The Predators
Title: The Predators
Author: septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Godric/(Carsten)/(Eric)
Word count: 4300
Rating: PG for threat, angst, moody!Godric, general creepiness
Summary: Carsten's up to no good, and Godric visits the Tivoli. Continuation of the Copenhagen series.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. I am Alan Ball's bitch.
Carsten's drunk, drunker than he should be, and they're playing, the one behind him holding his arms back by the wrists. But the one in front … his mouth is so soft, he's such a good kisser, his lips are full, he tastes like beer … Carsten relaxes against the boy behind him, the boy who's holding his wrists. He wants that boy to let go because he wants to run his hands across the hair of the one in front of him, it's buzzed so short. Ever since he saw them in the club downstairs, he's wondered how that cropped blond hair would feel against his palms.
And there's more kissing, but that's good, he loves to kiss, grinding his mouth against another mouth, tongue to tongue. He's hard, thinking about all the possibilities, he wants to drop to his knees, suck off the boy in front of him. He is thinking these things when he feels it, the metal - hears the click - first one wrist and then the other. It takes him a moment to register what they've done. He pulls his face away from the boy's lips, comes up for air.
"No," he says, but he can't pull his arms forward, they're locked behind him now. The light's dim in here, his vision wavers. What the fuck? He shakes his head, trying to clear it. "No, don't do that."
"But we've already done it, haven't we?" The boy in front of him is grinning; he's German but his accent is weird, Russian maybe. Carsten doesn't remember their names. He's in a muddle. They must have planned this ahead of time, the two of them.
"I'm serious, this isn't funny. Let me go."
The boy in front responds by leaning in for another kiss, but Carsten turns his face away. Then the boy's tugging up the front of Carsten's tee shirt, sliding his hand up inside it. Carsten flinches, confused. This was all looking pretty good about five minutes ago, when they headed up here to the deserted part of the building above the club, where people go to fuck around. But he's finding this totally unarousing.
"It's all right," the boy says. Carsten tugs his wrists but it's useless. "Don't worry about it. We're not going to hurt you. Now, no yelling, okay? No yelling." The boy in front is still smiling, but it's menacing, and for a split second Carsten pictures his face as a skull.
The boy behind him breaks into a fit of giggling. Jesus. Are they on some kind of drugs?
They were all downstairs dancing earlier, everything was fine, better than fine. These boys look lithe and fit, their muscles showing through their tight tee shirts, their low-slung jeans, and there's something exotic about them, their high cheekbones and shaved heads, it's what caught Carsten's eye in the first place, why he agreed to come up here. Fuck. Yelling seems like the right option at this point, there are people in the dark, empty rooms around them, doing more or less what they're doing. But then he thinks about how quickly they could shut him up. He looks at the boy in front of him, the one who's looming over him. These boys, they're older than he is. Men, really. Not boys at all. His heart is pounding. What are they saying? Is this real?
"I think you're going to like this. It's going to be fun." There's a mattress in the corner that someone's dragged in, so filthy Carsten doesn't even want to think about it, he's not been up here before, and then he looks down, helpless, watching the boy's hands undo his belt buckle, start to tug his jeans down. He lets out a shaky breath. He doesn't know what they're going to do. He can hear music, someone laughing hysterically, a dropped bottle shattering on the pavement in the alley.
"Please. Please let me go-"
The hands reach for his crotch.
"Let the boy go."
A man's voice, in the darkness.
The boy in front of him spins around, startled. There's a man over by the door, leaning against the wall. Nobody heard him come in. He's kind of dirty looking, like a bum, but Carsten's happy to see anyone at this point.
"What the fuck - go away, man, this room's taken, can't you see that?" The boy's clenched his fists in a fury. He's much bigger than the man. The man, however, looks unconcerned. He reaches a hand under his greasy leather jacket and when it comes back out he's holding a long knife, the way the bad guy does in a movie. This knife looks pretty serious, something you'd gut a large animal with. Carsten can see the light glint off the curved edge of the blade.
"I'm going to carve out one of your eyeballs and feed it to you," the man says calmly. "And then your ear. I'll let you choose which one." Like it's a fact, not a threat. "Or, you could take my advice and leave right now." He smiles. He looks insane. "If you want, I'll pop back by here later and let you blow me. No handcuffs. That's not my sort of thing."
The boy's holding his hands up, palms out.
"Go on, then." The man jerks his head toward the door. "Leave the boy here."
They edge for the door, both of them, letting go of Carsten so quickly that he stumbles backward, hitting the wall before sinking to the floor. He can't catch himself. By the time he looks up from where he's fallen, they're gone.
The man raises his knife and starts to clean his fingernails with the tip. Carsten's heart begins to slow. He's worked out the obvious, which he should have done right away if he hadn't been so scared. And drunk. He feels dizzy with relief.
"You work for Eric." His mouth is dry.
The man looks up from his fingernails, shakes his head slightly.
"God's death, boy, no wonder he's having you watched. You've all the sense of a turnip." He sounds faintly amused. He wipes the knife point on the back of his sleeve and just like magic the knife's vanished. Vampire. He crosses his arms and stands there, looking down at Carsten, studying him.
"Can you undo these things?" Carsten asks. "They hurt. I think they must be handcuffs, I didn’t see …"
The man's squatted down right in front of him in an instant, vampire-speed.
"Say 'please.'"
Carsten remains silent. For whatever reason, he doesn't feel like saying please.
The vampire lifts his chin, makes a sad face.
"Come on, sweetheart." His voice is tender. "Who's your daddy, hmm?"
"Eric is," Carsten answers firmly.
The vampire bursts out laughing. Carsten's heard vampires laugh and there's an edge to it, a cruelty, but this vampire's laugh is happy, the sort that makes you want to laugh along.
"Right you are. Can I be your funny uncle, then?"
"Not unless Eric says so."
"Oh, all right. You win. Here, lean forward, will you? Let's have a look."
Carsten scoots away from the wall.
"I'm Karl, by the way. I already know who you are, poppet." Karl's fiddling with the cuffs, tugging at them gently, his fingers moving along the edges. He mutters a curse.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Some handcuffs are better made than others, that's all. And they put these on snug … and your little human bones are so fragile …" Karl shifts his body. "If I break your arm pulling these loose then Eric'll be vexed with me. And we don't want that …." There's a snapping sound and Carsten jumps, but it's not his bones, it's the metal, and then he's free. He rubs his wrists, which hurt.
"That's going to bruise," Karl says. "Things got moving a bit quick in the wrong direction there at the end, didn't they? I should have stepped in when I saw you heading up here with those two, but we're not supposed to interfere."
"It's my fault. I'm sorry."
"Well, when they break out the handcuffs, I say the party's over. Take my advice and stay away from the Germans, they're all sick bastards. And the Spaniards will rob you blind."
They're in the car now, Karl's driving him home. Carsten gazes out the window and thinks how massively strange his life is, and that most of his friends wouldn't believe any of this. There's a voice on the radio, and the car's warm. It's a nice car, some kind of a Mercedes. Carsten doesn't know much about cars but it's one of the fancier ones, big and boxy, rather than the smaller, flashier ones. He starts paying more attention to the voice on the radio, which he realizes is an audiobook.
"What is that? A crime novel?"
Karl nods.
"There's a whole series. Kurt Wallander, he's their man. Works out of Ystad. Fine, upstanding sort of human." It's said without a sneer. Carsten can't get any sense of his meaning at all.
"I read one last summer, the same Wallander guy, I forget the name of the book. I didn't like it."
"Why?"
"Well … he's a detective, right? And he kills someone, a bad guy. He shoots him. And it's self defense, the man would have shot him first if he could have. Only then he's all miserable about it. Wallander, I mean. He spends the next book feeling terrible that he's killed someone. He has a breakdown and leaves the police force, that's how bad he feels. But he's a cop, it's his job."
"It's his job to kill people?"
"You know what I mean. I thought it was silly. If you're a cop and you carry a gun, you have to be prepared for the fact that you might have to shoot someone."
"You don't think all life is sacred?"
Carsten looks at Karl's face, but it's dead serious as far as he can tell.
"I think he did what he had to do, and I don't believe he'd have acted that way after. I think it's bad writing."
"You didn't answer my question, though."
Carsten considers it but he already knows his answer.
"No," he says softly, looking out the window. "Not really." He wants to change the subject. "Why didn't you want them to know you're a vampire? You could have shown them your fangs, I bet they'd have run then."
"Who? Those idiots back there?" Karl makes a small sound, like a huff. "Why should everything be our fault? You're the ones constantly doing nasty things to each other. All the killing. Most of it anyway. Not you personally, darling. Although if I could offer a word of friendly advice, you're a bit out of your depth in that particular sort of club. Overlooking the fact that I know you're too young to be in there in the first place."
"Are you going to tell Eric?"
"Tell him what, you're a naughty boy? Surely he knows that already. I'm not your nanny."
"I won't go there again, I promise. It's just … I was curious. I'd heard about it, I wanted to see for myself. I swear I'm not usually so stupid."
"No, that wouldn't do, I'd sorted that already."
"Why? Why wouldn't it do?"
Karl shrugs. "It just wouldn't, would it?"
"Oh, come on. Why?"
"You are nosy, aren't you? That bit's true … what I meant is, I can't see Eric having a stupid boy. You must be smart, or at least clever. Maybe both."
"How many boys does he have?"
There's a long silence. Carsten waits, wondering if he'll get an answer.
"He has lots of boys, always has done. But he doesn't keep them, not like you. Setting us to watch you and so forth. He gave you that amulet, didn't he? And his blood, unless I'm mistaken." Karl gives him a look. "He fancies you. You'd hardly be Eric's if you didn't want to shag day and night, but do us a favor and try to think a bit less with your cock, all right? It'll be hell to pay if you're hurt."
Carsten nods. He can't think what to say.
"I understand now. No wonder. Walking Eric's dog." He yawns, the beer's wearing off and he feels sleepy.
"What are you talking about?"
"The other vampires stuck watching me. Some of them don't like it, I can tell."
"That's a funny notion." Karl frowns. "Wait - why are they even talking to you?"
"It's nothing bad, no vampire secrets. Sometimes they ask me where we're off to next, stuff like that. Maybe they're just bored."
"Oh, I can't think they'd be bored." Karl's grinning. "You're living up to your reputation, seems like. If they're smart they'll treat you nice, which doesn't strike me as all that tricky, to be honest. But no, they shouldn't be talking to you."
"You're talking to me, though. You've been talking to me all night. You seem different. More …" He wants to say more human, but he's got the feeling that's not a compliment, so he doesn't. "Wait, are you older? Is that it?"
Karl raises his brows but doesn't look away from the road.
"Something like that. Eric and I go way back. I just stepped in tonight because I was curious, wanted to see you for myself. Personally, I'm not interested in boys. Not that I'm judging."
"But you said - you told that one boy at the club you'd be back for a blowjob."
"Well, I was joking, wasn't I? Besides, that's different. If it's a blowjob it's not gay sex."
Carsten squints, confused.
"Of course it's gay sex."
'It's not. It's a blowjob, plain and simple. Nothing gay about it."
"If it's a man giving you the blowjob. Then, Karl, yes, it's gay sex."
"No it isn't."
"Yes, yes it is!" He's laughing now.
"Are you telling me all those men who've been sucking me off, that's gay sex?"
"Yes."
"Well, fuck me," Karl says mournfully, pushing his greasy hair back from his face. "I might as well move to Stockholm right now and open a flower shop."
They ride along for awhile in silence, listening to Kurt Wallander's inner thoughts and feelings, as rendered in Swedish by a man with a Danish accent whom Carsten thinks sounds a bit melodramatic for the part.
Carsten stares out the window, thinking. Ever since he'd hurt his leg, he'd known he had vampires following him around at night, but he hadn't really thought about it in terms of protection, the way Eric clearly did. And he really hadn't thought about what Karl said - that it was different, that he was different, not one of many. He forgot he was being watched constantly, that they were telling Eric what he was up to, particularly if what he was up to involved sex with other boys. And there'd been more of that than usual. Way more.
He didn't know if it had something to do with Eric's blood, but he thought it must. There were boys he'd wanted before, boys he'd looked at, but in the past all he'd have done was look. He was in good shape, coordinated and athletic, but he wasn't under any illusions about his attractiveness. He wasn't tall and blond and handsome, he didn't have a car or a lot of money or a body built in a gym. He looked younger than he was, and he turned pink when he drank, or when he felt awkward, and looking for sex could be all kinds of awkward.
But that need. That need to feel hands on his cock, a mouth against his mouth, that other need, to have someone inside him … god. He swallows and glances over at Karl, feeling guilty and dirty, like some old pervert who can't stop touching himself in public. Carsten thought about sex all the time. All. The. Time. Only now he did something about it. Unable to fight that hunger, he went out several nights a week and threw himself at boys, boys who were out of his league, boys who might not even be gay, and - he'd still not quite gotten used to this - mostly they took him up on it. He'd probably done more groping and kissing and handjobs and blowjobs in the last three months than any boy he knew of, even Erkki, the crazy boy from school who Carsten knew was practically prostituting himself, going with older men to feed his drug habit. It was amazing, the stuff their parents never even noticed.
He'd only fucked - been fucked - a few times. It still made him nervous, although he was always careful to be safe, they wore condoms or nothing doing. But condoms weren't bulletproof, and he knew every night he went out that he was taking chances. It was a different drug, fooling around with strange boys, one he couldn't get enough of.
Those boys tonight and their handcuffs - as soon as they'd done it, he'd been afraid. Because he knew, without knowing why, that they were going to hurt him. That it wasn't just a game with them. And he'd been so fucking grateful right then for Karl he could have cried. So how could he admit … how could he face the rest of it? That he'd wanted it, some part of it, but not wanted it. That he'd fantasized over and over - in his bed, in clubs, alone, in a crowd, being alone with a man who took him. By force. Who tied him up, or handcuffed him to a bed, and did things … did things while Carsten begged and struggled and it was so hot, the idea of it, it filled him with profound shame, it made him feel sick. Tonight, when those handcuffs had clicked in place, and it became real, his fear was real too. It was normal. You're supposed to be afraid. So what the hell did he want? What the fuck was wrong with him? He wanted to be frightened, but he didn't actually want to be hurt. Or maybe hurt a little, but not really hurt. God, stop it stop it. He slips his hand inside his shirt and clutches the amulet, something he does when he wants comfort. Squeezes it until its edges make his hand ache.
***
There is a pause in the sound, as if they are all holding their breath, and then there is one long scream, along with the clattering of the wheels on the tracks. There are many different kinds of screams, and this kind registers essentially as background noise, like the music from the bandstand, but it still makes Godric smile.
He's been coming here for decades, and much of it is new and much feels the same, just the same, even some of the same smells. The garments have changed, of course. The clothing is more revealing, even tonight, when the humans must surely find it a bit chilly, now that the evening has grown later… humans are often impractical. Sometimes it's endearing and sometimes not. He himself has grown tired of the effort of staying in current fashion. All clothing is costume. Some of the costumes have been more enjoyable than others. Eric teases him very occasionally that Godric would be just as happy if he were still a savage boy, running through the woods in hide breeches, stiff with old, dried blood. Eric does not entirely understand the dimensions of the joke he's making, because it's true, in a way Godric cannot explain to him. The world has gotten inexpressibly bigger - the world of their entire imagination, as well as of their making - but also, sadly, smaller. Godric would give much for those breeches, those vast, primeval woods.
Instead he endures his child's good-natured mockery regarding the foolishness of the old and idle and rich. His favorite shirts, all sewn by hand, the perfect imperfection of the careful human stitches ensuring no seams that chafe or scrape. Like a baby, Eric says. Like a child. Which is insolence, all insolence, of course Eric is insolence personified, Eric, who is self and other but … but really, more self. Eric is a hand, a rib, an eye … a moth flits by. Another loss, a small one. Moths, forever now, instead of butterflies. There are butterfly rooms to be visited in zoos, but he's tried this, and it's not the same. It's never the same. Nothing is. Eric is a shoulder, a pair of arms. Eric loves him when he is loathsome, cares for him when he is careless, endures him when he is unendurable.
Two boys, drunk, then a man and a woman, smelling of sunburn and sex and tanning oil, another man holding hands with a girl … his daughter? It's hard to tell. A blond man and a boy …. he watches them. It stings, it stings, although it shouldn't. He lifts his hand to his mouth, drives a fang discreetly into the most tender part, between the thumb and the first finger, punishes himself for his selfishness. Endure the unendurable. There is no other who deserves this happiness more than Eric. Why should Eric not have this joy, fleeting by its very nature?
No seams that bind, no tags that scratch and fret. No tears, no weeping. And yet here he is, wandering the familiar paths. He knows what he is seeking, and he has a sense. He has a sense, because he is so old and has lived among them for so long. Somewhere here is the one he wants, and he will find him.
He walks the lake's perimeter, watches the lights like fireflies on the water, dancing in the air on the swings. So many children. He can watch them here in the darkness and attract no attention, no concern. They run and prance and scream, dizzy from sweets and radiating a joy that is discernable in the air around them, a glow. They are helpless, small and pale, and he keeps his tenderness toward them a fiercely guarded secret.
Here is a girl; she is crying. Her dress is pink cotton, she has white sandals, cheap plastic, with some sort of mermaid cartoon character on them. Her hair glows white in the darkness, pulled up on top of her head in messy pigtails. She is too close to the water. She swallows her sobs like hiccups. Her nose is running down onto her lip. He looks to the left and to the right; there are plenty of people, but no one is looking for this child.
He squats down in front of her.
"Where are your parents?"
She shakes her head, bites her finger. He can smell the salt on her skin, in her tears.
"What's your name?"
"Annika." She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
"That's a pretty name."
She nods as if she's heard all that before.
"How old are you?"
"I'm seven." She chokes back another sob. It's here, the danger, hanging in the air like smoke. He looks around them, searching. "I want my papa." She takes a deep, shaky breath. It's wonderful, watching her pull herself together.
"Do you remember which way you came from?"
"Up there. By the playground." She chokes back another sob. "I was going to see the rabbits, but now I'm lost. The man said there were rabbits here, just down here, baby rabbits. He was going to show me…"
Godric nods slowly.
"… but then he was gone! And it's dark and there aren't any rabbits and I- I --"
"I understand." He does not need to glamour her, she is all trust and innocence. "Let's go find your papa."
She nods. She looks exhausted, like she could fall asleep where she is standing. He takes her small, damp hand with excruciating gentleness and leads her back up the hill toward the playground, with no more difficulty in persuading her to come with him than the man who led her down here. Then he can hear her parents calling, calling her name, and she lets go of his hand and runs toward them, her fear already forgotten. He hangs back, steps away, lets the crowds and the darkness swallow him.
It doesn't take long. He waits, watching the playground. There is a man standing opposite, over by the slide that resembles a nest of strings. He looks familiar. Godric realizes he was near the carousel earlier, watching the children. He is ordinary-looking in every way, husky, with thinning, sandy-colored hair and a friendly expression. He scans the children running and shouting and playing with a gentle, benign smile on his face. It's his eyes that give him away, his eyes, looking at the children the way that children look at sweets in a window. He is making his selection; something went wrong with little Annika on the way down the hill, perhaps she balked. He will not make that mistake again. It's getting late, time is running short. The eyes in that bland face continue to move, stop, assess. Godric waits in the darkness, recognizing the familiar. A fellow predator.
There is a small boy now, wandering away from his mother, she is paying no attention, talking to her friends. The boy will be on the path soon, in the shadows. The man seems torn, unable to decide, but it is too late, Godric is already moving along the path, close to the trees, the man's broad back in front of him. Godric will not drink from him, will not swallow even a drop of that tainted blood. But the man's body will do for the rest of his needs. Sometimes Godric leaves them where they will be found, their throats slashed, a sort of warning to the others of their kind. But not this one, not tonight. When he is finished, there will be little left to identify. The owl, the cat and the mouse. There is a nursery rhyme, and he hums it to himself silently, moving closer, listening to the man's heartbeat already quickening with anticipation.
Author: septemberoses
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Godric/(Carsten)/(Eric)
Word count: 4300
Rating: PG for threat, angst, moody!Godric, general creepiness
Summary: Carsten's up to no good, and Godric visits the Tivoli. Continuation of the Copenhagen series.
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. I am Alan Ball's bitch.
Carsten's drunk, drunker than he should be, and they're playing, the one behind him holding his arms back by the wrists. But the one in front … his mouth is so soft, he's such a good kisser, his lips are full, he tastes like beer … Carsten relaxes against the boy behind him, the boy who's holding his wrists. He wants that boy to let go because he wants to run his hands across the hair of the one in front of him, it's buzzed so short. Ever since he saw them in the club downstairs, he's wondered how that cropped blond hair would feel against his palms.
And there's more kissing, but that's good, he loves to kiss, grinding his mouth against another mouth, tongue to tongue. He's hard, thinking about all the possibilities, he wants to drop to his knees, suck off the boy in front of him. He is thinking these things when he feels it, the metal - hears the click - first one wrist and then the other. It takes him a moment to register what they've done. He pulls his face away from the boy's lips, comes up for air.
"No," he says, but he can't pull his arms forward, they're locked behind him now. The light's dim in here, his vision wavers. What the fuck? He shakes his head, trying to clear it. "No, don't do that."
"But we've already done it, haven't we?" The boy in front of him is grinning; he's German but his accent is weird, Russian maybe. Carsten doesn't remember their names. He's in a muddle. They must have planned this ahead of time, the two of them.
"I'm serious, this isn't funny. Let me go."
The boy in front responds by leaning in for another kiss, but Carsten turns his face away. Then the boy's tugging up the front of Carsten's tee shirt, sliding his hand up inside it. Carsten flinches, confused. This was all looking pretty good about five minutes ago, when they headed up here to the deserted part of the building above the club, where people go to fuck around. But he's finding this totally unarousing.
"It's all right," the boy says. Carsten tugs his wrists but it's useless. "Don't worry about it. We're not going to hurt you. Now, no yelling, okay? No yelling." The boy in front is still smiling, but it's menacing, and for a split second Carsten pictures his face as a skull.
The boy behind him breaks into a fit of giggling. Jesus. Are they on some kind of drugs?
They were all downstairs dancing earlier, everything was fine, better than fine. These boys look lithe and fit, their muscles showing through their tight tee shirts, their low-slung jeans, and there's something exotic about them, their high cheekbones and shaved heads, it's what caught Carsten's eye in the first place, why he agreed to come up here. Fuck. Yelling seems like the right option at this point, there are people in the dark, empty rooms around them, doing more or less what they're doing. But then he thinks about how quickly they could shut him up. He looks at the boy in front of him, the one who's looming over him. These boys, they're older than he is. Men, really. Not boys at all. His heart is pounding. What are they saying? Is this real?
"I think you're going to like this. It's going to be fun." There's a mattress in the corner that someone's dragged in, so filthy Carsten doesn't even want to think about it, he's not been up here before, and then he looks down, helpless, watching the boy's hands undo his belt buckle, start to tug his jeans down. He lets out a shaky breath. He doesn't know what they're going to do. He can hear music, someone laughing hysterically, a dropped bottle shattering on the pavement in the alley.
"Please. Please let me go-"
The hands reach for his crotch.
"Let the boy go."
A man's voice, in the darkness.
The boy in front of him spins around, startled. There's a man over by the door, leaning against the wall. Nobody heard him come in. He's kind of dirty looking, like a bum, but Carsten's happy to see anyone at this point.
"What the fuck - go away, man, this room's taken, can't you see that?" The boy's clenched his fists in a fury. He's much bigger than the man. The man, however, looks unconcerned. He reaches a hand under his greasy leather jacket and when it comes back out he's holding a long knife, the way the bad guy does in a movie. This knife looks pretty serious, something you'd gut a large animal with. Carsten can see the light glint off the curved edge of the blade.
"I'm going to carve out one of your eyeballs and feed it to you," the man says calmly. "And then your ear. I'll let you choose which one." Like it's a fact, not a threat. "Or, you could take my advice and leave right now." He smiles. He looks insane. "If you want, I'll pop back by here later and let you blow me. No handcuffs. That's not my sort of thing."
The boy's holding his hands up, palms out.
"Go on, then." The man jerks his head toward the door. "Leave the boy here."
They edge for the door, both of them, letting go of Carsten so quickly that he stumbles backward, hitting the wall before sinking to the floor. He can't catch himself. By the time he looks up from where he's fallen, they're gone.
The man raises his knife and starts to clean his fingernails with the tip. Carsten's heart begins to slow. He's worked out the obvious, which he should have done right away if he hadn't been so scared. And drunk. He feels dizzy with relief.
"You work for Eric." His mouth is dry.
The man looks up from his fingernails, shakes his head slightly.
"God's death, boy, no wonder he's having you watched. You've all the sense of a turnip." He sounds faintly amused. He wipes the knife point on the back of his sleeve and just like magic the knife's vanished. Vampire. He crosses his arms and stands there, looking down at Carsten, studying him.
"Can you undo these things?" Carsten asks. "They hurt. I think they must be handcuffs, I didn’t see …"
The man's squatted down right in front of him in an instant, vampire-speed.
"Say 'please.'"
Carsten remains silent. For whatever reason, he doesn't feel like saying please.
The vampire lifts his chin, makes a sad face.
"Come on, sweetheart." His voice is tender. "Who's your daddy, hmm?"
"Eric is," Carsten answers firmly.
The vampire bursts out laughing. Carsten's heard vampires laugh and there's an edge to it, a cruelty, but this vampire's laugh is happy, the sort that makes you want to laugh along.
"Right you are. Can I be your funny uncle, then?"
"Not unless Eric says so."
"Oh, all right. You win. Here, lean forward, will you? Let's have a look."
Carsten scoots away from the wall.
"I'm Karl, by the way. I already know who you are, poppet." Karl's fiddling with the cuffs, tugging at them gently, his fingers moving along the edges. He mutters a curse.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Some handcuffs are better made than others, that's all. And they put these on snug … and your little human bones are so fragile …" Karl shifts his body. "If I break your arm pulling these loose then Eric'll be vexed with me. And we don't want that …." There's a snapping sound and Carsten jumps, but it's not his bones, it's the metal, and then he's free. He rubs his wrists, which hurt.
"That's going to bruise," Karl says. "Things got moving a bit quick in the wrong direction there at the end, didn't they? I should have stepped in when I saw you heading up here with those two, but we're not supposed to interfere."
"It's my fault. I'm sorry."
"Well, when they break out the handcuffs, I say the party's over. Take my advice and stay away from the Germans, they're all sick bastards. And the Spaniards will rob you blind."
They're in the car now, Karl's driving him home. Carsten gazes out the window and thinks how massively strange his life is, and that most of his friends wouldn't believe any of this. There's a voice on the radio, and the car's warm. It's a nice car, some kind of a Mercedes. Carsten doesn't know much about cars but it's one of the fancier ones, big and boxy, rather than the smaller, flashier ones. He starts paying more attention to the voice on the radio, which he realizes is an audiobook.
"What is that? A crime novel?"
Karl nods.
"There's a whole series. Kurt Wallander, he's their man. Works out of Ystad. Fine, upstanding sort of human." It's said without a sneer. Carsten can't get any sense of his meaning at all.
"I read one last summer, the same Wallander guy, I forget the name of the book. I didn't like it."
"Why?"
"Well … he's a detective, right? And he kills someone, a bad guy. He shoots him. And it's self defense, the man would have shot him first if he could have. Only then he's all miserable about it. Wallander, I mean. He spends the next book feeling terrible that he's killed someone. He has a breakdown and leaves the police force, that's how bad he feels. But he's a cop, it's his job."
"It's his job to kill people?"
"You know what I mean. I thought it was silly. If you're a cop and you carry a gun, you have to be prepared for the fact that you might have to shoot someone."
"You don't think all life is sacred?"
Carsten looks at Karl's face, but it's dead serious as far as he can tell.
"I think he did what he had to do, and I don't believe he'd have acted that way after. I think it's bad writing."
"You didn't answer my question, though."
Carsten considers it but he already knows his answer.
"No," he says softly, looking out the window. "Not really." He wants to change the subject. "Why didn't you want them to know you're a vampire? You could have shown them your fangs, I bet they'd have run then."
"Who? Those idiots back there?" Karl makes a small sound, like a huff. "Why should everything be our fault? You're the ones constantly doing nasty things to each other. All the killing. Most of it anyway. Not you personally, darling. Although if I could offer a word of friendly advice, you're a bit out of your depth in that particular sort of club. Overlooking the fact that I know you're too young to be in there in the first place."
"Are you going to tell Eric?"
"Tell him what, you're a naughty boy? Surely he knows that already. I'm not your nanny."
"I won't go there again, I promise. It's just … I was curious. I'd heard about it, I wanted to see for myself. I swear I'm not usually so stupid."
"No, that wouldn't do, I'd sorted that already."
"Why? Why wouldn't it do?"
Karl shrugs. "It just wouldn't, would it?"
"Oh, come on. Why?"
"You are nosy, aren't you? That bit's true … what I meant is, I can't see Eric having a stupid boy. You must be smart, or at least clever. Maybe both."
"How many boys does he have?"
There's a long silence. Carsten waits, wondering if he'll get an answer.
"He has lots of boys, always has done. But he doesn't keep them, not like you. Setting us to watch you and so forth. He gave you that amulet, didn't he? And his blood, unless I'm mistaken." Karl gives him a look. "He fancies you. You'd hardly be Eric's if you didn't want to shag day and night, but do us a favor and try to think a bit less with your cock, all right? It'll be hell to pay if you're hurt."
Carsten nods. He can't think what to say.
"I understand now. No wonder. Walking Eric's dog." He yawns, the beer's wearing off and he feels sleepy.
"What are you talking about?"
"The other vampires stuck watching me. Some of them don't like it, I can tell."
"That's a funny notion." Karl frowns. "Wait - why are they even talking to you?"
"It's nothing bad, no vampire secrets. Sometimes they ask me where we're off to next, stuff like that. Maybe they're just bored."
"Oh, I can't think they'd be bored." Karl's grinning. "You're living up to your reputation, seems like. If they're smart they'll treat you nice, which doesn't strike me as all that tricky, to be honest. But no, they shouldn't be talking to you."
"You're talking to me, though. You've been talking to me all night. You seem different. More …" He wants to say more human, but he's got the feeling that's not a compliment, so he doesn't. "Wait, are you older? Is that it?"
Karl raises his brows but doesn't look away from the road.
"Something like that. Eric and I go way back. I just stepped in tonight because I was curious, wanted to see you for myself. Personally, I'm not interested in boys. Not that I'm judging."
"But you said - you told that one boy at the club you'd be back for a blowjob."
"Well, I was joking, wasn't I? Besides, that's different. If it's a blowjob it's not gay sex."
Carsten squints, confused.
"Of course it's gay sex."
'It's not. It's a blowjob, plain and simple. Nothing gay about it."
"If it's a man giving you the blowjob. Then, Karl, yes, it's gay sex."
"No it isn't."
"Yes, yes it is!" He's laughing now.
"Are you telling me all those men who've been sucking me off, that's gay sex?"
"Yes."
"Well, fuck me," Karl says mournfully, pushing his greasy hair back from his face. "I might as well move to Stockholm right now and open a flower shop."
They ride along for awhile in silence, listening to Kurt Wallander's inner thoughts and feelings, as rendered in Swedish by a man with a Danish accent whom Carsten thinks sounds a bit melodramatic for the part.
Carsten stares out the window, thinking. Ever since he'd hurt his leg, he'd known he had vampires following him around at night, but he hadn't really thought about it in terms of protection, the way Eric clearly did. And he really hadn't thought about what Karl said - that it was different, that he was different, not one of many. He forgot he was being watched constantly, that they were telling Eric what he was up to, particularly if what he was up to involved sex with other boys. And there'd been more of that than usual. Way more.
He didn't know if it had something to do with Eric's blood, but he thought it must. There were boys he'd wanted before, boys he'd looked at, but in the past all he'd have done was look. He was in good shape, coordinated and athletic, but he wasn't under any illusions about his attractiveness. He wasn't tall and blond and handsome, he didn't have a car or a lot of money or a body built in a gym. He looked younger than he was, and he turned pink when he drank, or when he felt awkward, and looking for sex could be all kinds of awkward.
But that need. That need to feel hands on his cock, a mouth against his mouth, that other need, to have someone inside him … god. He swallows and glances over at Karl, feeling guilty and dirty, like some old pervert who can't stop touching himself in public. Carsten thought about sex all the time. All. The. Time. Only now he did something about it. Unable to fight that hunger, he went out several nights a week and threw himself at boys, boys who were out of his league, boys who might not even be gay, and - he'd still not quite gotten used to this - mostly they took him up on it. He'd probably done more groping and kissing and handjobs and blowjobs in the last three months than any boy he knew of, even Erkki, the crazy boy from school who Carsten knew was practically prostituting himself, going with older men to feed his drug habit. It was amazing, the stuff their parents never even noticed.
He'd only fucked - been fucked - a few times. It still made him nervous, although he was always careful to be safe, they wore condoms or nothing doing. But condoms weren't bulletproof, and he knew every night he went out that he was taking chances. It was a different drug, fooling around with strange boys, one he couldn't get enough of.
Those boys tonight and their handcuffs - as soon as they'd done it, he'd been afraid. Because he knew, without knowing why, that they were going to hurt him. That it wasn't just a game with them. And he'd been so fucking grateful right then for Karl he could have cried. So how could he admit … how could he face the rest of it? That he'd wanted it, some part of it, but not wanted it. That he'd fantasized over and over - in his bed, in clubs, alone, in a crowd, being alone with a man who took him. By force. Who tied him up, or handcuffed him to a bed, and did things … did things while Carsten begged and struggled and it was so hot, the idea of it, it filled him with profound shame, it made him feel sick. Tonight, when those handcuffs had clicked in place, and it became real, his fear was real too. It was normal. You're supposed to be afraid. So what the hell did he want? What the fuck was wrong with him? He wanted to be frightened, but he didn't actually want to be hurt. Or maybe hurt a little, but not really hurt. God, stop it stop it. He slips his hand inside his shirt and clutches the amulet, something he does when he wants comfort. Squeezes it until its edges make his hand ache.
***
There is a pause in the sound, as if they are all holding their breath, and then there is one long scream, along with the clattering of the wheels on the tracks. There are many different kinds of screams, and this kind registers essentially as background noise, like the music from the bandstand, but it still makes Godric smile.
He's been coming here for decades, and much of it is new and much feels the same, just the same, even some of the same smells. The garments have changed, of course. The clothing is more revealing, even tonight, when the humans must surely find it a bit chilly, now that the evening has grown later… humans are often impractical. Sometimes it's endearing and sometimes not. He himself has grown tired of the effort of staying in current fashion. All clothing is costume. Some of the costumes have been more enjoyable than others. Eric teases him very occasionally that Godric would be just as happy if he were still a savage boy, running through the woods in hide breeches, stiff with old, dried blood. Eric does not entirely understand the dimensions of the joke he's making, because it's true, in a way Godric cannot explain to him. The world has gotten inexpressibly bigger - the world of their entire imagination, as well as of their making - but also, sadly, smaller. Godric would give much for those breeches, those vast, primeval woods.
Instead he endures his child's good-natured mockery regarding the foolishness of the old and idle and rich. His favorite shirts, all sewn by hand, the perfect imperfection of the careful human stitches ensuring no seams that chafe or scrape. Like a baby, Eric says. Like a child. Which is insolence, all insolence, of course Eric is insolence personified, Eric, who is self and other but … but really, more self. Eric is a hand, a rib, an eye … a moth flits by. Another loss, a small one. Moths, forever now, instead of butterflies. There are butterfly rooms to be visited in zoos, but he's tried this, and it's not the same. It's never the same. Nothing is. Eric is a shoulder, a pair of arms. Eric loves him when he is loathsome, cares for him when he is careless, endures him when he is unendurable.
Two boys, drunk, then a man and a woman, smelling of sunburn and sex and tanning oil, another man holding hands with a girl … his daughter? It's hard to tell. A blond man and a boy …. he watches them. It stings, it stings, although it shouldn't. He lifts his hand to his mouth, drives a fang discreetly into the most tender part, between the thumb and the first finger, punishes himself for his selfishness. Endure the unendurable. There is no other who deserves this happiness more than Eric. Why should Eric not have this joy, fleeting by its very nature?
No seams that bind, no tags that scratch and fret. No tears, no weeping. And yet here he is, wandering the familiar paths. He knows what he is seeking, and he has a sense. He has a sense, because he is so old and has lived among them for so long. Somewhere here is the one he wants, and he will find him.
He walks the lake's perimeter, watches the lights like fireflies on the water, dancing in the air on the swings. So many children. He can watch them here in the darkness and attract no attention, no concern. They run and prance and scream, dizzy from sweets and radiating a joy that is discernable in the air around them, a glow. They are helpless, small and pale, and he keeps his tenderness toward them a fiercely guarded secret.
Here is a girl; she is crying. Her dress is pink cotton, she has white sandals, cheap plastic, with some sort of mermaid cartoon character on them. Her hair glows white in the darkness, pulled up on top of her head in messy pigtails. She is too close to the water. She swallows her sobs like hiccups. Her nose is running down onto her lip. He looks to the left and to the right; there are plenty of people, but no one is looking for this child.
He squats down in front of her.
"Where are your parents?"
She shakes her head, bites her finger. He can smell the salt on her skin, in her tears.
"What's your name?"
"Annika." She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
"That's a pretty name."
She nods as if she's heard all that before.
"How old are you?"
"I'm seven." She chokes back another sob. It's here, the danger, hanging in the air like smoke. He looks around them, searching. "I want my papa." She takes a deep, shaky breath. It's wonderful, watching her pull herself together.
"Do you remember which way you came from?"
"Up there. By the playground." She chokes back another sob. "I was going to see the rabbits, but now I'm lost. The man said there were rabbits here, just down here, baby rabbits. He was going to show me…"
Godric nods slowly.
"… but then he was gone! And it's dark and there aren't any rabbits and I- I --"
"I understand." He does not need to glamour her, she is all trust and innocence. "Let's go find your papa."
She nods. She looks exhausted, like she could fall asleep where she is standing. He takes her small, damp hand with excruciating gentleness and leads her back up the hill toward the playground, with no more difficulty in persuading her to come with him than the man who led her down here. Then he can hear her parents calling, calling her name, and she lets go of his hand and runs toward them, her fear already forgotten. He hangs back, steps away, lets the crowds and the darkness swallow him.
It doesn't take long. He waits, watching the playground. There is a man standing opposite, over by the slide that resembles a nest of strings. He looks familiar. Godric realizes he was near the carousel earlier, watching the children. He is ordinary-looking in every way, husky, with thinning, sandy-colored hair and a friendly expression. He scans the children running and shouting and playing with a gentle, benign smile on his face. It's his eyes that give him away, his eyes, looking at the children the way that children look at sweets in a window. He is making his selection; something went wrong with little Annika on the way down the hill, perhaps she balked. He will not make that mistake again. It's getting late, time is running short. The eyes in that bland face continue to move, stop, assess. Godric waits in the darkness, recognizing the familiar. A fellow predator.
There is a small boy now, wandering away from his mother, she is paying no attention, talking to her friends. The boy will be on the path soon, in the shadows. The man seems torn, unable to decide, but it is too late, Godric is already moving along the path, close to the trees, the man's broad back in front of him. Godric will not drink from him, will not swallow even a drop of that tainted blood. But the man's body will do for the rest of his needs. Sometimes Godric leaves them where they will be found, their throats slashed, a sort of warning to the others of their kind. But not this one, not tonight. When he is finished, there will be little left to identify. The owl, the cat and the mouse. There is a nursery rhyme, and he hums it to himself silently, moving closer, listening to the man's heartbeat already quickening with anticipation.