02|Two

The empty bed mocked him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hemlock’s breath shuddered. “Yes, master.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘…Dregan… always so rough…’

‘…has to know… the others are never…’

‘…wish we could stop this…’

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he replied automatically, robotically, “One day.”

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

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

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

The last shred of Hemlock’s being shuttered itself away. “Yes, master.”

**

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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