(no subject)
TITLE: Bleed For You
RATING: R.
FANDOMS: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the Series & Tanz der Vampire
SPOILERS: Buffy S1-7, Angel S1-5.
SUMMARY: Matters come to a head in the castle.
SERIES: Part of Carpe Noctem series.
In order: As Aught of Mortal Birth, Per Ipsum, et cum Ipso, et in Ipso, Til The Moon Is Abed, Unwritten Words, What Remains, The Gentler Sex, Visitation, After the Storm, In The Name Of, In The Air, Makes Us Stronger, Three's a Crowd, Tis The Season, Divergence, Things Fall Apart, Broken Glass then this chapter.
PAIRINGS: Spike/Herbert, Dawn/von Krolock etc.
WORDS: 7873
NOTES: A large chunk of this has been written since the beginning of April. I believe it was the fic that simultaneously broke both bwinter and my Herberts in one fell swoop. There are lines throughout that kill me time and again. And oh, I have such love for this chapter.
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Watching the silver balls clicking one against the other, Herbert was deliberately ignoring the chaos behind him. The room had yet to be cleaned and the stench of sex and violence pervaded the very walls.
Although he had picked his father’s books up, salvaged from puddles of ink and blood, stacking them neatly, the rest of the room was untouched. He had picked his way around the ruined furniture and broken chairs, stepping on the shattered glass of bottles to reach the only object that remained where it should be.
The delicate Newton’s Cradle had been a playful gift he had given his father nearly a decade earlier and now, in the silence, the quiet click of the tiny globes rebounding off one another seemed deafening.
Squatting on his toes by the desk, he was motionless. His chin was propped on his crossed forearms, which were folded on the edge of the wood, his eyes flicking from side to side, watching the rhythmic movement.
When a hand was laid on his head, he didn’t look up, but rose to stand at once. His father’s hand slipped from his head to rest lightly on his shoulder, his touch soft, yet firm. “Join me, Herbert.”
What could he do but agree?
While his father had been agreeable on their last encounter, the fact that he had been half-conscious and bleeding copiously meant that he had not been in the best of states to remember their previous encounter, over William.
Allowing his father to direct him out into the hall, Herbert glanced sideways at him from beneath his fair lashes, his hands folded behind his back, his fingers knotting together anxiously.
In the three days since he had laid his father in the sarcophagus, it seemed that the Graf had recovered much of his strength though the wounds on his throat were still boldly visible, ragged and red against the pallor of his skin.
In silence, they walked a little way down the hall. Herbert hunted urgently for some way to frame the words he had been trying to say for days. As quickly as a sentence came together, it fell apart, too trite, too insincere, too desperate.
“You found your piano.”
When his father spoke, Herbert turned so suddenly to look at him that he almost stumbled. “I-I... you heard?”
Black eyes gazed at him with quiet gravity. “I heard,” the Graf said. He stopped walking, motioning for Herbert to do the same. Eyes down, Herbert’s hands squeezed together even more tightly behind him. “I did wonder how.”
“When we had the windows replaced...” he admitted quietly, then darted a look up at his father. “Why did you lock it away, father?”
The back of his father’s knuckles brushed his cheek, and for a moment the icy dread that had been closing around him melted. “Do you not remember the events of the ball of 1881?”
“Angelus...”
“And afterwards?”
Herbert’s hands untangled and he brought them before him, gazing at his fingertips that - even now - bore the faint bruises of his outburst of days earlier.
Oh, he remembered the ball well. While he had torn the damned Irish vampire apart, his ire had barely been spent, and when his father had dragged him from his piano, the keys were stained with scarlet, a symphony spattered in his own blood.
His father’s palms were lightly laid over his, long fingers curling around Herbert’s wrists, and Herbert looked up, startled. “Do you truly need an answer, Herbert?” he asked softly.
A faint smile managed to reach Herbert’s lips and he shook his head.
As always, even with his music, his father was protecting him.
He had the girl now, yes, but that did not mean he would not understand why Herbert had behaved as he had. He had spent so long protecting Herbert, surely he would understand why Herbert had protected his William.
With a subtle inclination of his head and the most fleeting of smiles, von Krolock continued down the hall, his son moving to keep in step with him.
They were close to the living room, when Herbert reached out, catching his father’s arm. “Father...” he began, then hesitated. How to begin to explain. How to try to say just what he was feeling and why he had behaved as he had.
His father’s hand gently covered his, where it was grasping the Graf’s arm. He was sure he saw something like acceptance in his father’s eyes, a softening of his stern features, not quite a smile, but enough to make him draw a breath, steeling himself.
“I wanted to explain, father,” His words tripped over themselves in their haste. “That night, in the study...” He saw his father nod slowly, saw another emotion flare in his father’s eyes, not anger, but not pleasure either. “I...”
“It was your right to claim back what is yours,” his father said quietly, though he seemed to be picking each word carefully. “You marked him many years before I shared that privilege.”
Herbert wanted to shake his head, to protest, to explain better, but found himself nodding. If father accepted that as the explanation, then he would not need to admit how terrified he was now. It was a claiming. Yes. Easier to say that.
“Of course. Yes.” He managed a smile, hoped it looked more convincing than it felt. “I suppose you forgot.”
His father gazed at him for a moment, then lifted Herbert’s chin with a fingertip and kissed his brow lightly. Unseen, Herbert pressed his eyes closed, a shiver running through him, ashamed of being so afraid of his own fear, of his own emotions, and most of all, of his father.
________________________
A pillow tucked between her back and the arm of the couch, Dawn frowned for the fifth time, picking up the dictionary again and flicking through the pages as best she could with fingers that were still stiff and bruised.
Since she had arrived at the manor and moved on to the castle, she had been trying to learn Romanian. In the last two months, with all the avoiding of everyone she had done, she had improved a lot, though she didn’t trust her accent to count for much until she got some more practise. Even so, there were words that were perplexing.
Her big test, every morning, was to attempt to read as much of the local newspapers as she could without reverting to the dictionary to find her answers, but the story she was trying to read had a lot of words that she hadn’t come across before.
Evisceration was one that she hadn’t encountered.
Not that she’d wanted to, either, especially not in this context.
Making a note in the pad beside her, her pen stilled mid-word as a familiar prickle ran down her spine. Crossing the t neatly, she looked up to see Johannes standing close to the door, watching her.
“Hey, you.”
His expression softened, lips shifting slightly. “I hope I am not intruding, Liebling,” he murmured, approaching.
Closing the paper, Dawn tossed it onto the coffee table, adding her notebook and pen, then negotiated her legs down from the couch. “Just doing some reading is all,” she answered, offering him a hand.
As he lifted her fingers to his lips, he sat, his eyes roaming her face, and she could see the concern. His other hand moved too swiftly to block it, lifting her chin, tilting her still-bruised features towards the light.
The cut on her lower lip had healed and the scratches and bruises on her body were following, but she knew her cheeks were mottled with pale purple and yellow and that was to say nothing about the fingerprints that still marked her throat.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes. “I’m totally hot right now.”
“Radiant.” His voice was warm and she looked up at him, managed to smile, but it was faint, hesitant.
“You’re all upright and magical again,” she observed, lifting her hand to wrap her fingers around the hand beneath her chin. “Herbert said you were kind of out of it after we...” Colour bloomed in her cheeks and she heard his chuckle. “Shush.”
Turning his hand over beneath hers, palm to palm, he smiled when she looked up at him. “I find it charming,” he murmured.
“That you’re upright?”
His lips touched hers gently, as if fearing to do damage. “That you yet blush after all that you have said and done.”
If anything, that made her face go even redder and, had his hand not been grasping hers so affectionately, she was sure she would have given into temptation and bopped him on the nose.
Scooting closer, she leaned into him and claimed another kiss, shivering happily as his arms slid around her. His fingers splayed on her back, shaping her beneath her clothing, soothing her hidden bruises with their coolness.
Touching her forehead against his, her eyes closed, arms draped around his neck, she couldn’t stop the smile from crossing her lips. “I guess that means no bus back to Italy for me, huh?”
The tip of his nose brushed hers and she couldn’t stifle a giggle.
“You think I would allow you to go?” he asked, but there was a lightness to his tone that made her smile all the more. His lips whispered against hers, teasing her and she tried to steal another kiss.
“Think you could make me stay?”
Von Krolock’s chuckle was soft against her lips, his hands slipping to her waist, and she laughed as she was suddenly swept up into his embrace. “I am sure I could convince you.”
Half-draped in his lap, his arms about her, she grinned. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm.” He kissed her, slowly, taking his time, clearly savouring every instant and making her grasp at his shirt. One hand cradled the nape of her neck and she let her own slip up to stroke through his silver hair. “So wanton, Liebling...”
Panting and flushed, Dawn nipped his lower lip. “You’re all evil and teasey,” she grumbled. “And I bet you know I’m not all fixed up and snuggleable yet.” She prodded him in the middle of his chest. “Next time, I get to crack your rib, k?”
His eyes slipped to her body, realisation and concern rife on his features, and when they returned to her eyes, she could almost see the words forming.
“Hey, I jumped you, remember?” she murmured, lifting a hand and lightly brushing her fingers against the faint outline of a crucifix still visible, though barely, on his cheek. Her smile was lop-sided. “I had it coming.”
Turning his head quickly, he kissed her fingertips. “You were a vicious little hoyden,” he murmured, kissing each finger when she didn’t pull them away, lapping the tips sensually.
“Johannes...” It was meant to be a chastising caution. Kind of like the way her hand was meant to be pulling away from his lips. Funny that the former came out more like a sigh and her hand was caught, each finger lovingly kissed and nibbled, the heat in his eyes as he did so sending delightful ripples of pleasure running through her. “You should stop...”
“Mm,” he agreed, making her shudder with want as kisses caressed her palm.
“Evil, evil son of a...”
With a chuckle, he released her hand gently. “Manners, Liebling.”
Sticking out her lower lip in a pout, she made a face at him. “You’re evil.”
He smiled again. “Occasionally,” he agreed.
“And you come in here, all nice and snuggly and make me lose my place...”
Dark brows arched. “Your place?”
Dawn nodded towards the paper. “I’m almost finished with the second part of the main article,” she said, starting to lean off his lap to grab it. A gesture of his hand made it leap to her and she looked up at him. “Cheat.”
“I would not have you strain yourself again, Liebling,” he said gently.
Dawn settled against him comfortably, unable to stop the smile. “Okay, kinda nice and thoughtful cheat,” she said. “But still a cheat.” She opened up the paper to the fourth page. There were several photographs, including five headshots of teenagers. “I was trying to finish this.”
“In Romanian?” She could hear the surprise in his voice.
“I was bored,” she replied sheepishly. “Taught myself to read it.”
“You never fail to surprise...” His voice trailed off and she looked up, saw his eyes scanning over the text. Abruptly, she was shifted off his lap and he claimed the paper from her quickly, flipping back to the front page, his expression strangely tense.
“It’s not a nice article,” Dawn murmured, watching him. “Five kids in the forest, all killed by something or someone.”
His dark eyes were moving rapidly across the text, then he looked at her. “How much of this have you read?” he asked softly, a strange emotion in his eyes.
“Almost all,” she said, then leaned closer as he turned onto the page with the gallery of victims. She pointed to the first, “This guy was stabbed, they said... I think. The blonde girl was hit on the head with something...” She frowned, trying to remember the wording. “The skinny boy had his neck broken and the bigger guy... stabbed too, I think... my translation isn’t very good.”
“No... no, it is exactly right,” Johannes said quietly, his voice so soft that she looked up at him. His eyes were on the final image, the single bloodiest death of the group; a dark-haired girl with blue eyes, who - from a distance - could have been mistaken for Dawn herself.
“I didn’t manage to make out all of what happened to her...”
Johannes closed the paper. “You do not wish to,” he said, folding the paper in half and placing it aside. “It is not a manner of death I would wish on anyone.” Dawn darted a look at the paper. “Liebling, you do not need to know.”
“I know,” she mumbled. “I... it’s just if there’s someone... something out there, killing kids...”
“I do not believe the one who did this will have remained,” he said, gazing at the folded newspaper, a strange look on his face. Rising, he crossed the room towards the windows, looking out at the grounds, as if he could see what had killed the children from there.
“Do you know what it was?” Dawn eyed the paper, half-tempted to look again.
By the window, one hand resting on the frame, the Graf bowed his head slightly. “I have a suspicion,” he murmured. “Though I cannot imagine why such a thing would come to pass.” He looked around at her. “I may have to excuse myself, Liebling...”
Dawn nodded in understanding. “Too near your land, huh?”
“In part, yes...” He frowned, looking out of the window again.
“Johannes?”
His hand lifted from the window frame and he closed his eyes, fingertips flexing close to his palms. “There are humans at the gates,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. “A number of them...”
Rising from the couch, her back aching in protest, she approached him. “You want me to go and get rid of them?” she asked, touching his arm. “You’ve got stuff to do, haven’t you? And if I go out and am all sun-covered and stuff, they’ll see I’m human and stuff and just go away.”
He covered her hand with his own, his smile of gratitude was so brief, so solemn that she wished she could ask him what had him so worried.
“Take Illyria with you, Liebling,” he murmured, caressing the back of her fingers. “It may be daylight, but I would not have you placing yourself in any danger, however minimal it may be.”
“You got it,” she replied. She rose on her toes, kissed his cheek. “You go and do what you have to do and I’ll go and chase the nasty humans away.”
As he faded from her, she was almost sure she saw the faintest of smiles.
____________________________
Striding alongside the Morsel, Illyria lessened her pace to match the injured mortal’s slower steps. The child made no complaint about her wounds, though it was apparent she was yet in pain as they walked. A stubborn mortal.
“D’you feel different?”
Tilting her head, Illyria regarded the child. “Because my appearance is that of the a mortal?” she asked. She glanced down at her physical form dismissively. “It is merely a cover for the form I bear. I remain myself within.”
It had been the Morsel’s suggestion that she assume the appearance of the shell, lest the humans upon the Sorcerer’s land see her as something unnatural, and thus a threat. Living within the proximity of the Sorcerer, it was inevitable that they would be afraid of creatures of a higher level.
“You can still kick my ass when you’re all tiny and Fred-ish, huh?”
Turning brown eyes on the girl, Illyria’s features were expressionless. “Your desire to defeat me is amusing,” she said. “It is also futile.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Morsel smiled widely, showing all her teeth. “I’m patient and I got everyone teaching me all kinds of new tricks. Gimme time and I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way.”
“Your confidence causes me mirth.”
“And one of these days, you’re actually gonna laugh when you say that, aren’t you?” the Morsel said, laughing herself. It appeared that she and the Sorcerer were truly reconciled, if her humour was to be judged upon.
Illyria looked ahead, across the stone-scattered driveway towards the gates, where a group of figures had managed to climb over. “Your mortal gestures of emotion do not seem beneficial,” she noted.
“Nope, they don’t,” the Morsel agreed. “But sometimes, laughing until you cry and it feels like your sides are splitting is one of the best hurts in the world.”
Illyria looked at her, bemused. “You would laugh until your skin ruptured?”
“Its a metaphor, dumbass!” The Morsel’s eyes were bright with humour.
Her pace quickening, she raised a hand in salutation to the group of mortals gathered at the gate, though Illyria noticed firstly that they were heavily armed and secondly, that they did not appear peaceful.
Reaching out, she grasped the Morsel’s arm. “These mortals have not come to speak to one such as you.”
Already, the group were moving. There were at least five, but they remained tightly grouped together. Illyria saw the sunlight gleam along the blade of a sword and could smell the foul aroma of garlic.
“Hunters,” the Morsel said quietly. “Okay. I’m human. You look human. We’ll just tell them there’s a screw up...”
Flexing her fingers, the joints clicking noisily, Illyria tilted her head until her neck cracked. “I do not believe such words will dissuade them,” she noted. “What cause have they to come here? The Sorcerer no longer feeds upon their ilk.”
The Morsel slowly shook her head. “Don’t know,” she murmured. “But we gotta try and talk to them.” She started forward again, Illyria matching her steps, though her eyes were on the broad-shouldered mortal that lead the group.
“You can communicate with the natives of this place? Their speech is unusual.”
The girl shrugged. “I can kinda... read their language,” she mumbled. “Can’t be that hard to speak it, can it?” She looked towards the group and called out something that sounded incorrect, even to Illyria.
The leader of the group stopped in front of the mortal child, his eyes roaming over her, and he said something, but Illyria did not heed the nuances of it. Her eyes were on the man behind him. She saw the leader’s fingers flick in a wordless gesture, saw the second man’s hand move, saw the weapon drawn from his belt and before it was even free, she attacked.
Attack was always preferable to the weakness of defence.
Behind her, the Morsel swore. Her fist driving the man to the ground, Illyria threw her head back and laughed.
_________________________
Draped in shadows, von Krolock watched William smooth his son’s hair. Herbert was slumped in the chair in their bedchamber, elbows propped on his knees, his face buried in his hands, everything about his form speaking of fatigue and misery.
By the chair, William was standing, his own countenance troubled. Herbert’s shoulders and upper body were tilted, drawn against William, who was touching him, soothing him, trying to calm whatever inexplicable hurt Herbert was suffering.
When he and his son had spoken earlier, von Krolock had gently tried to coerce his son into explaining what was between him and William, yet Herbert had smiled and politely denied anything more than mere claiming.
It had been a lie and he had known it then, had longed to press for the truth, but his son had been so cordial, so gravely formal. He had requested permission to go, to find William and deal with some matters, and the Graf had been unable to refuse.
Now he wondered what this breach was between himself and his child, that had left his son unable or perhaps unwilling to speak with him.
Whatever the cause, William seemed to know something more than Herbert’s own father did.
When Herbert leaned into the younger vampire’s touch, William sank to sit upon the arm of the chair, a leg swinging over the arm and behind Herbert. He pulled Herbert close, his lips pressing against Herbert’s crown, his comfort wordless, his embrace gentle.
No words were exchanged, though he saw his son’s hands rise to clasp at the arm wrapped around him. He saw his son’s brow press to William’s shoulder and could almost make out the soft crooning sound that the younger vampire was making.
If he had held any doubts as to the hands that had slaughtered the children in the forest, they were erased now.
If Herbert was this overwrought by emotion, von Krolock did not doubt that his son had wrought his bloody work upon those five hapless teenagers, who had dared one another to be in the wrong place at the wrong and fatal time.
Four clean deaths, swift and merciful, yet the face of the dark-haired child swam before his eyes, overlaid with his own beloved’s face.
When he had tried to dismiss Dawn, days earlier, he had believed her presence was the reason for Herbert’s distemper. Now, the brunette child was the proof of it, mutilated and beaten beyond recognition, her body torn apart for the crime of bearing a resemblance to Herbert’s father’s lover.
Was it solely that her presence had caused such distress for so long?
No. No, it could not be that alone.
His thoughts returned to the article, to the details, and he remembered the night.
It had been the night immediately after he and Dawn had been so violently reunited, if he remembered rightly. The very night when he had lain in a sonambulist’s coma, unaware of everything, even his son’s raging emotions.
“Herbert...” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. Had she truly come so sharply between them? Had he been so blind that he had not seen his son’s fondness for the girl changing? Or was it simple jealousy?
Reaching out, he grasped the shadows to pull them aside, to go to his child, when a scent reached him, laced with pain and sharp with terror.
Blood.
He saw William tense suddenly, saw Herbert’s head jerk up, eyes wide.
Dawn!
Shadows forgotten, he pulled his magic around him, felt the pressure of the power around him. Stepping forward into the main hall, inches from the sunlight spilling in from the open doors, he saw a figure approaching rapidly.
“We came under attack.” Striding in from the daylight, Illyria’s blue flesh was flecked with blood and gore. In her arms, however, Dawn was unconscious. “She has been impaled upon a spar.”
The demon allowed von Krolock to gently gather the bleeding girl into his embrace like a child. Not daring to trust his own control or her physical well-being, he strode towards the drawing room, to the couch, where he laid the girl.
Despite himself, his hunger was rising, making his hands tremble as he pulled open the front of her shirt. Long splinters of pale wood were visible amid the gore staining her skin and he felt himself growl, his body tense.
They had tried to stake her! By sheer good fortune, they had missed her heart, no doubt when she had fought them off, but the ragged shaft of wood - nearly two inches in diameter - had cut low, into her flat stomach.
Rage suffused him, so black and furious that he had to turn away from her to try and regain his control. What manner of idiots were these vampire killers? Had they not seen her in daylight? Had they not seen the colour in her cheeks? The life in her eyes?
“Tell me you have them alive,” he whispered, his eyes closed.
“I bound them and left them unconscious,” Illyria replied calmly. “The vengeance was not mine to give. One died for laying his soiled hands upon me. The rest await your justice.”
Von Krolock nodded slowly, turning back to his lover and laid one hand lightly over her wounded stomach. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to focus. Even without looking inward, he could sense the wrongness, could feel the swell of misplaced blood around the thick piece of wood.
“What the hell...”
“Father?”
Raising his other hand for silence, he could feel William and Herbert approach the couch, could feel their shock and rage, utterly entwined, his senses so sharp, so keen, he could see every minute tear within his lover, every escaping blood cell, every ripple of pain.
Pulling back with a gasp, he stared down at her face, the skin paler, hues of grey only serving to indicate how severe the internal bleeding must be. “I can do nothing to heal her,” he said softly.
“But you...”
“The dead cannot heal the living, cheri.” Herbert sounded dazed. If he had wished the girl ill, the matter was no longer in question, his shock and fear for the child as palpable as William’s.
“We need to get her to a hospital, then,” William’s voice was quaking. “If we get one of Herbie’s motors...”
Von Krolock shook his head slowly. “There’s no time,” he said, his palm trembling over the wound. He laid his other hand against her forehead, brushing strands of hair back from her cheeks.
For a moment, the only sound was the fading heartbeat.
“Turn her.”
Von Krolock looked up at the youngest vampire, unable to hide his shock that the souled of their number was the one to say it. “William, I cannot.”
“I’ll do it, then,” William had tears pouring down his face. “Niblet can’t go out this way. She can’t.”
“Nor can she be turned,” von Krolock said. “She ensured that.”
Blue eyes stared down at him in despair. “That’s not right... she... she can’t have...”
“She did,” Herbert added his voice. “She’s marked, protected.”
Swearing viciously, Spike upended one of the elegant candelabra, kicking it across the floor. “So we just sit and wait for her to snuff it?” His voice was raw, rising and shrill. “You’re the most powerful bastard this side of Europe! Do something!”
“William, father said he cannot...”
“Then make her do it!” William exclaimed. “She’s the Key, isn’t she? Can’t be all magic and not be able to do a sodding thing with it!”
“But that would be...”
“Possible.” Von Krolock looked from the younger vampire to his lover.
Surely, she would understand. If saving her life meant he had to open her senses to the powers she had locked within her, surely, she could and would understand why he did it. Perhaps it was his selfishness, perhaps his love for her, perhaps a combination of both, but she would understand.
“Do it.”
Even if William had not said it almost in the same instant as Herbert, Johannes knew he would have made that choice himself. The thought of stepping aside and watching this beloved mortal die would have pained him more than a blade to the heart.
“William, Illyria will bring the captives to the castle.” He said it in as calm a tone as he could manage as he rose and removed his cloak. He pushed his hair back over his shoulders. “Ensure they are kept alive until I say otherwise.”
“They the ones that did this?” The growl in William’s voice drew a warning look from the Graf and the younger vampire nodded tersely. “Gotcha. Keep ‘em locked up and alive.”
Von Krolock shifted his fingers slightly against his palms. “And William,” he added softly. “Contact her sister. Tell the girl to come here at once. Explain as much as you can.” He could feel the boy’s eyes on him, both shocked and wary. “Tell her it is upon my invitation.”
“Yes, Sir.” There was a touch of doubt, but William’s tone was accepting. “C’mon, Blue. You go and haul ‘em in and we’ll have some fun.”
“They are to live upon the Sorcerer’s whim.”
Though his back was to them as he walked towards the door, the malicious, vengeful smile was audible in William’s voice. “Doesn’t mean we can’t torture ‘em, does it?”
“Do you truly believe you can do this, father?” Herbert was suddenly behind him, using the strip of ribbon from his own golden hair to draw his father’s back and secure it from his face.
“I intend to do what I can,” von Krolock replied quietly, grateful that his son could not see his face. From what Dawn had told him of her origins, from what he knew, he did not doubt that he would be touching the heart of a storm if he managed to breach the magical boundaries around her.
Herbert clutched his shoulders and he could feel his son’s concern. “If there is a risk to you...”
“I intend to do what I can,” he repeated, turning and taking his son by the shoulders, dark eyes holding grey. “It will be difficult and dangerous, I know, but I cannot sit by and watch her die.”
“I understand, father, but this...” Herbert looked down at the girl. “If she’s has as much power as William says... father, if there’s a risk to you, please... don’t do this. I love the girl too, but don’t.”
Von Krolock squeezed his shoulders. “I want you to take care of William. He is yours now.” He managed to smile, though it was brief, fleeting. “Love him as only you can, mein Schatz.”
“Father, don’t...” Herbert reached up and clutched his father’s hand. “He... you can’t... please...”
“Herbert,” Lifting his other hand to touch his son’s cheek, he gazed at the creature he loved more than anyone or anything. Leaning forward, he kissed his son’s brow. “I have loved you since your first heartbeat, Herbert, but I must do this.”
Grey eyes were bright with emotion and Herbert slowly nodded. “I will see you later, father,” he said, then turned and walked quickly from the room. Understanding vied with acceptance, and von Krolock knew his son longed to tear him from Dawn’s side, to ensure his safety.
As the doors closed behind the younger vampire, von Krolock drew a breath. “I am sorry, Herbert,” he whispered to the empty room.
Returning to the couch, he sat down beside his lover, gathering one of her hands in his and using the other to gently touch her cheek, rousing what little spark there was left in her.
Gradually, slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Her colour, her vibrancy, seemed faded like ink in water, paler, but she managed to smile faintly, though it was pained. “Hey you,” she whispered.
“Liebling,” he murmured, lifting her blood-stained hand to his lips, kissing her palm gently.
“Guess he didn’t miss, huh?” A trickle of blood crept from the corner of her mouth and she shuddered in pain. “Sorry... shoulda ducked...”
“Do not worry about that now, dear one,” he said softly, wiping the blood away with a gentle hand. “Dawn, I need you to hear me.” She forced her eyes open and he only loved her the more for it. “I cannot heal you, mortal as you are, nor can I make you one of us.” Her chin dipped in a tight nod. “You have power within you, sealed away, but I can unlock it... it would be enough for you to heal yourself...”
“But...?”
Von Krolock gazed at her. “I could not seal it once more,” he replied. “I cannot say if it would overwhelm you or if it would fade away... it might even destroy you as surely as this wound... but if you will let me try...”
Her quiet chuckle was weak, left her chin splashed with scarlet “Even if I said no,” she whispered. So brave, even now, but he could see the fear in her eyes, as dark as the stain of the blood on her shirt. “You’re gonna do it.”
“How well you know me.” He leaned over her to touch his lips to her brow, then drew back a little. “But I would prefer your permission.”
One side of her mouth tugged up weakly. “You got it,” she whispered. “And your hair’s back... like it...” Her fingers tensed slightly against his, barely palpable. “I live, you wear your hair back more...”
“A fair trade,” he agreed.
She closed her eyes, her breath a whisper. “Jo... Johannes... if it goes wrong... if I’m... not gonna be me anymore... don’t do it... if I’m gonna be... it...” Though it was invisible, the terror was wrapping around her like a mantle and he understood.
What she had been before she became was what she feared becoming once more.
“I would not allow that to happen,” he whispered, cradling her hand tenderly. “But if I am to...”
“Yeah...” Her words were little more than a tired, apologetic sigh. “Don’t wanna die before you do it...”
His hip resting against her rib cage, he could feel every ragged breath, could hear every struggling gasp, and forced himself to focus once more. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look at my eyes.”
Drifting in and out of focus, her blue gaze fixed on him as best she could. “Love you,” she breathed.
Within his chest, he was almost convinced he felt his still heart wrench as if closed within a ruthless hand. He had often wondered, but had never asked, and she had never said such a thing before.
“And I you, Liebling,” he said softly.
Holding her gaze, one of her hands clasped in his, his other palm pressed to her brow, then he allowed himself to touch her mind. The pain was dazzling in its sheer intensity and he was amazed that she was yet conscious.
Probing deeper, sifting through her consciousness, seeking out the fragments where memories joined one another, he sought the point where construction and reality met, where she had become.
Beneath his palm, he felt her slipping back into unconsciousness, her body going limp upon the couch. Her skin was almost as cool as his own, chilly with perspiration and drying blood.
On the edge of his senses, he could feel her heartbeat, slow, so slow. He wished he could turn her and have done, because feeling her slip through his fingers like sand was making his focus falter.
Then, there it was.
So jarring and sharp, he wondered how he could have missed it.
With mental touches, he slipped between the edges of the boundary.
Energy struck him from all sides like lightning, vicious, raw, untamed, but with the ungraspable fluidity of the racing rivers, more powerful than anything he had imagined possible.
And as he felt the slow, rhythmless throb of Dawn’s heart, he wondered if perhaps, he should have listened to Herbert.
_____________________________
“Six against two? And not one of them can even tell she wasn’t a vampire.”
In the dungeon, the prisoners had been stripped of their weapons with embarrassing ease, not one of them thinking to carry an irremovable cross anywhere on their person or even managing to hide any tools anywhere imaginative.
Prowling around the huddled knot of five men and one woman, Illyria was tilting her head from side to side, making the bones crackle slowly. “Such fools have no use for the brains they possess,” she murmured. “The Graf will plaster the walls with them.”
“Come now.” Herbert was leaning against the wall of the room, arms folded loosely over his chest, his hair spilling around his face. “You know father better than that, Illyria. He would hardly wish to ruin the decor with such mundane things.”
“S’true, that,” Spike said, examining a deadly-looking axe. “Think this thing would break a leg?”
“Probably messily,” Herbert murmured. His eyes were fixed, cold and hard, on the huddle of mortals. “I suspect these charming people are locals, William. If you wish to threaten them, I would suggest their own language.”
Spike made a face. “I hate sodding Romanian,” he grumbled. “Always trip up on the vowels. Got to be an easier way...”
He looked around the room, then wandered over to the body of the man Illyria had killed. His head was pointing in the wrong direction, which had apparently scared at least one of the survivors into piddling all over the floor.
“Really want to do one of them in,” he muttered, giving the body a kick.
“Take one and break every bone in their body.” Illyria was standing ominously close to the prisoners, her hands flexing by her sides as if she wanted nothing more than to reach out and snap them like twigs. “One bone at a time, until there is nothing but powder within their flesh.”
Spike looked at Herbert. “Well, they wouldn’t be dead...”
Herbert gazed at him for a moment then nodded. “Make it hurt.”
“No question of that,” Spike replied with a vicious grin. “Blue, want to start? I’d say we go with the girl.”
The demon reached into the middle of the huddle. The single female was shielded by the larger bodies of the men, but Illyria plucked her out, shrieking and struggling, as if unaware of the blows landed by the men.
“I wish to begin,” she said, staring coldly at the woman’s pale face. One blue-tinted hand closed around the woman’s and there was a dull, wet popping sound punctuated by an agonised scream.
Spike’s eyebrows rose. “Impressive for just the tip of a pinkie,” he said, one side of his mouth curling up. “Go on, Blue, do it again.”
Illyria’s solid eyes turned to him. “Too soon and the fresh pain will be dulled by the first,” she said flatly. She looked back at the woman’s wide, terrified eyes. “This one has no tolerance for pain. It shall not take long.”
A second crackling pop echoed off the walls.
Again, the woman screamed.
One of the men cursed and tried to rush at the demon, but was cut off. His right calf and foot falling sideways, he dropped forward onto his face, howling in pain and pulling his maimed and bleeding stump of a leg towards him.
“Huh,” Spike looked at the blade, surprised. “Sharp, innit? Didn’t think it would go all the way through.” Tossing it aside with a clatter, he squatted down beside the man with a pleasant grin. “See,” he said in Romanian. “If you just stayed still, you would still have two legs and be able to run away when the Graf comes after you.”
The man, sobbing in pain and cursing, tried to crawl away, but Spike reached out and caught his bloody stump of a knee by the shattered end of the bone. With a casual tug that made the man shudder and go limp, he pulled him closer.
“Kill him!” One of the other men cried out. “He is bleeding anyway! Kill him!”
Blue eyes rose and regarded the vampire hunters. Spike slowly lifted his hand to his lips and licked the blood from his fingers. “Think I’ll keep him alive,” he said, eyes gleaming gold. “Patch him up and make myself a new pet.”
Terrified eyes stared at him as he loosened his belt and wrapped it around the bleeding limb, pulling it tight. He straightened up then, licking blood from his fingertips as if it was a rare delicacy.
“Herbie, you got any kind of nice, hot fire or pokers or something that burns?”
Grey eyes slanted towards him. “There is always a fire in the lounge,” he said quietly. “A metal bucket stands beside the grate. There should be a variety of pokers of interesting shapes.”
“Good stuff,” Spike grinned unpleasantly. “Blue, you keep at it. I’ll be back in a bit.”
The girl’s third scream rang out as he trotted out the door.
____________________________
Almost three hours had passed since the doors had closed on the drawing room.
Five minutes less than that had passed since the door of the dungeon had opened.
Despite the screams and the blood staining the floor, and the intense desire he felt to rip apart the mortals currently suffering at the hands of his lover and their demon ally, Herbert remained where he had stood as the minutes crawled by.
The stone was cold, a little damp, through the pale fabric of his shirt, the floor slick and shimmering wetly beneath his feet.
It was almost regrettable that the castle had been fitted with electricity, he mused. In circumstances such as these, it was infinitely more intimidating to inflict such torture in darkness or by the light of a flickering flame.
Admittedly, William and Illyria had proven quite adept regardless.
The girl had long-since stopped screaming and was presently propped against the wall. She was sitting in a puddle of her own blood, although Illyria’s skill for causing pain meant that she only started bleeding when the shattered bones of her pelvis were pushed slowly through her skin as she was placed in a sitting position.
William had moved from his first victim to another.
After taking his time cauterising the severed limb of the man who had tried to attack, he had taken even longer cutting into the man’s skin, though never too deep, but enough so he could scorch every cut closed with a nicely heated poker.
Eventually, though, that had bored him, so the second man had been dragged from the huddled mass of reeking humanity. With the edge of one of the man’s own knives, every finger carefully and deliberately severed, knuckle by knuckle.
The blade had been offered to Herbert, but he had declined with a curt shake of his head and William had known better than to ask twice.
The remaining three men were left untouched. Occasionally, William would leave his current play-thing and walk towards them, looking them up and down, then lean close. The number of times his fangs had scraped the bared throats had reached double figures, yet despite this the men still quailed with fear when he repeated the same action, time and again.
Clearly, they had no idea what they had done and why they were being spared, or why their friends were still alive, in spite of suffering great pain.
Tilting his head, Herbert was mid-sigh when it felt like a flicker passed through the very walls of the house. Even the light-fittings seemed to go dark for an instant and Herbert felt as if something had reached inside him, squeezing his throat from the inside out.
Where he was squatted, William shuddered, falling onto one knee, blue eyes looking wildly up at Herbert. “Herbie...?”
“There was a flux in power,” Illyria added with a notable frown.
“Dawnie...”
Shaking his head, his eyes wide, Herbert was drawing rapid, shaking breaths. “No...” He turned and - he would never deny it - ran from the room. Half a dozen times, he stumbled on nothing, groping blindly along the walls.
He vaguely registered William following him, but didn’t look back, didn’t look around, didn’t care.
More important things. More important person. One person, only person.
Father...
Staggering, he desperately fumbled with the handles of the drawing room doors, his trembling hands made clumsy by fear, by distress, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish slipping from his throat.
“Herbie...” William’s hands drew his away and he saw the blood stains smear on the brass. Father would be annoyed. So annoyed. Can’t have any mess. No stains. Always have to keep things clean.
Twisting the handle, William was watching him as he pushed the door open.
Inside the room, there was silence.
And the steady, rhythmic beat of a single mortal heart.
Swaying on his feet, Herbert heard the whimper in his throat, but couldn’t move, not even to approach the figure draped over the mortal’s slighter body. He couldn’t go closer, didn’t want to be sure, didn’t want to know or accept...
With great effort, he took a faltering step forward, felt William’s touch on his shoulder, support, comfort, love.
“Father?” How could a shout become a whisper? How could it be so weak?
It seemed that eternity hung in that moment, then slowly, his father moved, turned, looked towards him with haunted eyes and a tragic smile that made Herbert both sob and laugh his relief.
On legs that belonged to another, he half-ran, half-fell to his father, to his dearest and best and beloved one, falling to his knees and wrapped his arms around his father’s body. He could feel tears, could taste them.
“Oh, Herbert...” the whisper touched his hair made him tremble all over.
“Never again, Vati... never...” he whispered pleadingly, clutching his father as if he might be torn from him in a heartbeat. “Please...”
He felt the hand smoothing his shoulder, felt the caress to his hair, felt the emotion and exhaustion of the one person from whom he knew he could never be severed, would never be torn, who was his, always and ever, never to be parted.
“Never,” von Krolock whispered and slowly tilted his head.
Tears on his cheeks and hands clenched in shaking fists on his father’s back, Herbert sobbed aloud when his father’s fangs cut into his throat. His. His father. His everything. His all. His best and dearest and beloved.
Without thought or question, he clung all the tighter and sank his fangs into his father’s throat, claiming, marking, loving, assuring, cherishing, everything.
His father’s fingers smoothed his hair, gentle, comforting. Another hand stroked between Herbert’s shoulders, holding him as he had been held when he had woken from nightmares, when he had cried in the night, when he had been afraid, when he had still been so young.
Centuries had gone by, yet the scent of wisdom, the broad arms, the familiar, gentle touch, the soft hum of a lullaby he thought he had long-since forgotten reduced him once more to a shivering child in his father’s protective embrace.
RATING: R.
FANDOMS: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the Series & Tanz der Vampire
SPOILERS: Buffy S1-7, Angel S1-5.
SUMMARY: Matters come to a head in the castle.
SERIES: Part of Carpe Noctem series.
In order: As Aught of Mortal Birth, Per Ipsum, et cum Ipso, et in Ipso, Til The Moon Is Abed, Unwritten Words, What Remains, The Gentler Sex, Visitation, After the Storm, In The Name Of, In The Air, Makes Us Stronger, Three's a Crowd, Tis The Season, Divergence, Things Fall Apart, Broken Glass then this chapter.
PAIRINGS: Spike/Herbert, Dawn/von Krolock etc.
WORDS: 7873
NOTES: A large chunk of this has been written since the beginning of April. I believe it was the fic that simultaneously broke both bwinter and my Herberts in one fell swoop. There are lines throughout that kill me time and again. And oh, I have such love for this chapter.
__________________________________
Watching the silver balls clicking one against the other, Herbert was deliberately ignoring the chaos behind him. The room had yet to be cleaned and the stench of sex and violence pervaded the very walls.
Although he had picked his father’s books up, salvaged from puddles of ink and blood, stacking them neatly, the rest of the room was untouched. He had picked his way around the ruined furniture and broken chairs, stepping on the shattered glass of bottles to reach the only object that remained where it should be.
The delicate Newton’s Cradle had been a playful gift he had given his father nearly a decade earlier and now, in the silence, the quiet click of the tiny globes rebounding off one another seemed deafening.
Squatting on his toes by the desk, he was motionless. His chin was propped on his crossed forearms, which were folded on the edge of the wood, his eyes flicking from side to side, watching the rhythmic movement.
When a hand was laid on his head, he didn’t look up, but rose to stand at once. His father’s hand slipped from his head to rest lightly on his shoulder, his touch soft, yet firm. “Join me, Herbert.”
What could he do but agree?
While his father had been agreeable on their last encounter, the fact that he had been half-conscious and bleeding copiously meant that he had not been in the best of states to remember their previous encounter, over William.
Allowing his father to direct him out into the hall, Herbert glanced sideways at him from beneath his fair lashes, his hands folded behind his back, his fingers knotting together anxiously.
In the three days since he had laid his father in the sarcophagus, it seemed that the Graf had recovered much of his strength though the wounds on his throat were still boldly visible, ragged and red against the pallor of his skin.
In silence, they walked a little way down the hall. Herbert hunted urgently for some way to frame the words he had been trying to say for days. As quickly as a sentence came together, it fell apart, too trite, too insincere, too desperate.
“You found your piano.”
When his father spoke, Herbert turned so suddenly to look at him that he almost stumbled. “I-I... you heard?”
Black eyes gazed at him with quiet gravity. “I heard,” the Graf said. He stopped walking, motioning for Herbert to do the same. Eyes down, Herbert’s hands squeezed together even more tightly behind him. “I did wonder how.”
“When we had the windows replaced...” he admitted quietly, then darted a look up at his father. “Why did you lock it away, father?”
The back of his father’s knuckles brushed his cheek, and for a moment the icy dread that had been closing around him melted. “Do you not remember the events of the ball of 1881?”
“Angelus...”
“And afterwards?”
Herbert’s hands untangled and he brought them before him, gazing at his fingertips that - even now - bore the faint bruises of his outburst of days earlier.
Oh, he remembered the ball well. While he had torn the damned Irish vampire apart, his ire had barely been spent, and when his father had dragged him from his piano, the keys were stained with scarlet, a symphony spattered in his own blood.
His father’s palms were lightly laid over his, long fingers curling around Herbert’s wrists, and Herbert looked up, startled. “Do you truly need an answer, Herbert?” he asked softly.
A faint smile managed to reach Herbert’s lips and he shook his head.
As always, even with his music, his father was protecting him.
He had the girl now, yes, but that did not mean he would not understand why Herbert had behaved as he had. He had spent so long protecting Herbert, surely he would understand why Herbert had protected his William.
With a subtle inclination of his head and the most fleeting of smiles, von Krolock continued down the hall, his son moving to keep in step with him.
They were close to the living room, when Herbert reached out, catching his father’s arm. “Father...” he began, then hesitated. How to begin to explain. How to try to say just what he was feeling and why he had behaved as he had.
His father’s hand gently covered his, where it was grasping the Graf’s arm. He was sure he saw something like acceptance in his father’s eyes, a softening of his stern features, not quite a smile, but enough to make him draw a breath, steeling himself.
“I wanted to explain, father,” His words tripped over themselves in their haste. “That night, in the study...” He saw his father nod slowly, saw another emotion flare in his father’s eyes, not anger, but not pleasure either. “I...”
“It was your right to claim back what is yours,” his father said quietly, though he seemed to be picking each word carefully. “You marked him many years before I shared that privilege.”
Herbert wanted to shake his head, to protest, to explain better, but found himself nodding. If father accepted that as the explanation, then he would not need to admit how terrified he was now. It was a claiming. Yes. Easier to say that.
“Of course. Yes.” He managed a smile, hoped it looked more convincing than it felt. “I suppose you forgot.”
His father gazed at him for a moment, then lifted Herbert’s chin with a fingertip and kissed his brow lightly. Unseen, Herbert pressed his eyes closed, a shiver running through him, ashamed of being so afraid of his own fear, of his own emotions, and most of all, of his father.
________________________
A pillow tucked between her back and the arm of the couch, Dawn frowned for the fifth time, picking up the dictionary again and flicking through the pages as best she could with fingers that were still stiff and bruised.
Since she had arrived at the manor and moved on to the castle, she had been trying to learn Romanian. In the last two months, with all the avoiding of everyone she had done, she had improved a lot, though she didn’t trust her accent to count for much until she got some more practise. Even so, there were words that were perplexing.
Her big test, every morning, was to attempt to read as much of the local newspapers as she could without reverting to the dictionary to find her answers, but the story she was trying to read had a lot of words that she hadn’t come across before.
Evisceration was one that she hadn’t encountered.
Not that she’d wanted to, either, especially not in this context.
Making a note in the pad beside her, her pen stilled mid-word as a familiar prickle ran down her spine. Crossing the t neatly, she looked up to see Johannes standing close to the door, watching her.
“Hey, you.”
His expression softened, lips shifting slightly. “I hope I am not intruding, Liebling,” he murmured, approaching.
Closing the paper, Dawn tossed it onto the coffee table, adding her notebook and pen, then negotiated her legs down from the couch. “Just doing some reading is all,” she answered, offering him a hand.
As he lifted her fingers to his lips, he sat, his eyes roaming her face, and she could see the concern. His other hand moved too swiftly to block it, lifting her chin, tilting her still-bruised features towards the light.
The cut on her lower lip had healed and the scratches and bruises on her body were following, but she knew her cheeks were mottled with pale purple and yellow and that was to say nothing about the fingerprints that still marked her throat.
“Yeah,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes. “I’m totally hot right now.”
“Radiant.” His voice was warm and she looked up at him, managed to smile, but it was faint, hesitant.
“You’re all upright and magical again,” she observed, lifting her hand to wrap her fingers around the hand beneath her chin. “Herbert said you were kind of out of it after we...” Colour bloomed in her cheeks and she heard his chuckle. “Shush.”
Turning his hand over beneath hers, palm to palm, he smiled when she looked up at him. “I find it charming,” he murmured.
“That you’re upright?”
His lips touched hers gently, as if fearing to do damage. “That you yet blush after all that you have said and done.”
If anything, that made her face go even redder and, had his hand not been grasping hers so affectionately, she was sure she would have given into temptation and bopped him on the nose.
Scooting closer, she leaned into him and claimed another kiss, shivering happily as his arms slid around her. His fingers splayed on her back, shaping her beneath her clothing, soothing her hidden bruises with their coolness.
Touching her forehead against his, her eyes closed, arms draped around his neck, she couldn’t stop the smile from crossing her lips. “I guess that means no bus back to Italy for me, huh?”
The tip of his nose brushed hers and she couldn’t stifle a giggle.
“You think I would allow you to go?” he asked, but there was a lightness to his tone that made her smile all the more. His lips whispered against hers, teasing her and she tried to steal another kiss.
“Think you could make me stay?”
Von Krolock’s chuckle was soft against her lips, his hands slipping to her waist, and she laughed as she was suddenly swept up into his embrace. “I am sure I could convince you.”
Half-draped in his lap, his arms about her, she grinned. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm.” He kissed her, slowly, taking his time, clearly savouring every instant and making her grasp at his shirt. One hand cradled the nape of her neck and she let her own slip up to stroke through his silver hair. “So wanton, Liebling...”
Panting and flushed, Dawn nipped his lower lip. “You’re all evil and teasey,” she grumbled. “And I bet you know I’m not all fixed up and snuggleable yet.” She prodded him in the middle of his chest. “Next time, I get to crack your rib, k?”
His eyes slipped to her body, realisation and concern rife on his features, and when they returned to her eyes, she could almost see the words forming.
“Hey, I jumped you, remember?” she murmured, lifting a hand and lightly brushing her fingers against the faint outline of a crucifix still visible, though barely, on his cheek. Her smile was lop-sided. “I had it coming.”
Turning his head quickly, he kissed her fingertips. “You were a vicious little hoyden,” he murmured, kissing each finger when she didn’t pull them away, lapping the tips sensually.
“Johannes...” It was meant to be a chastising caution. Kind of like the way her hand was meant to be pulling away from his lips. Funny that the former came out more like a sigh and her hand was caught, each finger lovingly kissed and nibbled, the heat in his eyes as he did so sending delightful ripples of pleasure running through her. “You should stop...”
“Mm,” he agreed, making her shudder with want as kisses caressed her palm.
“Evil, evil son of a...”
With a chuckle, he released her hand gently. “Manners, Liebling.”
Sticking out her lower lip in a pout, she made a face at him. “You’re evil.”
He smiled again. “Occasionally,” he agreed.
“And you come in here, all nice and snuggly and make me lose my place...”
Dark brows arched. “Your place?”
Dawn nodded towards the paper. “I’m almost finished with the second part of the main article,” she said, starting to lean off his lap to grab it. A gesture of his hand made it leap to her and she looked up at him. “Cheat.”
“I would not have you strain yourself again, Liebling,” he said gently.
Dawn settled against him comfortably, unable to stop the smile. “Okay, kinda nice and thoughtful cheat,” she said. “But still a cheat.” She opened up the paper to the fourth page. There were several photographs, including five headshots of teenagers. “I was trying to finish this.”
“In Romanian?” She could hear the surprise in his voice.
“I was bored,” she replied sheepishly. “Taught myself to read it.”
“You never fail to surprise...” His voice trailed off and she looked up, saw his eyes scanning over the text. Abruptly, she was shifted off his lap and he claimed the paper from her quickly, flipping back to the front page, his expression strangely tense.
“It’s not a nice article,” Dawn murmured, watching him. “Five kids in the forest, all killed by something or someone.”
His dark eyes were moving rapidly across the text, then he looked at her. “How much of this have you read?” he asked softly, a strange emotion in his eyes.
“Almost all,” she said, then leaned closer as he turned onto the page with the gallery of victims. She pointed to the first, “This guy was stabbed, they said... I think. The blonde girl was hit on the head with something...” She frowned, trying to remember the wording. “The skinny boy had his neck broken and the bigger guy... stabbed too, I think... my translation isn’t very good.”
“No... no, it is exactly right,” Johannes said quietly, his voice so soft that she looked up at him. His eyes were on the final image, the single bloodiest death of the group; a dark-haired girl with blue eyes, who - from a distance - could have been mistaken for Dawn herself.
“I didn’t manage to make out all of what happened to her...”
Johannes closed the paper. “You do not wish to,” he said, folding the paper in half and placing it aside. “It is not a manner of death I would wish on anyone.” Dawn darted a look at the paper. “Liebling, you do not need to know.”
“I know,” she mumbled. “I... it’s just if there’s someone... something out there, killing kids...”
“I do not believe the one who did this will have remained,” he said, gazing at the folded newspaper, a strange look on his face. Rising, he crossed the room towards the windows, looking out at the grounds, as if he could see what had killed the children from there.
“Do you know what it was?” Dawn eyed the paper, half-tempted to look again.
By the window, one hand resting on the frame, the Graf bowed his head slightly. “I have a suspicion,” he murmured. “Though I cannot imagine why such a thing would come to pass.” He looked around at her. “I may have to excuse myself, Liebling...”
Dawn nodded in understanding. “Too near your land, huh?”
“In part, yes...” He frowned, looking out of the window again.
“Johannes?”
His hand lifted from the window frame and he closed his eyes, fingertips flexing close to his palms. “There are humans at the gates,” he said softly, tilting his head slightly. “A number of them...”
Rising from the couch, her back aching in protest, she approached him. “You want me to go and get rid of them?” she asked, touching his arm. “You’ve got stuff to do, haven’t you? And if I go out and am all sun-covered and stuff, they’ll see I’m human and stuff and just go away.”
He covered her hand with his own, his smile of gratitude was so brief, so solemn that she wished she could ask him what had him so worried.
“Take Illyria with you, Liebling,” he murmured, caressing the back of her fingers. “It may be daylight, but I would not have you placing yourself in any danger, however minimal it may be.”
“You got it,” she replied. She rose on her toes, kissed his cheek. “You go and do what you have to do and I’ll go and chase the nasty humans away.”
As he faded from her, she was almost sure she saw the faintest of smiles.
____________________________
Striding alongside the Morsel, Illyria lessened her pace to match the injured mortal’s slower steps. The child made no complaint about her wounds, though it was apparent she was yet in pain as they walked. A stubborn mortal.
“D’you feel different?”
Tilting her head, Illyria regarded the child. “Because my appearance is that of the a mortal?” she asked. She glanced down at her physical form dismissively. “It is merely a cover for the form I bear. I remain myself within.”
It had been the Morsel’s suggestion that she assume the appearance of the shell, lest the humans upon the Sorcerer’s land see her as something unnatural, and thus a threat. Living within the proximity of the Sorcerer, it was inevitable that they would be afraid of creatures of a higher level.
“You can still kick my ass when you’re all tiny and Fred-ish, huh?”
Turning brown eyes on the girl, Illyria’s features were expressionless. “Your desire to defeat me is amusing,” she said. “It is also futile.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Morsel smiled widely, showing all her teeth. “I’m patient and I got everyone teaching me all kinds of new tricks. Gimme time and I’m pretty sure I’ll find a way.”
“Your confidence causes me mirth.”
“And one of these days, you’re actually gonna laugh when you say that, aren’t you?” the Morsel said, laughing herself. It appeared that she and the Sorcerer were truly reconciled, if her humour was to be judged upon.
Illyria looked ahead, across the stone-scattered driveway towards the gates, where a group of figures had managed to climb over. “Your mortal gestures of emotion do not seem beneficial,” she noted.
“Nope, they don’t,” the Morsel agreed. “But sometimes, laughing until you cry and it feels like your sides are splitting is one of the best hurts in the world.”
Illyria looked at her, bemused. “You would laugh until your skin ruptured?”
“Its a metaphor, dumbass!” The Morsel’s eyes were bright with humour.
Her pace quickening, she raised a hand in salutation to the group of mortals gathered at the gate, though Illyria noticed firstly that they were heavily armed and secondly, that they did not appear peaceful.
Reaching out, she grasped the Morsel’s arm. “These mortals have not come to speak to one such as you.”
Already, the group were moving. There were at least five, but they remained tightly grouped together. Illyria saw the sunlight gleam along the blade of a sword and could smell the foul aroma of garlic.
“Hunters,” the Morsel said quietly. “Okay. I’m human. You look human. We’ll just tell them there’s a screw up...”
Flexing her fingers, the joints clicking noisily, Illyria tilted her head until her neck cracked. “I do not believe such words will dissuade them,” she noted. “What cause have they to come here? The Sorcerer no longer feeds upon their ilk.”
The Morsel slowly shook her head. “Don’t know,” she murmured. “But we gotta try and talk to them.” She started forward again, Illyria matching her steps, though her eyes were on the broad-shouldered mortal that lead the group.
“You can communicate with the natives of this place? Their speech is unusual.”
The girl shrugged. “I can kinda... read their language,” she mumbled. “Can’t be that hard to speak it, can it?” She looked towards the group and called out something that sounded incorrect, even to Illyria.
The leader of the group stopped in front of the mortal child, his eyes roaming over her, and he said something, but Illyria did not heed the nuances of it. Her eyes were on the man behind him. She saw the leader’s fingers flick in a wordless gesture, saw the second man’s hand move, saw the weapon drawn from his belt and before it was even free, she attacked.
Attack was always preferable to the weakness of defence.
Behind her, the Morsel swore. Her fist driving the man to the ground, Illyria threw her head back and laughed.
_________________________
Draped in shadows, von Krolock watched William smooth his son’s hair. Herbert was slumped in the chair in their bedchamber, elbows propped on his knees, his face buried in his hands, everything about his form speaking of fatigue and misery.
By the chair, William was standing, his own countenance troubled. Herbert’s shoulders and upper body were tilted, drawn against William, who was touching him, soothing him, trying to calm whatever inexplicable hurt Herbert was suffering.
When he and his son had spoken earlier, von Krolock had gently tried to coerce his son into explaining what was between him and William, yet Herbert had smiled and politely denied anything more than mere claiming.
It had been a lie and he had known it then, had longed to press for the truth, but his son had been so cordial, so gravely formal. He had requested permission to go, to find William and deal with some matters, and the Graf had been unable to refuse.
Now he wondered what this breach was between himself and his child, that had left his son unable or perhaps unwilling to speak with him.
Whatever the cause, William seemed to know something more than Herbert’s own father did.
When Herbert leaned into the younger vampire’s touch, William sank to sit upon the arm of the chair, a leg swinging over the arm and behind Herbert. He pulled Herbert close, his lips pressing against Herbert’s crown, his comfort wordless, his embrace gentle.
No words were exchanged, though he saw his son’s hands rise to clasp at the arm wrapped around him. He saw his son’s brow press to William’s shoulder and could almost make out the soft crooning sound that the younger vampire was making.
If he had held any doubts as to the hands that had slaughtered the children in the forest, they were erased now.
If Herbert was this overwrought by emotion, von Krolock did not doubt that his son had wrought his bloody work upon those five hapless teenagers, who had dared one another to be in the wrong place at the wrong and fatal time.
Four clean deaths, swift and merciful, yet the face of the dark-haired child swam before his eyes, overlaid with his own beloved’s face.
When he had tried to dismiss Dawn, days earlier, he had believed her presence was the reason for Herbert’s distemper. Now, the brunette child was the proof of it, mutilated and beaten beyond recognition, her body torn apart for the crime of bearing a resemblance to Herbert’s father’s lover.
Was it solely that her presence had caused such distress for so long?
No. No, it could not be that alone.
His thoughts returned to the article, to the details, and he remembered the night.
It had been the night immediately after he and Dawn had been so violently reunited, if he remembered rightly. The very night when he had lain in a sonambulist’s coma, unaware of everything, even his son’s raging emotions.
“Herbert...” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. Had she truly come so sharply between them? Had he been so blind that he had not seen his son’s fondness for the girl changing? Or was it simple jealousy?
Reaching out, he grasped the shadows to pull them aside, to go to his child, when a scent reached him, laced with pain and sharp with terror.
Blood.
He saw William tense suddenly, saw Herbert’s head jerk up, eyes wide.
Dawn!
Shadows forgotten, he pulled his magic around him, felt the pressure of the power around him. Stepping forward into the main hall, inches from the sunlight spilling in from the open doors, he saw a figure approaching rapidly.
“We came under attack.” Striding in from the daylight, Illyria’s blue flesh was flecked with blood and gore. In her arms, however, Dawn was unconscious. “She has been impaled upon a spar.”
The demon allowed von Krolock to gently gather the bleeding girl into his embrace like a child. Not daring to trust his own control or her physical well-being, he strode towards the drawing room, to the couch, where he laid the girl.
Despite himself, his hunger was rising, making his hands tremble as he pulled open the front of her shirt. Long splinters of pale wood were visible amid the gore staining her skin and he felt himself growl, his body tense.
They had tried to stake her! By sheer good fortune, they had missed her heart, no doubt when she had fought them off, but the ragged shaft of wood - nearly two inches in diameter - had cut low, into her flat stomach.
Rage suffused him, so black and furious that he had to turn away from her to try and regain his control. What manner of idiots were these vampire killers? Had they not seen her in daylight? Had they not seen the colour in her cheeks? The life in her eyes?
“Tell me you have them alive,” he whispered, his eyes closed.
“I bound them and left them unconscious,” Illyria replied calmly. “The vengeance was not mine to give. One died for laying his soiled hands upon me. The rest await your justice.”
Von Krolock nodded slowly, turning back to his lover and laid one hand lightly over her wounded stomach. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to focus. Even without looking inward, he could sense the wrongness, could feel the swell of misplaced blood around the thick piece of wood.
“What the hell...”
“Father?”
Raising his other hand for silence, he could feel William and Herbert approach the couch, could feel their shock and rage, utterly entwined, his senses so sharp, so keen, he could see every minute tear within his lover, every escaping blood cell, every ripple of pain.
Pulling back with a gasp, he stared down at her face, the skin paler, hues of grey only serving to indicate how severe the internal bleeding must be. “I can do nothing to heal her,” he said softly.
“But you...”
“The dead cannot heal the living, cheri.” Herbert sounded dazed. If he had wished the girl ill, the matter was no longer in question, his shock and fear for the child as palpable as William’s.
“We need to get her to a hospital, then,” William’s voice was quaking. “If we get one of Herbie’s motors...”
Von Krolock shook his head slowly. “There’s no time,” he said, his palm trembling over the wound. He laid his other hand against her forehead, brushing strands of hair back from her cheeks.
For a moment, the only sound was the fading heartbeat.
“Turn her.”
Von Krolock looked up at the youngest vampire, unable to hide his shock that the souled of their number was the one to say it. “William, I cannot.”
“I’ll do it, then,” William had tears pouring down his face. “Niblet can’t go out this way. She can’t.”
“Nor can she be turned,” von Krolock said. “She ensured that.”
Blue eyes stared down at him in despair. “That’s not right... she... she can’t have...”
“She did,” Herbert added his voice. “She’s marked, protected.”
Swearing viciously, Spike upended one of the elegant candelabra, kicking it across the floor. “So we just sit and wait for her to snuff it?” His voice was raw, rising and shrill. “You’re the most powerful bastard this side of Europe! Do something!”
“William, father said he cannot...”
“Then make her do it!” William exclaimed. “She’s the Key, isn’t she? Can’t be all magic and not be able to do a sodding thing with it!”
“But that would be...”
“Possible.” Von Krolock looked from the younger vampire to his lover.
Surely, she would understand. If saving her life meant he had to open her senses to the powers she had locked within her, surely, she could and would understand why he did it. Perhaps it was his selfishness, perhaps his love for her, perhaps a combination of both, but she would understand.
“Do it.”
Even if William had not said it almost in the same instant as Herbert, Johannes knew he would have made that choice himself. The thought of stepping aside and watching this beloved mortal die would have pained him more than a blade to the heart.
“William, Illyria will bring the captives to the castle.” He said it in as calm a tone as he could manage as he rose and removed his cloak. He pushed his hair back over his shoulders. “Ensure they are kept alive until I say otherwise.”
“They the ones that did this?” The growl in William’s voice drew a warning look from the Graf and the younger vampire nodded tersely. “Gotcha. Keep ‘em locked up and alive.”
Von Krolock shifted his fingers slightly against his palms. “And William,” he added softly. “Contact her sister. Tell the girl to come here at once. Explain as much as you can.” He could feel the boy’s eyes on him, both shocked and wary. “Tell her it is upon my invitation.”
“Yes, Sir.” There was a touch of doubt, but William’s tone was accepting. “C’mon, Blue. You go and haul ‘em in and we’ll have some fun.”
“They are to live upon the Sorcerer’s whim.”
Though his back was to them as he walked towards the door, the malicious, vengeful smile was audible in William’s voice. “Doesn’t mean we can’t torture ‘em, does it?”
“Do you truly believe you can do this, father?” Herbert was suddenly behind him, using the strip of ribbon from his own golden hair to draw his father’s back and secure it from his face.
“I intend to do what I can,” von Krolock replied quietly, grateful that his son could not see his face. From what Dawn had told him of her origins, from what he knew, he did not doubt that he would be touching the heart of a storm if he managed to breach the magical boundaries around her.
Herbert clutched his shoulders and he could feel his son’s concern. “If there is a risk to you...”
“I intend to do what I can,” he repeated, turning and taking his son by the shoulders, dark eyes holding grey. “It will be difficult and dangerous, I know, but I cannot sit by and watch her die.”
“I understand, father, but this...” Herbert looked down at the girl. “If she’s has as much power as William says... father, if there’s a risk to you, please... don’t do this. I love the girl too, but don’t.”
Von Krolock squeezed his shoulders. “I want you to take care of William. He is yours now.” He managed to smile, though it was brief, fleeting. “Love him as only you can, mein Schatz.”
“Father, don’t...” Herbert reached up and clutched his father’s hand. “He... you can’t... please...”
“Herbert,” Lifting his other hand to touch his son’s cheek, he gazed at the creature he loved more than anyone or anything. Leaning forward, he kissed his son’s brow. “I have loved you since your first heartbeat, Herbert, but I must do this.”
Grey eyes were bright with emotion and Herbert slowly nodded. “I will see you later, father,” he said, then turned and walked quickly from the room. Understanding vied with acceptance, and von Krolock knew his son longed to tear him from Dawn’s side, to ensure his safety.
As the doors closed behind the younger vampire, von Krolock drew a breath. “I am sorry, Herbert,” he whispered to the empty room.
Returning to the couch, he sat down beside his lover, gathering one of her hands in his and using the other to gently touch her cheek, rousing what little spark there was left in her.
Gradually, slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Her colour, her vibrancy, seemed faded like ink in water, paler, but she managed to smile faintly, though it was pained. “Hey you,” she whispered.
“Liebling,” he murmured, lifting her blood-stained hand to his lips, kissing her palm gently.
“Guess he didn’t miss, huh?” A trickle of blood crept from the corner of her mouth and she shuddered in pain. “Sorry... shoulda ducked...”
“Do not worry about that now, dear one,” he said softly, wiping the blood away with a gentle hand. “Dawn, I need you to hear me.” She forced her eyes open and he only loved her the more for it. “I cannot heal you, mortal as you are, nor can I make you one of us.” Her chin dipped in a tight nod. “You have power within you, sealed away, but I can unlock it... it would be enough for you to heal yourself...”
“But...?”
Von Krolock gazed at her. “I could not seal it once more,” he replied. “I cannot say if it would overwhelm you or if it would fade away... it might even destroy you as surely as this wound... but if you will let me try...”
Her quiet chuckle was weak, left her chin splashed with scarlet “Even if I said no,” she whispered. So brave, even now, but he could see the fear in her eyes, as dark as the stain of the blood on her shirt. “You’re gonna do it.”
“How well you know me.” He leaned over her to touch his lips to her brow, then drew back a little. “But I would prefer your permission.”
One side of her mouth tugged up weakly. “You got it,” she whispered. “And your hair’s back... like it...” Her fingers tensed slightly against his, barely palpable. “I live, you wear your hair back more...”
“A fair trade,” he agreed.
She closed her eyes, her breath a whisper. “Jo... Johannes... if it goes wrong... if I’m... not gonna be me anymore... don’t do it... if I’m gonna be... it...” Though it was invisible, the terror was wrapping around her like a mantle and he understood.
What she had been before she became was what she feared becoming once more.
“I would not allow that to happen,” he whispered, cradling her hand tenderly. “But if I am to...”
“Yeah...” Her words were little more than a tired, apologetic sigh. “Don’t wanna die before you do it...”
His hip resting against her rib cage, he could feel every ragged breath, could hear every struggling gasp, and forced himself to focus once more. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look at my eyes.”
Drifting in and out of focus, her blue gaze fixed on him as best she could. “Love you,” she breathed.
Within his chest, he was almost convinced he felt his still heart wrench as if closed within a ruthless hand. He had often wondered, but had never asked, and she had never said such a thing before.
“And I you, Liebling,” he said softly.
Holding her gaze, one of her hands clasped in his, his other palm pressed to her brow, then he allowed himself to touch her mind. The pain was dazzling in its sheer intensity and he was amazed that she was yet conscious.
Probing deeper, sifting through her consciousness, seeking out the fragments where memories joined one another, he sought the point where construction and reality met, where she had become.
Beneath his palm, he felt her slipping back into unconsciousness, her body going limp upon the couch. Her skin was almost as cool as his own, chilly with perspiration and drying blood.
On the edge of his senses, he could feel her heartbeat, slow, so slow. He wished he could turn her and have done, because feeling her slip through his fingers like sand was making his focus falter.
Then, there it was.
So jarring and sharp, he wondered how he could have missed it.
With mental touches, he slipped between the edges of the boundary.
Energy struck him from all sides like lightning, vicious, raw, untamed, but with the ungraspable fluidity of the racing rivers, more powerful than anything he had imagined possible.
And as he felt the slow, rhythmless throb of Dawn’s heart, he wondered if perhaps, he should have listened to Herbert.
_____________________________
“Six against two? And not one of them can even tell she wasn’t a vampire.”
In the dungeon, the prisoners had been stripped of their weapons with embarrassing ease, not one of them thinking to carry an irremovable cross anywhere on their person or even managing to hide any tools anywhere imaginative.
Prowling around the huddled knot of five men and one woman, Illyria was tilting her head from side to side, making the bones crackle slowly. “Such fools have no use for the brains they possess,” she murmured. “The Graf will plaster the walls with them.”
“Come now.” Herbert was leaning against the wall of the room, arms folded loosely over his chest, his hair spilling around his face. “You know father better than that, Illyria. He would hardly wish to ruin the decor with such mundane things.”
“S’true, that,” Spike said, examining a deadly-looking axe. “Think this thing would break a leg?”
“Probably messily,” Herbert murmured. His eyes were fixed, cold and hard, on the huddle of mortals. “I suspect these charming people are locals, William. If you wish to threaten them, I would suggest their own language.”
Spike made a face. “I hate sodding Romanian,” he grumbled. “Always trip up on the vowels. Got to be an easier way...”
He looked around the room, then wandered over to the body of the man Illyria had killed. His head was pointing in the wrong direction, which had apparently scared at least one of the survivors into piddling all over the floor.
“Really want to do one of them in,” he muttered, giving the body a kick.
“Take one and break every bone in their body.” Illyria was standing ominously close to the prisoners, her hands flexing by her sides as if she wanted nothing more than to reach out and snap them like twigs. “One bone at a time, until there is nothing but powder within their flesh.”
Spike looked at Herbert. “Well, they wouldn’t be dead...”
Herbert gazed at him for a moment then nodded. “Make it hurt.”
“No question of that,” Spike replied with a vicious grin. “Blue, want to start? I’d say we go with the girl.”
The demon reached into the middle of the huddle. The single female was shielded by the larger bodies of the men, but Illyria plucked her out, shrieking and struggling, as if unaware of the blows landed by the men.
“I wish to begin,” she said, staring coldly at the woman’s pale face. One blue-tinted hand closed around the woman’s and there was a dull, wet popping sound punctuated by an agonised scream.
Spike’s eyebrows rose. “Impressive for just the tip of a pinkie,” he said, one side of his mouth curling up. “Go on, Blue, do it again.”
Illyria’s solid eyes turned to him. “Too soon and the fresh pain will be dulled by the first,” she said flatly. She looked back at the woman’s wide, terrified eyes. “This one has no tolerance for pain. It shall not take long.”
A second crackling pop echoed off the walls.
Again, the woman screamed.
One of the men cursed and tried to rush at the demon, but was cut off. His right calf and foot falling sideways, he dropped forward onto his face, howling in pain and pulling his maimed and bleeding stump of a leg towards him.
“Huh,” Spike looked at the blade, surprised. “Sharp, innit? Didn’t think it would go all the way through.” Tossing it aside with a clatter, he squatted down beside the man with a pleasant grin. “See,” he said in Romanian. “If you just stayed still, you would still have two legs and be able to run away when the Graf comes after you.”
The man, sobbing in pain and cursing, tried to crawl away, but Spike reached out and caught his bloody stump of a knee by the shattered end of the bone. With a casual tug that made the man shudder and go limp, he pulled him closer.
“Kill him!” One of the other men cried out. “He is bleeding anyway! Kill him!”
Blue eyes rose and regarded the vampire hunters. Spike slowly lifted his hand to his lips and licked the blood from his fingers. “Think I’ll keep him alive,” he said, eyes gleaming gold. “Patch him up and make myself a new pet.”
Terrified eyes stared at him as he loosened his belt and wrapped it around the bleeding limb, pulling it tight. He straightened up then, licking blood from his fingertips as if it was a rare delicacy.
“Herbie, you got any kind of nice, hot fire or pokers or something that burns?”
Grey eyes slanted towards him. “There is always a fire in the lounge,” he said quietly. “A metal bucket stands beside the grate. There should be a variety of pokers of interesting shapes.”
“Good stuff,” Spike grinned unpleasantly. “Blue, you keep at it. I’ll be back in a bit.”
The girl’s third scream rang out as he trotted out the door.
____________________________
Almost three hours had passed since the doors had closed on the drawing room.
Five minutes less than that had passed since the door of the dungeon had opened.
Despite the screams and the blood staining the floor, and the intense desire he felt to rip apart the mortals currently suffering at the hands of his lover and their demon ally, Herbert remained where he had stood as the minutes crawled by.
The stone was cold, a little damp, through the pale fabric of his shirt, the floor slick and shimmering wetly beneath his feet.
It was almost regrettable that the castle had been fitted with electricity, he mused. In circumstances such as these, it was infinitely more intimidating to inflict such torture in darkness or by the light of a flickering flame.
Admittedly, William and Illyria had proven quite adept regardless.
The girl had long-since stopped screaming and was presently propped against the wall. She was sitting in a puddle of her own blood, although Illyria’s skill for causing pain meant that she only started bleeding when the shattered bones of her pelvis were pushed slowly through her skin as she was placed in a sitting position.
William had moved from his first victim to another.
After taking his time cauterising the severed limb of the man who had tried to attack, he had taken even longer cutting into the man’s skin, though never too deep, but enough so he could scorch every cut closed with a nicely heated poker.
Eventually, though, that had bored him, so the second man had been dragged from the huddled mass of reeking humanity. With the edge of one of the man’s own knives, every finger carefully and deliberately severed, knuckle by knuckle.
The blade had been offered to Herbert, but he had declined with a curt shake of his head and William had known better than to ask twice.
The remaining three men were left untouched. Occasionally, William would leave his current play-thing and walk towards them, looking them up and down, then lean close. The number of times his fangs had scraped the bared throats had reached double figures, yet despite this the men still quailed with fear when he repeated the same action, time and again.
Clearly, they had no idea what they had done and why they were being spared, or why their friends were still alive, in spite of suffering great pain.
Tilting his head, Herbert was mid-sigh when it felt like a flicker passed through the very walls of the house. Even the light-fittings seemed to go dark for an instant and Herbert felt as if something had reached inside him, squeezing his throat from the inside out.
Where he was squatted, William shuddered, falling onto one knee, blue eyes looking wildly up at Herbert. “Herbie...?”
“There was a flux in power,” Illyria added with a notable frown.
“Dawnie...”
Shaking his head, his eyes wide, Herbert was drawing rapid, shaking breaths. “No...” He turned and - he would never deny it - ran from the room. Half a dozen times, he stumbled on nothing, groping blindly along the walls.
He vaguely registered William following him, but didn’t look back, didn’t look around, didn’t care.
More important things. More important person. One person, only person.
Father...
Staggering, he desperately fumbled with the handles of the drawing room doors, his trembling hands made clumsy by fear, by distress, a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish slipping from his throat.
“Herbie...” William’s hands drew his away and he saw the blood stains smear on the brass. Father would be annoyed. So annoyed. Can’t have any mess. No stains. Always have to keep things clean.
Twisting the handle, William was watching him as he pushed the door open.
Inside the room, there was silence.
And the steady, rhythmic beat of a single mortal heart.
Swaying on his feet, Herbert heard the whimper in his throat, but couldn’t move, not even to approach the figure draped over the mortal’s slighter body. He couldn’t go closer, didn’t want to be sure, didn’t want to know or accept...
With great effort, he took a faltering step forward, felt William’s touch on his shoulder, support, comfort, love.
“Father?” How could a shout become a whisper? How could it be so weak?
It seemed that eternity hung in that moment, then slowly, his father moved, turned, looked towards him with haunted eyes and a tragic smile that made Herbert both sob and laugh his relief.
On legs that belonged to another, he half-ran, half-fell to his father, to his dearest and best and beloved one, falling to his knees and wrapped his arms around his father’s body. He could feel tears, could taste them.
“Oh, Herbert...” the whisper touched his hair made him tremble all over.
“Never again, Vati... never...” he whispered pleadingly, clutching his father as if he might be torn from him in a heartbeat. “Please...”
He felt the hand smoothing his shoulder, felt the caress to his hair, felt the emotion and exhaustion of the one person from whom he knew he could never be severed, would never be torn, who was his, always and ever, never to be parted.
“Never,” von Krolock whispered and slowly tilted his head.
Tears on his cheeks and hands clenched in shaking fists on his father’s back, Herbert sobbed aloud when his father’s fangs cut into his throat. His. His father. His everything. His all. His best and dearest and beloved.
Without thought or question, he clung all the tighter and sank his fangs into his father’s throat, claiming, marking, loving, assuring, cherishing, everything.
His father’s fingers smoothed his hair, gentle, comforting. Another hand stroked between Herbert’s shoulders, holding him as he had been held when he had woken from nightmares, when he had cried in the night, when he had been afraid, when he had still been so young.
Centuries had gone by, yet the scent of wisdom, the broad arms, the familiar, gentle touch, the soft hum of a lullaby he thought he had long-since forgotten reduced him once more to a shivering child in his father’s protective embrace.