08|Eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another flicker—confusion. Still, the vampire responded to the change in subject. “I—yes. You’re rather infamous.”

Chimera’s grin sharpened and he leaned in. “Oh?” he purred, and panic briefly crossed the vampire’s expression. “Do tell.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Chimera waited patiently for him to cave, and it didn’t take very long for him to do so. “Chimera. Blood of the Slaughter. Son of the False Bloody King. They say you lure victims into your bed before you carve them up just for fun, like a land-bound siren with an even greater inclination to violence.”

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

“Is that what you intend to do with me?”

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

He let the dagger dissolve into a mist and stepped away. “No.”

The vampire moved slowly, like he thought Chimera to be a rabid beast ready to pounce. To assuage his suspicion, Chimera made a show of stepping further away with splayed, empty hands. He couldn’t quite wipe off the smile tugging at his lips, though. Oh, how he loved the fear his very presence elicited. The power he held by simply existing.

Now standing next to Chimera’s desk and closer to the stairs, the vampire regarded him in return. “Why am I here?” he asked.

“That’s a question for you to answer, but I have another one for you: What’s your name?”

That made him pause. Chimera watched as his vampire looked to the papers on the desk, then to the empty altar, then the ritualistic sigil on the floor. “You can call me Hemlock.” He grimaced. “It’s the name I’ve been given, anyway. What do you mean, that’s a question for me to answer? I don’t know the answer, that’s why I asked.”

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

This caught the vampire’s—Hemlock—attention. “What?”

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

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

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

Hemlock licked away the dripping drool and venom, pink coating his cheeks and not quite hidden beneath his hand as he ducked his head to wipe at his mouth. “I—Um… I guess that makes sense. What makes you think I’m sticking around?”

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

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

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

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

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

Hemlock’s breathing hitched beneath his touch, but he didn’t pull away. “You want to learn about vampires. I am one. If… If you protect me, you can ‘poke about’ as much as you want.”

The terms were vague, but Chimera didn’t care. He’d have his fun either way, and Hemlock got his protection from his mutt of a former master. If anything, Hemlock got the better end of the deal. But Chimera knew that he’d have to teach Hemlock how to be a vampire—his prolonged status as newborn rolled off him in waves—and in teaching, he’d be learning as well. They both got what they wanted.

“It’s a bargain.”

**

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

But first.

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

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

“My son.”

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

There was a suspended pause, like the Lord of Bloodshed himself didn’t quite know how to respond to such an accusation—jesting, or serious? No one ever knew. “I believe you’ll find that my ‘meddling’ has indeed involved you.”

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

The fog rumbled. “Is that his name?”

He didn’t like that tone. Chimera took a single step forward and felt the tightly constrained aspects of his body loosen, like seeping blood from desperately bandaged wounds. He didn’t need a mirror to know that black inked his veins and dotted his skin in brutal black runes. “Use it at risk. He’s mine now.”

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

A snarl slipped past Chimera’s cracked cheer, but he quickly smothered it to slip into a beaming sneer. “No tantrum here.” He didn’t let his father respond before waving away the summoning magic, smearing the disappearing droplets for good measure. The room noticeably warmed in the absence of the death god’s presence as the fog cleared, and soon only Chimera stood in the center, staring down the empty altar. He should’ve known better than to look a gift horse in the mouth and question its existence. He’d never done anything to assuage his own blood’s questions and concerns. Foolish to think this moment of brief notice would change anything.

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

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

“Couldn’t last long without me, hm?” Chimera straightened and faced Hemlock, who froze after being caught.

The vampire hovered at the staircase, one foot on the last step and one foot in the basement. Hesitation trembled through him, but he didn’t flee this time. Rather, his eyes found the expose skin of Chimera’s wrist. “I… um. My master—Dregan—he…” He exhaled rather forcefully through his nose, and Chimera let his amusement show as the vampire tried to word his thoughts. Finally, Hemlock settled on saying, “My healing is slow for some reason, and I haven’t had blood in a while, at least none to heal some… injuries.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

No response to that, and Hemlock continued to stare hungrily. When he opened his mouth to speak, his fangs were descended and dripping with venom. “I don’t… I only ever drank out of bowls.”

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

Fangs sank into his skin, and a rush of venom flooded his veins. The calming effect quickly settled over his mind in its wake. Hemlock drank greedily—pressed his tongue against Chimera’s skin to catch every drop and reached up to hold his arm steady. Chimera resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean into his vampire, but he couldn’t entirely fight the sense of satisfaction curling through him. He’d always wondered what it felt like to have a vampire bite him. Now he could offer it to Hemlock whenever he needed it, that that idea made him giddy.

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

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

Right as he noticed the various wounds beginning to heal, the fangs slowly retracted from his wrist and Hemlock’s tongue swiped over the puncture wounds. Chimera had a feeling it was less a courtesy—vampire saliva healed just as much as the rest of their body did—and more an instinct to get every last drop. He didn’t say anything about it, just released Hemlock and let the vampire come back to himself.

Of course, he couldn’t resist saying, “I should probably admit that I don’t know what effect my blood has on your kind.”

Hemlock shot him a look, and Chimera offered a beaming smile as he danced away. “You don’t know? What if something happens?”

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

Hemlock’s frown could be felt across the room. A moment of silence passed, and Chimera worked through it without thinking much of it, steadily ridding the room of small flames. They’d be leaving soon, and he didn’t want his things to go to waste.

Quietly, Hemlock broke the silence to say, “I… didn’t hurt you, did I?”

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

The chair creaked in time with Hemlock’s fidgeting. “Right.”

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

Hemlock did as he was told, and his size shadowed Chimera even as they climbed up the stairs. He couldn't help but smile when he heard the vampire mutter under his breath, "What I need is to be away from murderous psychos."