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winterRight. People seem to like it, so here it is. The first installment in the Roses for Lucifer series, which is shaping up to be an epic.
Note: Origific. Technically, some characters are taken from Tanz der Vampire (property of Roman Polanski, etc, etc). Practically, this can be treated as original fiction - everything is explained re: characters and setting, and besides it's all interpolated from eight lines in the original musical, quoted below. This incarnation of Draculea is all mine.
Pairing: Vlad Draculea/Graf von Krolock
Rating: NC-17 for real. X. Whatever's highest.
Warnings: Slash, angst, bloodplay, BDSM, humiliation, dubious consent. Also, my first time writing something like this. My vampires managed to outkink me.
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fyrie's fault as usual. Special thanks to moodpoisoning for holding my hand.
ALS ES SOMMER WAR
Castle von Krolock, the border of Transylvania, Holy Empire of the German Nation, Summer of the Year of Our Lord 1617
The pain tore through him, unrelenting, merciless.
For over three hundred years, the chapel had housed Mass and vigils, christenings and funerals. The stones themselves had soaked in the sanctity of words and water spilled, until even the carved doorframe burned him as he leaned against it. Inside the chapel, the darkness was barely muted by starlight falling through the window, soft and charcoal-grey.
Johannes von Krolock forced his feet to move, to take one last step into the chapel. His knees gave out under him, and with the slowness of the setting moon he fell to the floor.
Even the floor had echoed to the words of thousands of rituals. Now it was ice under his cheek, leeching the semblance of life from him as he struggled to turn his head. But now he saw it.
The last carved tomb in a long line of his ancestors, the other side of the chapel still empty to receive the bones of those that would come after him. A place beside that tomb left still, though the coffin - the one ordered when Johannes had been ill and all thought he would die - now rested in the lowest crypt of the castle. He would not join her in this place of holiness, he knew.
As he began the agonising crawl, limb by limb taking him out of the chapel and into the safety of the courtyard, profaned many times over by spilled blood, he realised that in his one glimpse, he had not read the words written on her tomb. He whispered them now, as he crawled.
Izabela von Krolock, de domo Szilagy. 1598-1617. Requiescat in Pace.
Outside, leaning against the stones that still burned him, using that pain as an anchor for his mind, he tried to remember her scent. A little more than a week, and it was already fading in his memory.
He only remembered how the corn had smelled, earth-rich and harvest-ready. Izabela had been surveying the fields when he joined her and dragged her to a grassy hill that already smelled of hay when they lay down on the dry herbs in the twilight. She had blossomed as he lay in his illness-that-wasn't. She had been warm, flush with life, with struggling through all the daily toils of running the estate. Finally there was something that caught her attention, let her show her quality. He could not remember ever being happier with her.
So young, she had been. Seventeen when he saw her, when he knew she must be his. Not that young in his parents' time, but now girls her age were flitting through ballrooms, blushing at boys their own age. Too young to marry, too young to bear, too young and too innocent. He had fallen into her knowing eyes and jaded smile, and she had not known what she was toying with.
Lying on the grass, he had told her everything, for the first time, and for the first time he had seen a woman in her eyes, not a girl.
Too much, that. Too many memories. He stopped before they turned bitter and stinging, as the taste of her blood. He pushed himself upright, catching unneeded breaths.
You are a monster now, he reminded himself forcefully. Be strong as one.
Still, it was evening, and his feet carried him to the doors of the nursery. Eva, Izabela's old nurse, curtsied to him as he entered. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the young wet nurse duck out of the room. He did not blame her. Tales were already carrying, of how the Graf would not enter a church even at his wife's funeral, of how he barely touched his food and never went out in sunlight. The girl was local and would know the meaning of such tales.
Under the light covers, the small body was unmoving, and for a moment he wondered whether he had not been too late. Then sparkling grey eyes opened lazily, and his son reached out to him.
He felt Eva standing by the door. She would know the tales, too, yet she allowed him in the room.
He knelt by Herbert's bed and took his son into his arms. So small, so frail still, and already he could not imagine foregoing this nightly ritual anymore than he could forego feeding. He knew children died often, but for once his strange dreams were a blessing. He had known Herbert would live past his first birthday and beyond, and the boy had not proven him wrong.
Tiny fingers tugged on his sleeves, and he obediently kissed Herbert's forehead. "I hope you weren't of any trouble to Fräulein Eva today? You should be mindful of the fact she's older than you and can't move so fast."
"Father!" The boy giggled, then hugged von Krolock's neck tightly.
Johannes lifted the child into his arms, then walked over to the window, gently rocking the small body. Duty brought him here, to his son, but he could not deny that Herbert's presence banished some of his demons. The boy was an anchor to his mortal life. He wondered if the golden hair would darken as Herbert aged, but then Izabela's locks had been the same, fine and straight and palest gold, so unlike his own thick black hair...
He felt Herbert shift in his arms, stifling a yawn with a small hand, and he smiled. Such good manners, and the boy had not passed eighteen months of age yet.
He set his son down on the bed once more. "Sweet dreams, dear one. You need to have a lot of energy to tire your caretakers out tomorrow."
Herbert sat on the bed, looking up at him hesitantly. "Father? Where Mother? Mother come?"
Oh.
Von Krolock closed his eyes, trying to find the words. After almost a year of refusing to see the child that had cost her so much discomfort and pain as she bore him, Izabela had reluctantly consented to visit the boy every Sunday night, eventually going so far as to hug Herbert and address him by name. With her golden hair and beautiful dresses, the delicate lace collars framing her face, she must have seemed like an angel to Herbert. And now-
"I'm sorry, little one," he murmured, his hands clenching on his thighs as he knelt by the bed. "Mother is gone. You won't see her again, and I won't see her either. She didn't want it, but she had to go."
The grey eyes, so much like Izabela's, but innocent in ways that she had never been, blinked. "Why?"
Von Krolock managed to clamp down on the emotions that tore through him long enough to shake his head, kiss his son one more time and sweep out of the nursery.
Izabela had been so happy, that evening. In bloom of her abilities at last, weaving fanciful dreams in the air, the Lady of the castle overseeing the lands as he was left to delve through his books and alchemical artefacts. And friends, she had told him, he needed to invite friends over more often. She knew she had complained of boring scholars and strange-smelling alchemists, but people like the Wallachian lord were interesting - so many tales to be told, almost as good as seeing things herself. And, she had added, once Herbert was a little older, maybe they could go somewhere? Vienna, Venice, Rome, Madrid?
It had been easy to open himself to her in turn. To tell her that there would be no more nights and weeks spent in his laboratory, that the Wallachian had offered him the very immortality he'd been seeking. Not the true philosopher's stone, a shortcut with the abyss stretching out along both sides of the path, each step a danger in itself, but still a force to withstand the years.
She had held his hand and reassured him that he was not alone in this. She had drawn him towards her, for the first time in months, and laughed as he buried his face in her skin. She whispered that if he found ways to allay the tortures of childbearing, she wouldn't mind a little girl to dress up and show off and marry to a nice young man in St Stephen's Cathedral.
She had ridden fast through the forest, before, and a branch had left a wound on her throat.
Enough, enough of this, he almost whispered aloud as he stumbled through the hallways of the castle. How long since he had slept, now? There was an empty coffin in the crypt, prepared to the Wallachian's orders, but no, not yet, not to lie like a corpse and accept, submit, embrace. Better to distract his mind, to read, write, bury himself in knowledge and possible cures rather than cold stones.
In the library, he leaned on his desk and let his knees buckle under him once more. Only for a moment, as he gathered his strength. Only for a heartbeat.
* * *
At first, he was not sure what woke him. Immobile, he took stock of his surroundings.
The library, a place more familiar to him than his own chambers. Cold stone under his body, but no colder than his own flesh. Sun, somewhere, falling through windows that he really should have blackened or curtained off by now, but again none of it touching him.
A booted foot prodded him in the ribs. "On your feet, Excellenz."
At first he thought his ears deceived him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the man - vampire - towering over him. Green eyes shadowed by too long lashes, a glint of fangs, dark waves of hair falling over broad shoulders clad in vulgar red. Draculea, who had promised him life and granted death and despair.
A shudder ran through him, but he steeled himself against it. No. No weakness, not in front of him.
He forced his hands to stillness as he reached for the edge of the desk, raising himself to one knee.
Then his leg was kicked out from under him.
He toppled to one side, his sleeve catching on the edge of the desk, tearing a hole in the cloth. He twisted to avoid another kick, but it was just Draculea going down on one knee beside him, a broad hand twisting in the cloth at von Krolock's throat.
"You were eager to embrace life eternal," the vampire lord said conversationally. "What is the meaning of this?"
Von Krolock closed his eyes, the library replaced by the image that haunted him continuously. Even the fear on Izabela's lifeless face was a better sight than Draculea's green eyes. "I do not have to account myself to you."
"Wrong." The hand clenched, lifting his head from the floor. "You account yourself to me. You obey me. I am your Sire. You are mine."
Still that tone, casual, emotionless, and von Krolock wondered if Draculea ever gave in to anger.
"Izabela," he whispered.
"My condolences." Was there tenderness in the way the Wallachian lowered him back to the floor, touched his throat, jaw, eyelids? "I would have arrived to the chit's funeral, but I do not get along with the servants of God. A small foible that you've no doubt discovered yourself."
"Izabela-" He drew a deep breath, lifting his hands to Draculea's shoulders in an approximation of an embrace. "It was for her."
The laughter was as coarse as the wool under his fingers. "You truly are an idiot."
He tried to twist his face away from that touch, but a sharp nail pressed against his eye, threatening to gouge it.
"She was a callous, gold-digging bitch," Draculea continued. "She cared for none, not even her own child, and she only ever loved the image of you that she created in her mind. She didn't deserve regret."
Somehow the words passed him by, though they painted a familiar image. He chuckled wearily. "How do you know?"
"Did you think I only visited you at night?"
A flash of bright anger, and his eyes snapped open as his hands clenched, straining uselessly against the corded muscles of Draculea's neck. Did that snarl come from his own throat?
"Good." Draculea laughed again. "Hate. Hate me, if you will, but hate and live, live forever!"
His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind still remembered the tricks of brawls in student inns from Prague to Padua. A moment to get his knee up, and the kick knocked Draculea into the desk with a heavy thud.
Propelled by anger, he stood up smoothly, calling on four generations of Grafs von Krolock and his own pride to lend weight to his voice. "Leave my house. You are no longer welcome here."
A low growl turned into grating laughter. He turned away, unwilling to even look at the other vampire. Stripes of sunlight cut through the library, glittering on jewelled covers of manuscripts and making old leather gleam. They beckoned him. Just one step, out of the castle gates-
Arms slid around his waist, and he stiffened as Draculea's wide hands met and tangled over his abdomen. Leaning against his back, the vampire lord smelled of blood and horse-sweat, almost human, almost real.
Full lips touched his ear. "Idiotule." The insult sounded almost affectionate. "You are lucky, my sorcerer, that I know exactly what to do with ones like you, with that pride and pain you revel in. I know well, and personally."
Movement, too fast to register, and a punch sent him to his knees. He fell forward, catching his weight on his arms. A hand caught his chin, gaudy rings glittering.
"It's going to be a pleasant task," Draculea murmured, baring his fangs.
There was an edge to von Krolock's anger that had not been there before, dark as venal blood, sweet as pain. He willed it to show in his eyes as he looked up at the vampire lord. His hand clenched, nails scraping the wooden floor.
"I learned torture from masters," Draculea continued. "I know hundreds of ways of causing pain. Simplicity works best."
Another blur of movement, and a vicious kick, stab of pain in von Krolock's chest. Barely, he kept himself from falling, though each breath set off a spasm of pain.
Hands on his shoulders, and Draculea's face closer again, tongue sneaking out to wet scarlet lips. His eyes slid to the vampire's throat, pale, immobile-
"Vampires," Draculea whispered, "do not need to breathe."
Without drawing air for a snarl, von Krolock rolled away. A knife on the desk, doors to the laboratory, acid and lye and aqua regia-
The weight on his arms and thighs pinned him to the floor, dust under his cheek, fingers twisting into his hair to pull his head up again. In front of him, a patch of sunlight, its heat and light blinding to his eyes.
Long fingers locked around his wrist, squeezing the bones together, moving his hand measure by measure closer to the sunlight. Then pain, and a white lance in his ribs as he drew a breath to scream.
Another hand clenched around his throat, stifling the sound. The pain was stunning, blinding, centuries or heartbeats before his hand was released.
He was rolled over onto his back, away from the patch of sunlight. He lifted his hand to his lips. It trembled with each gasping, unnecessary breath, but every stab of pain helped, helped forget the burning that left his fingers scorched and blistered, blackened by the ash that had been his skin.
A hand smoothed his hair, spreading it on the hard floor. He turned his face into the touch, then startled as lips brushed his jaw.
"The sun kills us," Draculea whispered, the low voice thrumming against his skin. "So does faith. We are of darkness and of lies. Do you believe in God, Johannes?"
His mouth was dry as dust, and he swallowed before answering. "God is dead. I've long since stopped searching for him."
"Good."
A firm kiss was pressed against his lips, and a weight settled on his thighs. Draculea shifted, and though von Krolock's sight was still blurred, the smell made his mouth water.
Draculea pressed his bleeding wrist against von Krolock's parted lips. "Drink."
The blood was thick, sluggish, with far more substance than human ichor. There was pain in Draculea's blood, and betrayal, and loneliness. Not for the first time, he wondered who the Wallachian was, with the name of a monster and the face of a devil.
He thought he had seen that face, on a painting in a palace near Buda-Pesht.
Draculea had a dagger in his other hand and he held the flat of the bloodied blade against von Krolock's chest as he flicked open one button after another. Those large green eyes gleamed in the shadow.
"You still cling to life."
"It's the thirst - I can't fight it," he protested. He knew he should rise, command, banish, but it hurt too much to move.
"You will learn to like it," Draculea whispered. "It can't be quenched, but it's so fun to try."
The blood-smeared wrist was moved away from his lips, and he almost protested, but then his arms were being stretched over his head, smoothed into place by careful touches. His hands clenched around something he thought had to be the lower railing of a shelf, a metal rail that provided a latch for the sliding ladders, his own construction and design. It felt smooth under his hands, sun-warm, a firm hold in a world that wasn't like anything he'd known.
He did not realise he had closed his eyes until Draculea kissed them, his cheek, jaw, lips, sharp fangs nipping with an elegance he had not thought the Wallachian was capable of. After the pain and the rich bitterness of blood, it was a shock of gentleness. He opened his lips without protest, turning the kiss into a lazy exploration that made them almost equal. He was damned already, wife-slayer, blood-drinker, so what was one more sin, as pleasant a one as this?
Draculea's hands had been moving over his arms and shoulders, from his hands to his neck and back, but now the vampire lord sat up again. Von Krolock arched after him with an annoyed murmur, but a rattle of metal brought him short.
The iron chain of the medallion that had rested on Draculea's chest was now knotted around von Krolock's wrists, binding him to the rail, leaving him pinned under Draculea's weight.
He jerked, rattling the chain until it bit into his scorched skin. "Let me go!"
Draculea's red lips curved in a mocking smile. "I don't think so, Excellenz."
A jab into his broken ribs sent von Krolock arching with a hiss as the pain stabbed through him. As he twisted away from the touch, he realised that his chest was now bare, his shirt pushed up his arms and bunched around his wrists. Each touch felt like fire, and he stifled the growl rising in his throat.
Draculea's laughter echoed in the room. His hand pushed harder, keeping the other vampire pinned to the floor by pain alone as his legs were wrenched up one after another, each boot sliding off with seeming ease under preternaturally strong fingers. When the ties of his breeches slipped loose, von Krolock tried to struggle, but a minute movement of Draculea's other hand made his world contract to the pain of bone fragments sliding against each other in his chest.
A part of his mind was dazedly wondering how it had come to that, but his anger was rising, circles of flame in its darkness.
Teeth scraped against his collarbone, raising red welts but not breaking the skin. He turned his head away as Draculea rubbed his cheek against the hollow of his throat, like a cat marking a place with its scent. He could hide under this anger, retreat under the surface to a place as dark and cold as the night-
"I think you still haven't had enough," Draculea whispered in his ear. "You think too much, Johannes. Feel."
The smugness in that voice made something give inside him. He surged up, snarling, unmindful of pain, his teeth snapping a hair's breadth from Draculea's skin.
He sagged in his bonds, his cheeks burning, as Draculea laughed. He turned his head away, willing his hair to hide his shame at behaving like such an animal. His chest spasmed with a choked-off sob, then pain again from his broken ribs.
The hands on his skin turned gentle again, guiding him to turn over until he saw nothing but the dusty floor and the darkness of his own hair barring the light from his eyes. It hurt less to breathe this way when propped his weight on his elbows and knees, and the familiar pattern of breath helped still the shivering, as did the pain in his burned hand twisting in the chains. His wrists were crossed, pressed against each other, and as his other palm brushed the burn, he realised new skin was already growing there.
Then nails raked his thighs, drawing him back against Draculea's hips.
"Being on your knees suits you," the other vampire murmured. "I might just keep you this way."
He growled before he could stop himself, bucking against the chains and grip both, letting the pain flow through him, revelling in it. He felt the touch of hair on his back as Draculea leaned over him, then kisses brushed across trembling muscles, over his spine, an agile tongue outlining each outline of bone under the skin.
A brief, sharp bite to his neck as one hand slipped from his hip to open him, and he forced his mouth open with panting before he could bite through his lip. Bruises could be hidden, gloves worn, but not marks on his face-
Pain again, because he was nowhere near ready enough, though the keening sound he made was lost in Draculea's growl. He forced himself to relax, immobile, not even trembling as the other vampire moved, until the invasion was complete.
Draculea was breathing now as well, his chest pressed to von Krolock's back, hands resting on the younger vampire's shoulders. One of them shifted and they shuddered, drawing breath at the same time.
Von Krolock bent his head lower, resting it on his crossed arms, stretched almost to breaking. His back was arched, tense with pain and longing. He didn't know if it was his damnation or his human nature, but something in him was past the anger now, past the mortified pride, though not at peace with how he was, bound and pinned, unable to escape even if he wanted to. Fire in his veins, twined inseparably with the white heat of pain.
He had thought he'd never be warm again.
He snarled and bucked under Draculea, throwing his head back at the flash of pleasure. He felt the other vampire's movement, surprised laughter, then nails were clawing his sides again, pinning him until their rhythms were in time. A strong hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back, and he growled into the air, baring his fangs.
As he bucked again, jarring their pace in a way that sent sparks flowing through his head, he heard the creak of metal and realised he could tear himself free. If he wanted to.
With one of those grasping hands wandering lower, he decided he did not. Teeth cut into the nape of his neck again and he did not stifle his moan. Draculea seemed to appreciate it by the way his teeth bit deeper and his - attentions - intensified -
The railing did give way then as the spasms of pleasure tore through him, the pain turning into ecstasy of its own. Two more thrusts, jarring his whole body as if his very bones had turned molten, and they were falling, shuddering with pleasure, the floor hard and cold under their bodies.
Draculea bit the young vampire's lip and received a tired snarl in return.
"I am your Sire," he murmured wickedly.
Von Krolock shifted, slipping his hands free of the railing and bringing them to his chest. If it allowed him to trace the lines of sweat on Draculea's chest, there was nothing to it. Scientific curiosity about the physics of exertion in corpses, he thought.
An arm slipped around him as he examined the chain that bound his wrists and the medallion on it. He threw the other vampire a curious look. "That's the symbol of the Order of the Dragon. I thought they were long dissolved. Where did you get it?"
"From my father." Draculea leaned in to lick a trace of blood from the other vampire's neck. "Indirectly, but the assassins that killed him brought it as proof to Buda-Pesht, and I requested it when I was invested in the Order."
Von Krolock turned his head sharply, narrowing his eyes. "I think I've read this story."
He shook his head. It was quite impossible, of course. A legend dead a century and a half before, still used to frighten children, a name easily appropriated by someone who wished to inspire similar terror.
Draculea's laughter was warmer than before, and his arm tightened around von Krolock's waist. "I was a legend in my own lifetime, Johannes. Much is lost, but much remains as well. And the Order of the Dragon died and lived with me."
Von Krolock looked at his bound hands again. He had seen a portrait, once, and there had been a resemblance. The same sensual lips, sharp line of nose, cheeks and eyes delicate enough to belong to a woman and cruel enough to belong to a demon. As if the painter had heard a description of the man before him, though not of how wide the shoulders were, how strong the hands, how wicked the sparkle in those dark green eyes.
He held his hands higher so that Draculea could untangle the chain from them. "Tell me about the Order of the Dragon."
"There is one danger to the life of the West," Draculea said as he slipped the medallion around his own neck again. "War ends. Plague ends. All these threats contain the seeds of their own destruction. When they are past, we rebuild. What we should fear is those who seek to replace us instead of destroy us, to enslave us to their own cause. Take our children and raise them to do their bidding."
"The Ottoman Empire." Von Krolock looked at the other side of the library, where several copies of the Qu'ran rested alongside his theological books. He had not approached those shelves since his turning, afraid of the pain even the sight of a cross could render unto him now. "Even as vampires, if our civilisation falls..."
Draculea grinned. "No wine, no women, no song. Hence, the Order. We work behind the scenes, with secrets and dirty work. The night is ours, after all. And I could use a sorcerer of your power, and a seer."
"Magic is less reliable than gunpowder." Von Krolock sat up, slipping his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. "And my sight is less reliable still."
"Is it? I've watched you for the past few days, Excellenz. I noticed a distinct lack of collapsing or demolishing the furniture in your rooms due to fits of visions. I'd say the spectre of madness is past you."
Von Krolock paused with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. It was true - since he had started this new damned existence, he had not once been brought to his knees by visions of the distant future. The thought - was less pleasing than it should have been.
"Perhaps that gift is lost to me," he offered quietly.
"Or under your control, after three decades of controlling you." Draculea's fingers stole inside his shirt again, moving purposefully over his bruised skin. "This will hurt."
Von Krolock stifled a cry as his ribs were sharply pulled into alignment. He leaned against Draculea's chest, letting the other vampire support him. The contact felt comforting until Draculea nipped at his throat.
"You should be healed completely by next sunset," the vampire lord said as he let go, reaching for his own clothing. "Try your magic then. You'll find it comes easier to ones damned as we are. In decades to come, you may start to discover powers you never suspected."
Von Krolock felt a prickle of curiosity. "What kind of powers?"
"They differ for each of us. I would show you my command of mist and wolves, but both require darkness to accomplish. Next time, my sorcerer."
"Next time?" He fastened the rest of his clothing before rising to his feet. His ribs already hurt less, knitting together rapidly.
"The Order demands much of me. You will have time to accustom yourself to your new status before winter draws me to these mountains again. I'll have books sent here, what little of our lore is written. I may have commands for you also; my messengers will bear my sign."
Von Krolock nodded slowly. The sun had moved to the west, leaving the library almost in shadow, letting him approach the window without risking burns. The forest was summer-green, the fields beyond it gold, heavy with grain. He looked down to the meadow in front of the castle walls, where Izabela's old nurse Eva stood with her arms stretched open, looking into the forest.
Draculea's hands rested on his shoulders again. "No more foolishness, Johannes?"
He leaned back against his Sire's grip as he watched the tiny figure toddle out of the forest, easily evading Eva's grasp. Through the open window he heard Herbert's joyous laughter, saw the sunlight glitter in the boy's golden hair.
"No more," he agreed.
He had not told Herbert bedtime stories for weeks now. He would have to make up for it. A story of demons and old warrior princes tonight, perhaps? His boy liked that sort of fanciful tales.
-FINIS?-
Note: Origific. Technically, some characters are taken from Tanz der Vampire (property of Roman Polanski, etc, etc). Practically, this can be treated as original fiction - everything is explained re: characters and setting, and besides it's all interpolated from eight lines in the original musical, quoted below. This incarnation of Draculea is all mine.
Pairing: Vlad Draculea/Graf von Krolock
Rating: NC-17 for real. X. Whatever's highest.
Warnings: Slash, angst, bloodplay, BDSM, humiliation, dubious consent. Also, my first time writing something like this. My vampires managed to outkink me.
All
fyrie's fault as usual. Special thanks to moodpoisoning for holding my hand.ALS ES SOMMER WAR
The corn was golden and the sky was clear
Sixteen-seventeen, it was summer then
We lay in the whispering grass
Her touch on my skin was tender and warm
She had no idea I was already lost
Even I then believed I could yet win
But that day it happened for the first time
She died in my arms
Castle von Krolock, the border of Transylvania, Holy Empire of the German Nation, Summer of the Year of Our Lord 1617
The pain tore through him, unrelenting, merciless.
For over three hundred years, the chapel had housed Mass and vigils, christenings and funerals. The stones themselves had soaked in the sanctity of words and water spilled, until even the carved doorframe burned him as he leaned against it. Inside the chapel, the darkness was barely muted by starlight falling through the window, soft and charcoal-grey.
Johannes von Krolock forced his feet to move, to take one last step into the chapel. His knees gave out under him, and with the slowness of the setting moon he fell to the floor.
Even the floor had echoed to the words of thousands of rituals. Now it was ice under his cheek, leeching the semblance of life from him as he struggled to turn his head. But now he saw it.
The last carved tomb in a long line of his ancestors, the other side of the chapel still empty to receive the bones of those that would come after him. A place beside that tomb left still, though the coffin - the one ordered when Johannes had been ill and all thought he would die - now rested in the lowest crypt of the castle. He would not join her in this place of holiness, he knew.
As he began the agonising crawl, limb by limb taking him out of the chapel and into the safety of the courtyard, profaned many times over by spilled blood, he realised that in his one glimpse, he had not read the words written on her tomb. He whispered them now, as he crawled.
Izabela von Krolock, de domo Szilagy. 1598-1617. Requiescat in Pace.
Outside, leaning against the stones that still burned him, using that pain as an anchor for his mind, he tried to remember her scent. A little more than a week, and it was already fading in his memory.
He only remembered how the corn had smelled, earth-rich and harvest-ready. Izabela had been surveying the fields when he joined her and dragged her to a grassy hill that already smelled of hay when they lay down on the dry herbs in the twilight. She had blossomed as he lay in his illness-that-wasn't. She had been warm, flush with life, with struggling through all the daily toils of running the estate. Finally there was something that caught her attention, let her show her quality. He could not remember ever being happier with her.
So young, she had been. Seventeen when he saw her, when he knew she must be his. Not that young in his parents' time, but now girls her age were flitting through ballrooms, blushing at boys their own age. Too young to marry, too young to bear, too young and too innocent. He had fallen into her knowing eyes and jaded smile, and she had not known what she was toying with.
Lying on the grass, he had told her everything, for the first time, and for the first time he had seen a woman in her eyes, not a girl.
Too much, that. Too many memories. He stopped before they turned bitter and stinging, as the taste of her blood. He pushed himself upright, catching unneeded breaths.
You are a monster now, he reminded himself forcefully. Be strong as one.
Still, it was evening, and his feet carried him to the doors of the nursery. Eva, Izabela's old nurse, curtsied to him as he entered. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the young wet nurse duck out of the room. He did not blame her. Tales were already carrying, of how the Graf would not enter a church even at his wife's funeral, of how he barely touched his food and never went out in sunlight. The girl was local and would know the meaning of such tales.
Under the light covers, the small body was unmoving, and for a moment he wondered whether he had not been too late. Then sparkling grey eyes opened lazily, and his son reached out to him.
He felt Eva standing by the door. She would know the tales, too, yet she allowed him in the room.
He knelt by Herbert's bed and took his son into his arms. So small, so frail still, and already he could not imagine foregoing this nightly ritual anymore than he could forego feeding. He knew children died often, but for once his strange dreams were a blessing. He had known Herbert would live past his first birthday and beyond, and the boy had not proven him wrong.
Tiny fingers tugged on his sleeves, and he obediently kissed Herbert's forehead. "I hope you weren't of any trouble to Fräulein Eva today? You should be mindful of the fact she's older than you and can't move so fast."
"Father!" The boy giggled, then hugged von Krolock's neck tightly.
Johannes lifted the child into his arms, then walked over to the window, gently rocking the small body. Duty brought him here, to his son, but he could not deny that Herbert's presence banished some of his demons. The boy was an anchor to his mortal life. He wondered if the golden hair would darken as Herbert aged, but then Izabela's locks had been the same, fine and straight and palest gold, so unlike his own thick black hair...
He felt Herbert shift in his arms, stifling a yawn with a small hand, and he smiled. Such good manners, and the boy had not passed eighteen months of age yet.
He set his son down on the bed once more. "Sweet dreams, dear one. You need to have a lot of energy to tire your caretakers out tomorrow."
Herbert sat on the bed, looking up at him hesitantly. "Father? Where Mother? Mother come?"
Oh.
Von Krolock closed his eyes, trying to find the words. After almost a year of refusing to see the child that had cost her so much discomfort and pain as she bore him, Izabela had reluctantly consented to visit the boy every Sunday night, eventually going so far as to hug Herbert and address him by name. With her golden hair and beautiful dresses, the delicate lace collars framing her face, she must have seemed like an angel to Herbert. And now-
"I'm sorry, little one," he murmured, his hands clenching on his thighs as he knelt by the bed. "Mother is gone. You won't see her again, and I won't see her either. She didn't want it, but she had to go."
The grey eyes, so much like Izabela's, but innocent in ways that she had never been, blinked. "Why?"
Von Krolock managed to clamp down on the emotions that tore through him long enough to shake his head, kiss his son one more time and sweep out of the nursery.
Izabela had been so happy, that evening. In bloom of her abilities at last, weaving fanciful dreams in the air, the Lady of the castle overseeing the lands as he was left to delve through his books and alchemical artefacts. And friends, she had told him, he needed to invite friends over more often. She knew she had complained of boring scholars and strange-smelling alchemists, but people like the Wallachian lord were interesting - so many tales to be told, almost as good as seeing things herself. And, she had added, once Herbert was a little older, maybe they could go somewhere? Vienna, Venice, Rome, Madrid?
It had been easy to open himself to her in turn. To tell her that there would be no more nights and weeks spent in his laboratory, that the Wallachian had offered him the very immortality he'd been seeking. Not the true philosopher's stone, a shortcut with the abyss stretching out along both sides of the path, each step a danger in itself, but still a force to withstand the years.
She had held his hand and reassured him that he was not alone in this. She had drawn him towards her, for the first time in months, and laughed as he buried his face in her skin. She whispered that if he found ways to allay the tortures of childbearing, she wouldn't mind a little girl to dress up and show off and marry to a nice young man in St Stephen's Cathedral.
She had ridden fast through the forest, before, and a branch had left a wound on her throat.
Enough, enough of this, he almost whispered aloud as he stumbled through the hallways of the castle. How long since he had slept, now? There was an empty coffin in the crypt, prepared to the Wallachian's orders, but no, not yet, not to lie like a corpse and accept, submit, embrace. Better to distract his mind, to read, write, bury himself in knowledge and possible cures rather than cold stones.
In the library, he leaned on his desk and let his knees buckle under him once more. Only for a moment, as he gathered his strength. Only for a heartbeat.
* * *
At first, he was not sure what woke him. Immobile, he took stock of his surroundings.
The library, a place more familiar to him than his own chambers. Cold stone under his body, but no colder than his own flesh. Sun, somewhere, falling through windows that he really should have blackened or curtained off by now, but again none of it touching him.
A booted foot prodded him in the ribs. "On your feet, Excellenz."
At first he thought his ears deceived him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the man - vampire - towering over him. Green eyes shadowed by too long lashes, a glint of fangs, dark waves of hair falling over broad shoulders clad in vulgar red. Draculea, who had promised him life and granted death and despair.
A shudder ran through him, but he steeled himself against it. No. No weakness, not in front of him.
He forced his hands to stillness as he reached for the edge of the desk, raising himself to one knee.
Then his leg was kicked out from under him.
He toppled to one side, his sleeve catching on the edge of the desk, tearing a hole in the cloth. He twisted to avoid another kick, but it was just Draculea going down on one knee beside him, a broad hand twisting in the cloth at von Krolock's throat.
"You were eager to embrace life eternal," the vampire lord said conversationally. "What is the meaning of this?"
Von Krolock closed his eyes, the library replaced by the image that haunted him continuously. Even the fear on Izabela's lifeless face was a better sight than Draculea's green eyes. "I do not have to account myself to you."
"Wrong." The hand clenched, lifting his head from the floor. "You account yourself to me. You obey me. I am your Sire. You are mine."
Still that tone, casual, emotionless, and von Krolock wondered if Draculea ever gave in to anger.
"Izabela," he whispered.
"My condolences." Was there tenderness in the way the Wallachian lowered him back to the floor, touched his throat, jaw, eyelids? "I would have arrived to the chit's funeral, but I do not get along with the servants of God. A small foible that you've no doubt discovered yourself."
"Izabela-" He drew a deep breath, lifting his hands to Draculea's shoulders in an approximation of an embrace. "It was for her."
The laughter was as coarse as the wool under his fingers. "You truly are an idiot."
He tried to twist his face away from that touch, but a sharp nail pressed against his eye, threatening to gouge it.
"She was a callous, gold-digging bitch," Draculea continued. "She cared for none, not even her own child, and she only ever loved the image of you that she created in her mind. She didn't deserve regret."
Somehow the words passed him by, though they painted a familiar image. He chuckled wearily. "How do you know?"
"Did you think I only visited you at night?"
A flash of bright anger, and his eyes snapped open as his hands clenched, straining uselessly against the corded muscles of Draculea's neck. Did that snarl come from his own throat?
"Good." Draculea laughed again. "Hate. Hate me, if you will, but hate and live, live forever!"
His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind still remembered the tricks of brawls in student inns from Prague to Padua. A moment to get his knee up, and the kick knocked Draculea into the desk with a heavy thud.
Propelled by anger, he stood up smoothly, calling on four generations of Grafs von Krolock and his own pride to lend weight to his voice. "Leave my house. You are no longer welcome here."
A low growl turned into grating laughter. He turned away, unwilling to even look at the other vampire. Stripes of sunlight cut through the library, glittering on jewelled covers of manuscripts and making old leather gleam. They beckoned him. Just one step, out of the castle gates-
Arms slid around his waist, and he stiffened as Draculea's wide hands met and tangled over his abdomen. Leaning against his back, the vampire lord smelled of blood and horse-sweat, almost human, almost real.
Full lips touched his ear. "Idiotule." The insult sounded almost affectionate. "You are lucky, my sorcerer, that I know exactly what to do with ones like you, with that pride and pain you revel in. I know well, and personally."
Movement, too fast to register, and a punch sent him to his knees. He fell forward, catching his weight on his arms. A hand caught his chin, gaudy rings glittering.
"It's going to be a pleasant task," Draculea murmured, baring his fangs.
There was an edge to von Krolock's anger that had not been there before, dark as venal blood, sweet as pain. He willed it to show in his eyes as he looked up at the vampire lord. His hand clenched, nails scraping the wooden floor.
"I learned torture from masters," Draculea continued. "I know hundreds of ways of causing pain. Simplicity works best."
Another blur of movement, and a vicious kick, stab of pain in von Krolock's chest. Barely, he kept himself from falling, though each breath set off a spasm of pain.
Hands on his shoulders, and Draculea's face closer again, tongue sneaking out to wet scarlet lips. His eyes slid to the vampire's throat, pale, immobile-
"Vampires," Draculea whispered, "do not need to breathe."
Without drawing air for a snarl, von Krolock rolled away. A knife on the desk, doors to the laboratory, acid and lye and aqua regia-
The weight on his arms and thighs pinned him to the floor, dust under his cheek, fingers twisting into his hair to pull his head up again. In front of him, a patch of sunlight, its heat and light blinding to his eyes.
Long fingers locked around his wrist, squeezing the bones together, moving his hand measure by measure closer to the sunlight. Then pain, and a white lance in his ribs as he drew a breath to scream.
Another hand clenched around his throat, stifling the sound. The pain was stunning, blinding, centuries or heartbeats before his hand was released.
He was rolled over onto his back, away from the patch of sunlight. He lifted his hand to his lips. It trembled with each gasping, unnecessary breath, but every stab of pain helped, helped forget the burning that left his fingers scorched and blistered, blackened by the ash that had been his skin.
A hand smoothed his hair, spreading it on the hard floor. He turned his face into the touch, then startled as lips brushed his jaw.
"The sun kills us," Draculea whispered, the low voice thrumming against his skin. "So does faith. We are of darkness and of lies. Do you believe in God, Johannes?"
His mouth was dry as dust, and he swallowed before answering. "God is dead. I've long since stopped searching for him."
"Good."
A firm kiss was pressed against his lips, and a weight settled on his thighs. Draculea shifted, and though von Krolock's sight was still blurred, the smell made his mouth water.
Draculea pressed his bleeding wrist against von Krolock's parted lips. "Drink."
The blood was thick, sluggish, with far more substance than human ichor. There was pain in Draculea's blood, and betrayal, and loneliness. Not for the first time, he wondered who the Wallachian was, with the name of a monster and the face of a devil.
He thought he had seen that face, on a painting in a palace near Buda-Pesht.
Draculea had a dagger in his other hand and he held the flat of the bloodied blade against von Krolock's chest as he flicked open one button after another. Those large green eyes gleamed in the shadow.
"You still cling to life."
"It's the thirst - I can't fight it," he protested. He knew he should rise, command, banish, but it hurt too much to move.
"You will learn to like it," Draculea whispered. "It can't be quenched, but it's so fun to try."
The blood-smeared wrist was moved away from his lips, and he almost protested, but then his arms were being stretched over his head, smoothed into place by careful touches. His hands clenched around something he thought had to be the lower railing of a shelf, a metal rail that provided a latch for the sliding ladders, his own construction and design. It felt smooth under his hands, sun-warm, a firm hold in a world that wasn't like anything he'd known.
He did not realise he had closed his eyes until Draculea kissed them, his cheek, jaw, lips, sharp fangs nipping with an elegance he had not thought the Wallachian was capable of. After the pain and the rich bitterness of blood, it was a shock of gentleness. He opened his lips without protest, turning the kiss into a lazy exploration that made them almost equal. He was damned already, wife-slayer, blood-drinker, so what was one more sin, as pleasant a one as this?
Draculea's hands had been moving over his arms and shoulders, from his hands to his neck and back, but now the vampire lord sat up again. Von Krolock arched after him with an annoyed murmur, but a rattle of metal brought him short.
The iron chain of the medallion that had rested on Draculea's chest was now knotted around von Krolock's wrists, binding him to the rail, leaving him pinned under Draculea's weight.
He jerked, rattling the chain until it bit into his scorched skin. "Let me go!"
Draculea's red lips curved in a mocking smile. "I don't think so, Excellenz."
A jab into his broken ribs sent von Krolock arching with a hiss as the pain stabbed through him. As he twisted away from the touch, he realised that his chest was now bare, his shirt pushed up his arms and bunched around his wrists. Each touch felt like fire, and he stifled the growl rising in his throat.
Draculea's laughter echoed in the room. His hand pushed harder, keeping the other vampire pinned to the floor by pain alone as his legs were wrenched up one after another, each boot sliding off with seeming ease under preternaturally strong fingers. When the ties of his breeches slipped loose, von Krolock tried to struggle, but a minute movement of Draculea's other hand made his world contract to the pain of bone fragments sliding against each other in his chest.
A part of his mind was dazedly wondering how it had come to that, but his anger was rising, circles of flame in its darkness.
Teeth scraped against his collarbone, raising red welts but not breaking the skin. He turned his head away as Draculea rubbed his cheek against the hollow of his throat, like a cat marking a place with its scent. He could hide under this anger, retreat under the surface to a place as dark and cold as the night-
"I think you still haven't had enough," Draculea whispered in his ear. "You think too much, Johannes. Feel."
The smugness in that voice made something give inside him. He surged up, snarling, unmindful of pain, his teeth snapping a hair's breadth from Draculea's skin.
He sagged in his bonds, his cheeks burning, as Draculea laughed. He turned his head away, willing his hair to hide his shame at behaving like such an animal. His chest spasmed with a choked-off sob, then pain again from his broken ribs.
The hands on his skin turned gentle again, guiding him to turn over until he saw nothing but the dusty floor and the darkness of his own hair barring the light from his eyes. It hurt less to breathe this way when propped his weight on his elbows and knees, and the familiar pattern of breath helped still the shivering, as did the pain in his burned hand twisting in the chains. His wrists were crossed, pressed against each other, and as his other palm brushed the burn, he realised new skin was already growing there.
Then nails raked his thighs, drawing him back against Draculea's hips.
"Being on your knees suits you," the other vampire murmured. "I might just keep you this way."
He growled before he could stop himself, bucking against the chains and grip both, letting the pain flow through him, revelling in it. He felt the touch of hair on his back as Draculea leaned over him, then kisses brushed across trembling muscles, over his spine, an agile tongue outlining each outline of bone under the skin.
A brief, sharp bite to his neck as one hand slipped from his hip to open him, and he forced his mouth open with panting before he could bite through his lip. Bruises could be hidden, gloves worn, but not marks on his face-
Pain again, because he was nowhere near ready enough, though the keening sound he made was lost in Draculea's growl. He forced himself to relax, immobile, not even trembling as the other vampire moved, until the invasion was complete.
Draculea was breathing now as well, his chest pressed to von Krolock's back, hands resting on the younger vampire's shoulders. One of them shifted and they shuddered, drawing breath at the same time.
Von Krolock bent his head lower, resting it on his crossed arms, stretched almost to breaking. His back was arched, tense with pain and longing. He didn't know if it was his damnation or his human nature, but something in him was past the anger now, past the mortified pride, though not at peace with how he was, bound and pinned, unable to escape even if he wanted to. Fire in his veins, twined inseparably with the white heat of pain.
He had thought he'd never be warm again.
He snarled and bucked under Draculea, throwing his head back at the flash of pleasure. He felt the other vampire's movement, surprised laughter, then nails were clawing his sides again, pinning him until their rhythms were in time. A strong hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back, and he growled into the air, baring his fangs.
As he bucked again, jarring their pace in a way that sent sparks flowing through his head, he heard the creak of metal and realised he could tear himself free. If he wanted to.
With one of those grasping hands wandering lower, he decided he did not. Teeth cut into the nape of his neck again and he did not stifle his moan. Draculea seemed to appreciate it by the way his teeth bit deeper and his - attentions - intensified -
The railing did give way then as the spasms of pleasure tore through him, the pain turning into ecstasy of its own. Two more thrusts, jarring his whole body as if his very bones had turned molten, and they were falling, shuddering with pleasure, the floor hard and cold under their bodies.
Draculea bit the young vampire's lip and received a tired snarl in return.
"I am your Sire," he murmured wickedly.
Von Krolock shifted, slipping his hands free of the railing and bringing them to his chest. If it allowed him to trace the lines of sweat on Draculea's chest, there was nothing to it. Scientific curiosity about the physics of exertion in corpses, he thought.
An arm slipped around him as he examined the chain that bound his wrists and the medallion on it. He threw the other vampire a curious look. "That's the symbol of the Order of the Dragon. I thought they were long dissolved. Where did you get it?"
"From my father." Draculea leaned in to lick a trace of blood from the other vampire's neck. "Indirectly, but the assassins that killed him brought it as proof to Buda-Pesht, and I requested it when I was invested in the Order."
Von Krolock turned his head sharply, narrowing his eyes. "I think I've read this story."
He shook his head. It was quite impossible, of course. A legend dead a century and a half before, still used to frighten children, a name easily appropriated by someone who wished to inspire similar terror.
Draculea's laughter was warmer than before, and his arm tightened around von Krolock's waist. "I was a legend in my own lifetime, Johannes. Much is lost, but much remains as well. And the Order of the Dragon died and lived with me."
Von Krolock looked at his bound hands again. He had seen a portrait, once, and there had been a resemblance. The same sensual lips, sharp line of nose, cheeks and eyes delicate enough to belong to a woman and cruel enough to belong to a demon. As if the painter had heard a description of the man before him, though not of how wide the shoulders were, how strong the hands, how wicked the sparkle in those dark green eyes.
He held his hands higher so that Draculea could untangle the chain from them. "Tell me about the Order of the Dragon."
"There is one danger to the life of the West," Draculea said as he slipped the medallion around his own neck again. "War ends. Plague ends. All these threats contain the seeds of their own destruction. When they are past, we rebuild. What we should fear is those who seek to replace us instead of destroy us, to enslave us to their own cause. Take our children and raise them to do their bidding."
"The Ottoman Empire." Von Krolock looked at the other side of the library, where several copies of the Qu'ran rested alongside his theological books. He had not approached those shelves since his turning, afraid of the pain even the sight of a cross could render unto him now. "Even as vampires, if our civilisation falls..."
Draculea grinned. "No wine, no women, no song. Hence, the Order. We work behind the scenes, with secrets and dirty work. The night is ours, after all. And I could use a sorcerer of your power, and a seer."
"Magic is less reliable than gunpowder." Von Krolock sat up, slipping his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. "And my sight is less reliable still."
"Is it? I've watched you for the past few days, Excellenz. I noticed a distinct lack of collapsing or demolishing the furniture in your rooms due to fits of visions. I'd say the spectre of madness is past you."
Von Krolock paused with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. It was true - since he had started this new damned existence, he had not once been brought to his knees by visions of the distant future. The thought - was less pleasing than it should have been.
"Perhaps that gift is lost to me," he offered quietly.
"Or under your control, after three decades of controlling you." Draculea's fingers stole inside his shirt again, moving purposefully over his bruised skin. "This will hurt."
Von Krolock stifled a cry as his ribs were sharply pulled into alignment. He leaned against Draculea's chest, letting the other vampire support him. The contact felt comforting until Draculea nipped at his throat.
"You should be healed completely by next sunset," the vampire lord said as he let go, reaching for his own clothing. "Try your magic then. You'll find it comes easier to ones damned as we are. In decades to come, you may start to discover powers you never suspected."
Von Krolock felt a prickle of curiosity. "What kind of powers?"
"They differ for each of us. I would show you my command of mist and wolves, but both require darkness to accomplish. Next time, my sorcerer."
"Next time?" He fastened the rest of his clothing before rising to his feet. His ribs already hurt less, knitting together rapidly.
"The Order demands much of me. You will have time to accustom yourself to your new status before winter draws me to these mountains again. I'll have books sent here, what little of our lore is written. I may have commands for you also; my messengers will bear my sign."
Von Krolock nodded slowly. The sun had moved to the west, leaving the library almost in shadow, letting him approach the window without risking burns. The forest was summer-green, the fields beyond it gold, heavy with grain. He looked down to the meadow in front of the castle walls, where Izabela's old nurse Eva stood with her arms stretched open, looking into the forest.
Draculea's hands rested on his shoulders again. "No more foolishness, Johannes?"
He leaned back against his Sire's grip as he watched the tiny figure toddle out of the forest, easily evading Eva's grasp. Through the open window he heard Herbert's joyous laughter, saw the sunlight glitter in the boy's golden hair.
"No more," he agreed.
He had not told Herbert bedtime stories for weeks now. He would have to make up for it. A story of demons and old warrior princes tonight, perhaps? His boy liked that sort of fanciful tales.
-FINIS?-
