately designed to provoke her; perhaps he hoped she would grow so frustrated she would attack him, so he would once more have cause to dominate her physically. Perhaps he hoped she would flee, giving him license to follow her in darkness and learn what activities she set about. Perhaps the throbbing ache of empty thirst was meant as punishment for some incomprehensible slight that he perceived.
Exhausted and dazed, Michelle could not fathom a way through this; could not imagine what aims he hoped to accomplish with this performance. But she knew that she could not bring herself to show him her back, figuratively or literally, having already lost too much ground. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, she chose the shore: crossing her ankles, she carefully sank to her knees, sitting back on her heels.
Radu shifted his weight, unhooking his leg to straighten and set both feet on the floor. He turned another page, his frown deepening.
No torches were lit, but the nearly full moon dancing through the window-slits provided more than enough illumination for her newly attenuated eyes to see by; still, she marveled that he could read by such mottled light. Not that they were of a kind, or even necessarily the same order of being-ridiculous as it was, she seemed to conform to a large part of the folklore; he might as well have been a demon for all the similarities he showed-but she had nothing else to compare herself against. Squinting, she was just able to make out the letters stamped on the thick heavy spine, and was even more surprised at their swooping, rounded shapes. It took a moment for the memory to coalesce into knowledge, and she blinked in puzzlement once it did. “The Odyssey?”
“You can read it?”
She gasped, a startled, reflexive sound; she hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until he’d made his rejoinder. Radu stared at her levelly over the top of the book, his face a collection of planes and hollows in the faint, uncertain moonlight. “Yes, I… yes.” She shook herself. The memory of a sleepy classroom on a warm summer day, the shy, competent pride in the realization that she was not reciting, but actually reading a language that was not only foreign, but disused for thousands of years, seemed utterly incongruous with her current circumstances. “I… it’s been a while.”
His mouth quirked in a disdainful smirk, but his fingers beckoned in a graceful gesture of summons. Michelle rose to her feet uncertainly, unwilling to approach, but he waited, hand held out expectantly; slowly and deliberately, hoping to hide her hesitation in measured aplomb, she made herself go to him, halting dutifully at his side. That was not enough for him, however; his raised hand curved gently around her hip, pulling her towards him.
For a moment she thought that would be it: the dry-twig touch of his fingers, the insistent pressure, would finally send her over the edge; but the bright brassy gout of revulsion and panic passed, and she was able to allow him to pull her down. The hard stone seat was almost wide enough for two; she began trembling when the sharp jut of his hip dug into hers, nearly leapt to her feet again when he embraced her loosely. He turned his face to her, and seemed almost about to speak; but he instead merely pointed to the text, a particular section most of the way down the left-hand page.
She was grateful for the task to focus on, an excuse to focus on anything other than the unwanted closeness, the involuntary shaking, the fact that she was practically sitting in the lap of the man-the thing-who had… had…
Blinking furiously, she forced herself to stare down at the book, to the passage of text indicated by the curved yellow nail. She stared at it hopelessly for a moment, rising despair and despondency wreaking havoc on her concentration; but sooner than she might have hoped she was able to make the transition, the odd mental shift that changed the marks on the page from inscrutable pictograms into flowing, beautiful prose. Peering down to make doubly certain she had the right place, she began to read in a slow, declaratory tone.
“When I had prayed sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up from Erebus- brides, young bachelors, old men worn out with toil, maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been killed in battle, with their armor still smirched with blood; they came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear…”
Curiosity overcoming her discomfort, Michelle looked up to find Radu regarding her with a bemused air. She knew the story well: Odysseus, instructed by a great sorceress, offers a blood sacrifice in exchange for critical information from the ghost of a dead companion; the blood attracted all sorts of spirits, however, and he had been forced to fend them off with the sword of his father. It was no surprise she had never made the connection before, but the implications were staggering: Troy had been found exactly where Homer had said it was located. “Is this… is this history?” she asked disbelievingly. “Is Teiresias…? Are you…?”
Radu grinned, an alarming experience from only inches away. “If you do not jest, you flatter,” he rumbled. “I do not think any of us possess such an age. My father, perhaps…” He shook his head. “But the story, ah… perhaps, and mayhap.” He shifted his weight, his arm wrapping more tightly around her waist as he traced the story of the starving ghosts with one yellowed nail. “It may be one of our stories that has made its way into literature. It may even be that Homer once knew one of us who wielded it; for the sword… the sword is real, and we name it the Blade of Laertes in accordance with this tale.” He tapped the page firmly, pointed talon dimpling the rich parchment. “It is a great treasure of our kind, that was stolen long ago. You asked what kills us…”
“Like the dagger,” she breathed, recalling the desperate struggle in the crypt.
“Something like it,” he agreed solemnly. “Laertes is bane to us all.”
Her mind raced at the implication as she tried to pick her words, phrase her thoughts as fear for her safety rather than piqued interest. “The knife was something of your mother’s,” she said quietly.
“So once did the Blade belong to the Vladislas,” he said, “but even her sorcery was no match for that which created the sword. Its wounds are fell to any of us, not merely our line.”
The dry, swelling ache of her thirst made it difficult for her to focus, but she seized on the idea. If she understood correctly, the dagger was a weapon meant to kill Vladislas-probably something given him by Circe to enable his father’s assassination-something she had created. And now talk of this slaying sword… if one could be made, so could others. “It’s not… not something I understand,” she admitted. “Both of you can do so much…”
“I shall be willing to instruct you, should you display the wit and the aptitude,” Radu said softly. “Yet as you are not yet even comfortable with your teeth, well…” He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, his regard suddenly softening. “So biddable tonight,” he murmured. “Had I but known, I would have lain with you that first night.”
Michelle froze, undone by the sickening turn the conversation had taken; but, as she thought about it, found that she did not mind the idea as much as she might. Thinking back to how innocent and inexperienced she had been those few short weeks ago… had she awoken one night to find such a horrific creature mounting her, she most likely would have simply lost her mind, which would have spared her a great deal of suffering.
Yet it all bore down on her now: the rough unyielding edge of the stone scraped against the backs of her thighs as Radu pulled her closer, pressing her legs against his. His eyes gleamed wetly in the dark hollows of their sockets, and he regarded her earnestly. With his free hand, he shut the heavy tome with a reverberating snap, and casually dropped it over the side of the throne. Michelle flinched in anticipation of the bang of it hitting the flagstones, but instead there was a soft, scrabbling scuttle as one of the subspecies hurried to catch it. Of course they’re back there, she thought hysterically, face to face with the monstrous, murderous rapist who was the architect of so much sorrow, that’s where he threw the head, they’re probably eating it.
And that thought, finally, after all she had suffered, proved too much; the barriers were overwhelmed at last and she began to cry, honestly, heartbrokenly, thin, bitter tears wrenching their way out of her to burn aching trails down her face. Radu watched her quietly for a moment, letting her sob hoarsely, choking on her grief and misery. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, heedless of her elbow digging sharply into his ribs, heedless of anything but her own sorrow.
But even that seemingly endless, wracking storm passed; some unknowable time later her shaking eased, the mindless demand of mourning eased its grip on her. It was only then that she felt the knuckles gently stroke her cheek, the breath of his speech cool on her face. “You’re so lovely when you weep,” he whispered reverently. She flinched away from his skeletal touch as his nails delicately found their way down the curve of her jaw, but he grasped her firmly, cupping both of her cheeks. “No,” he told her gruffly, gripping her tightly as she attempted to duck her chin to escape his grasp, “no.” All she could do as he slowly drew closer was squeeze her eyes shut tightly and pray that whatever he intended would be over soon.
He paused and for a moment, sensing his nearness, she thought he meant to taste her tears, licking the droplets from her cheeks; the soft, feather light touch of his lips against hers was almost more of a shock. She jerked away from the unexpected contact, but he held her tightly, pressing his mouth against hers with gentle insistence. She raised her hands defensively, meaning to flail, to shove him away, but somehow found herself cradling his face, running her thumbs along his sharp cheekbones. His skin was rough under her palms, more reminiscent of hide than skin, but his lips were cool and dry, demanding, but not forceful. His long fingers wound themselves through her hair, gently massaging her scalp, and he sighed as he pulled her closer. Alarmed and bewildered by his sudden attempt at tenderness, she still could not quite bring herself to withdraw from his unwanted attentions. Not while he’s being so nice…
Michelle shot bolt upright, breaking their kiss and reeling backwards, sickened and dismayed by such a cowardly, low thought. She braced a hand against Radu’s chest, not quite resisting, not quite leaning against him; he held her still, one hand slipping down to knead the back of her neck, but did not press her. “Radu, you… you hurt me,” she gasped by way of explanation. “I… you…”
“Shh,” he murmured soothingly, reaching up to smooth her hair back from her brow, as if comforting a frightened child. His claws pricked the soft flesh under her chin as he forced her face upward to meet his gaze, disconcertingly guileless and entreating. He raised his hand to tuck her bangs behind her ears, lingering over the gesture. “I have never sought to cause you undue pain,” he said simply. “You are so young… you cannot yet understand that one night, this will all seem a distant memory of willful foolishness.”
And that, she realized, was the true, inescapable hell of it: he meant that, every word of it. It was not the first time he had said such things, and indeed, when had he ever acted contrary to them by his own lights? He had laid the lives of his own family, ancient, ageless and rare, at her feet as another man might offer flowers, had offered her those of Mel and her sister the same way; “courting gifts” had been the exact phrase he’d used. Of course he saw nothing wrong with their condition, and was genuinely, frustratedly baffled by the fact that she did. In his own brutal way, he was trying to do what he thought was best for her: teach her to hunt on her own so that she could feed herself; teach her to cower at his heel, for where else would she be safer? He was simply so fundamentally different, so utterly unable to relate to her needs and way of thinking that it seemed a completely uncrossable gulf. She was sickened by the realization that he was, in fact, quite piteous: he was trying, harder than most ever would; but for all of that, he would never, ever understand.
He watched her intently, but she turned her head away, aware for the first time that what she took for predatory intensity might simply be an ardent hope for a positive response. After all he’d done, all she’d been through, she couldn’t stand this; hatred, fury, and vengeance were new emotions she was willing to carry in her heart, but she could not abide the thin thread of sympathy that now struggled to take root. “You…” She shook her head slowly, sifting through her memories, grasping at the abuse, the torture, the vileness. “That very first night,” she said finally. “You had one of our spears… you were going to kill me.” She caught the slight movement of his hair as he nodded in her peripheral vision; she turned back to him, meeting his gaze forthrightly. “Why didn’t you?”
He smiled, then, a slight, sad expression, and gently withdrew his hand from her neck. “Because even I can put off fate for only so long,” he replied, the softness of his tone almost denuding the gravelly rasp from his voice.
The hopeful resignation in his face was too much to bear; unable to fathom what that statement might mean, unwilling to extend any further sympathy to his monstrous situation, she raised a hand to her face, covering her eyes. “I…” She shook her head briefly, trying to dispel the thick dryness of her throat, the steadily building throb in her temples. “I just…” She shuddered. “I’m so hungry, Radu, I can barely think…”
“Do you wish me to accompany you out this evening?”
No. Oh God, no. Not again… never, ever again… But even as she thought it, she knew it was merely a futile protestation; he would not share the Bloodstone with her, and there was little else she could do. She knew well what would happen if she denied her hunger for too long, and that she truly never meant to repeat. While what had befallen her victim last night was hideously unholy, it was avoidable; he had, to some extent, deserved it. He had. She had to believe that. She would find another like him, and she would finish them immediately, no matter how Radu sought to distract her; no matter how tempting that distraction might be, in the heat of the moment. Yes. But the only response she was able to muster was, “Please.”
The flesh of his palm was rough as he sought her hand, but his lips were soft and gentle as they brushed the backs of her knuckles. “It would be my honor.”