Chapter Text
You’ll be safe there.
Frank’s not sure how far a promise from a woman he had only known for a day would go. As the carriage gets closer to the looming castle, he wonders if maybe she was lying, that she was actually sending him to somewhere far, far away so that she and the rest of London would be safe. But then, she wouldn’t have given him that letter.
The winter landscape around him drains the world of color, as well as warmth. In the back of the carriage, there is nothing to warm his hands. Not that it is especially important. He just doesn't really like having cold hands. But maybe human desires like warmth are beyond him now. Maybe it is all beyond him.
Slowly, the carriage pulls up to the gate in the castle’s wall. Without the driver getting down, without seemingly any interaction at all, the gate begins to raise in front of them. Had she sent word of his imminent arrival ahead of them?
Sitting back against the plush velvet, Frank takes a slow breath and tries to calm down. Anxiety without the beating of one’s heart is an odd feeling, but it doesn't feel any less like he was about to begin shaking out of his boots.
Finally, the carriage slows to a stop inside the walls of the towering castle. Frank hasn’t even tried to look, he fears he might actually faint if he did. No, he foolishly waits until he is being helped out of the carriage to gaze up at the impossibly tall towers around him. That did much more for making him dizzy and anxious, so he rights his head and focuses on who is in front of him.
The mysterious, enigmatic, cryptic, supernatural master of this place, the duke of this castle. Duke Patrick Von Stump.
He’s dressed in thick furs, his body is mostly hidden by the massive coat hung over his shoulders, and his face somewhat hidden by the top hat that feels more like it’s being worn in parody of the English than to complete his outfit. His face is further obscured by the thick, carefully maintained hair on the sides of his face.
“Frank Iero,” he says, and his voice is nothing like Frank would’ve expected it to be.
Frank juts his hand forward before remembering he is not in England anymore, and frantically tries to remember what the proper etiquette is for meeting someone from another country. What country was he in?
Duke Von Stump saves him the embarrassment by taking his hand. “Welcome.”
“Th-thank you.” Frank stands nervously, his bare hand still held in the duke’s gloved one.
Once again, he saves him by letting his hand go and standing tall. He looks to the driver. “Thank you for delivering him. You may go, and extend my thanks to his agent.”
Frank frowns. Agent?
The driver is already on the carriage though, getting the horses moving. Frank wonders how on earth he will get back to London, but forgets the worry the moment he realizes he is alone with Mr. Von Stump now. He turns back to him and finds he has turned around, beginning to walk into the large wooden doors of the castle.
“Follow me, please.”
Frank rushes to keep up, though not close enough to step on the flowing ends of his coat.
The halls of the castle were as cold as the courtyard had been. Their steps echo sharp and distant. Duke Von Stump has on pointed, shining black boots, whose soles are impossibly blacker.
“You must be tired from the journey,” the duke says, peeking over his fur-lined shoulder at Frank. “I’ve had a room made up for you, but your final place of rest will be elsewhere.”
The wording makes Frank’s palms prickle with sweat. “I wasn’t aware that my, um, agent had sent word ahead of me. I’m grateful.”
“Yes, I’m quite lucky to have gotten a heads-up, if you will,” he chuckles, leading Frank up a spiral of stairs. “The walk will be quite long, I apologize. But it will be warmer soon.”
“I don’t mind.” Frank says this to be polite, but it is also a fact. He can’t feel it anymore.
“You would if you were wearing less,” the duke says, and Frank hears an extra quality in his voice. Perhaps he’s being rather literal.
They reach the top of the staircase and go through two heavy wooden doors into a warmly lit hallway. Heat rushes up against Frank’s bare face and hands and he shudders.
“Your room will have a fireplace, lit to warm it for you,” the duke says. “This way.”
They walk down the hall, now on thick carpets and surrounded by sconces with candles, standing candelabras full of candles, tapestries and rugs hanging from the walls. Frank marvels at the craftsmanship of them, the beautiful curving lines and sharp, crisp angles. He almost gets left behind looking at a particular one with a pattern like a ship’s anchor.
Duke Von Stump stops in front of a modest-looking wooden door. “This is your room, for now. We are making up a set of rooms in a nicer area of the castle, but this is the best we could do for you for now.”
“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine,” Frank says immediately.
Duke Von Stump opens the door and follows Frank into the room, a modestly sized room by the castle’s standards and easily twice the size of Frank’s London apartment. He can’t imagine what the duke meant by rooms, plural.
There is a massive rug on the ground, covering the stone underneath with beautiful, colorful scenes of angels and gardens. The fireplace is stone as well, full of crackling logs and a tall flame. In the fire is an odd-looking iron stand, presumably for a tea kettle. The bed is against the far wall, under three tall, thin windows with cross-hatched glass. Curtains drape delicately against the wall, able to shut out light from all three windows at once should you pull the cords. The bed is massive as well, with heavy green blankets and thick blue pillows. There is a small oil lamp by the bed on a table, and the other side table holds a little pamphlet.
“I will be off,” the duke says, stepping back with a duck of his head. “You should get your rest. The journey was long, and you look exhausted.”
All at once, Frank feels the weight of the trip. Now that the anxiety is gone, the fear of what he was getting into is gone, he feels his eyes droop. “Y-yes, thank you again.”
“Should you need anything, all you must do is ask,” the duke says, dipping his head once more before shutting the door, leaving Frank alone in his warm, large room.
Already feeling in a daze from tiredness, Frank only half undresses, tossing his coat and vest at the foot of the bed, a bad habit from living in a small apartment. He kicks off his shoes and squeezes his eyes shut, yawning. Every moment that passes, he feels more and more sleepy. But the pamphlet intrigued him, so he picks it up before climbing into bed with the intention of reading it a bit before sleeping. He only manages to see the words Vampire Coven before succumbing to darkness.
His dreams are fitful. He thrashes in the grasp of something heavy and strong. His dream creates visions of deep, dark eyes and a pale, thin face. Sharp teeth, sharper than any dagger Frank had ever seen, and he screams and screams but no sound comes out.
He tries so hard but he cannot wake himself. The darkness folds over and covers him, taking him down and away from the pale, sharp face. He shivers in the cold void, but is thankful. It comforts him. Cradles him. Holds and envelops. He sinks, further, and feels nothing.
Frank wakes at the sound of Duke Von Stump’s voice.
“Wake up,” the duke was saying, gently from the doorway. Light streams into the room from the fogged windows. It makes Frank feel a bit panicked the moment he sees it, but the duke’s kind face calms him. The duke is dressed in lighter clothes this morning, less heavy for the cold, though still well-layered, all the way up to his throat. “Good morning, Mr. Iero.”
“G-good morning,” Frank says, blinking hard. “I apologize, have I missed breakfast?”
The duke gives him an odd look before shaking his head. “No. I’ve just come to collect you.”
Frank frowns as he gets up, straightening out his shirt. “Will there not be breakfast, my lord?”
The duke snorts. “Do well to remember not to call me that again.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean-”
“There will be breakfast, but not down here.” The duke motions with one arm down the hall. “Please, come follow me.”
Frank manages to get his shoes back on before abandoning his discarded clothes to follow the duke.
“I’m sorry for not letting you get quite settled,” the duke says, glancing back at him. “But I needed to confirm something first.”
“Confirm what?” Frank asks, but they are interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming.
Frank starts, looking frantically around for her, but Duke Von Stump sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t fret. One of my… Hm, one of my associates that lives here is in the middle of something. We will explain it in time.”
“She sounds like she’s being killed,” Frank says thinly, panic still spiking through his chest.
“She is fine,” the duke says, and his tone is heavy and low. Frank feels the words stamp across his brain. “Follow.”
The next few moments are a blur. Frank remembers wanting to turn back and check on the screaming woman, who now sounds as though her throat is being permanently damaged, and the duke taking hold of his hand and nothing. He remembers nothing after that.
And then he is somewhere new, standing in front of two tall, black wooden doors with gold handles. They are in a new hallway, with wood floors and square windows, and Frank belatedly wonders how many years this castle has been here.
“Through here, we can start going through your entry papers,” the duke says, pushing the doors open.
“Entry… papers,” Frank says, still out of sorts, and is once again affronted by the decor. The room is all black and red, black wood floors and deep red curtains covering large windows, black lace peeking out beneath them. It’s a drawing room of sorts, with plush black velvet chairs on carved cherry red wood to contrast the floors, and a large ornate fireplace behind them, roaring with a flame large enough to worry Frank. There are chez lounge chairs, also plush velvet, against either wall, and one door on the right that probably leads to a servant’s hallway.
Duke Von Stump sits in one of the two chairs. “Sit.”
Frank walks mechanically to the chair and lowers himself into it before even getting to think that he doesn’t want to.
“I have your papers here,” the duke says, unfolding a stack of pages from his coat jacket. “I’m sorry they’re not in English. I tried to get a translation, but you came on short notice. You understand, I hope?”
“Y-yes,” Frank stammers, taking the pen afforded to him. “What are these?”
Instead of answering immediately, the duke sits back in his chair, taking his hat off and dusting it of imaginary dust or snow. Or perhaps bad energy. Then, he places it on the low table between them. “Frank Iero. You were the victim of an attack on your person just three short days ago.”
The lack of a question makes Frank’s skin prickle. “Yes?”
“The assailant was found to be what is known as Vampirica Irrationale. An irrational vampire.”
Frank ignores the throb in his neck at the mention of the word. He says tightly, “Yes.”
“After you were hospitalized, you attacked three nursemaids and two doctors,” the duke says, and Frank stares in horror as the memories come back to him. The screaming, the blood, so much delicious blood— “And then you were sent to London’s only Doctor of Vampiric Studies. Who then, after clearing your mind of these things, sent you to me.”
Bile rises in Frank’s throat. He looks frantically around for something to vomit into.
“Anywhere is fine,” the duke says, sounding all too casual, and Frank stumbles up out of his chair to empty the paltry contents of his stomach on the floor.
He is horrified to find that all he vomits up is shining red blood.
Breathing ragged, fast and scared, he remembers the voice of the doctor that calmed his initial rampage.
You are not a monster.
Frank shuts his eyes, hand clutched to his chest, trying to remember more, trying to chase the sound of his voice and find his face again, because something about it is urgently important to remember, but the doctor sinks into darkness once more. The smell of bile and blood burns his nose.
“You were sent to me because you were not yet stable,” the duke says. “But I seem to find that London’s doctor stabilizes new vampires in record time on his own.”
“Why am I here?” Frank asks finally, covering his mouth, unsure what to do about the mess.
“This castle is a place for all the supernaturally peculiar to find their place back in regular society,” the duke says gently. “Or, if you cannot, a place for you to remain, should you want to.”
“And this paperwork,” Frank says, looking to the thick pages.
“Is akin to that of hospital intake paperwork,” the duke promises. “All it asks is for you to outline your symptoms, to tell of what you can recall from the attack, and a promise to allow us to care for you until we deem you fit to leave, should that be your desire.”
Dizzy, Frank sits back down. The pen is still gripped in his hand. “It’s not in English.”
The duke nods. “Again, I apologize for that. We’re nowhere near London, the only person certified to write this paperwork speaks German.”
“I-I don’t speak German,” Frank says, shoulders still tense. He finds himself wishing for the duke to give him an order to calm down.
“I know, but it’s alright, I can translate.” The duke takes the papers again in his hands and begins to read, before noticing Frank is looking rather agitated. “Hm. You must be… I see.”
“See what?” Frank demands, blinking his eyes hard before his hand begins to twitch.
“You are safe here,” the duke says. “Be calm. Be still. I will send for someone to bring you food. You must be starving after emptying your stomach.”
Calmness, stillness, like a warm blanket over Frank’s whole body. Thank God, he thinks.
“Now, listen carefully as I ask these questions,” the duke says, taking the pen from him. “Listen closely.”
Frank’s mind becomes razor sharp, waiting intently.
“I heard him.”
“I did too, but we can’t just barge in!”
“Shh! You two will get us found out…”
“I just want a peek.”
“We all want a peek, but you’re going to have to wait like the rest of us.”
“Both of you, quiet.”
“Did you hear that? Did he just puke?”
“Shh! Don’t you dare open that door!”
“Would you two-”
Come into this room and I will send you all out into the morning sunlight.
Their master’s words send them all into silence, their bodies sinking like cold iron.
“I told you he would know we were here…”
“I knew he’d know, but…”
“If you two get me in trouble, I swear…”
Someone be useful and bring him some blood. He’s going to go feral if he doesn’t get anything soon.
“I want to do it!”
“No, me!”
Michael.
“No fair!”
“Goddamn it!”
“Yes, sir.”
When they finally finish with the paperwork, Frank is feeling jittery again. Not even the words of the duke can calm him anymore. His leg bounces and his eye has begun to twitch. He runs his tongue along his teeth, pressing into the sharp edges of his fangs, wondering if the duke has any blood to drink.
Finally, the servant’s door opens, and a man in all black wearing a black lace veil brings in a tray with a single teacup on it.
Instinct takes him over, and Frank leaps from his chair to snatch the cup from the tray and gulp down the thick red liquid before the duke can even offer it to him. The blood warms him, though his throat cools from it. It’s not nearly enough but it’s able to get his brain working again.
“I apologize,” the duke says, standing. He folds the papers back up and tucks them away. “I didn’t mean for that to take so long.”
“Is there any more,” Frank asks, his stomach already begging for another cup.
“I’m sorry, but only small servings can be given for the first few days.” The duke’s smile is sympathetic, but it fills Frank with dread. “Since you’ve signed these papers, we can begin your rehabilitation promptly.”
“Rehabilitation,” Frank echoes, not remembering a lick of what the duke had outlined as his treatment plan.
“First, we must starve you,” the duke says, looking very sorry. “Then, we teach you to feed.”
“Starve,” Frank repeats. “Feed.”
“Not all vampires are made the same,” the duke explains. “Some are created with the utmost control over themselves. Some, however… Some need a bit of help getting there.”
“What he means is, you’re a Thrall,” the veiled man says, peaking out from behind said veil.
Frank whirls around to stare at him, eyes wild. “What?”
“Sit down,” the veiled man demands, and Frank drops into his chair before he can even think to refuse. “Stand.”
Frank’s head spins as he does, trying to keep up with the commands on an empty stomach.
“Spin around three times to your left,” the veiled man commands, and Frank embarrassingly obeys.
“That is enough,” the duke snaps. “That will be all. Thank you.”
The veiled man says nothing more, nodding to the duke and leaving through the door. Frank stares at it, feeling the urge to follow him. The urge to follow, obey, to oblige, to do as he is told. Thrall.
“I apologize,” the duke says again. “My students can be overzealous when they meet new… patients.”
“Students,” Frank repeats. “He called me a Thrall. What is that?”
“As you may have guessed, it is a vampire that seeks to listen, to obey, and to carry out orders.”
Of course he had guessed, but hearing it out loud made his blood boil with anger.
“I assure you, it is rarely a reflection of the vampire’s personality,” the duke insists. “Vampire types crop up seemingly at random, and can sometimes be passed on to newly turned victims by their assailants.”
Franks feelings get muddied. Perhaps the person that bit him was also a Thrall, sick of taking orders.
“But all of this we can unpick in time.” The duke puts a hand on Frank’s shoulder, making him jump. “The way to break out of your Thrall is to first starve you, which may sound counterintuitive.”
“Very much so,” Frank says flatly.
“It will bring you to the brink of insanity,” the duke admits. “It is not pleasant. But it is also not fatal, please remember that.”
It’s so close to an order, Frank feels calmed again. “And then I learn to… You said feed?”
The duke nods. “Yes. Feeding is different than simply drinking blood from a teacup. You haven’t used your fangs for feeding yet.”
Flashes of the faces of horrified nursemaids and doctors make Frank’s shoulders tense.
“What you did before would be referred to as bloodlusting. Unable to stop yourself, you gorged on five people and then purged it all from your stomach.” The duke grimaces as Frank’s face goes pale. “I apologize, but from now on we need to be very clear about the realities of your situation. All our situations.”
Frank looks to him. “All of you?”
“Well, many of us.” The duke smiles. “You are not alone here, Frank Iero. A great deal of vampires and other supernaturals are here, all trying to do what you are trying to do. Reenter society, regain control of your impulses, learn about yourself, your new abilities, and feel normal again.”
Despite his confusion, Frank does want all those things. All of that, and to find the doctor again.
You are not a monster.
Something is missing from that statement, something comes after it, but Frank can’t think straight through the haze of hunger and anguish.
The duke had said this wasn’t fatal, that he was incapable of dying from it, had said it so surely that Frank had trusted him without needing a command, but he was starting to question if that was just for his peace of mind. It felt as though his stomach was imploding and being torn apart. It felt like his insides were melting and freezing over. At one point he was sure it had been days, yet no one had come to him in his smaller room near the bottom of the castle.
Frank had insisted he stay there for the starving portion of his rehabilitation. The duke agreed it may be easier if he take it one step at a time, not introducing too many new stimuli at once. Yet now, Frank regretted it. He was so far, what if the duke couldn’t hear him if he really started worrying he was dying?
If, he thinks with a laugh. He does think he’s dying. He feels like it. This feels so close to what he felt when he was attacked, his blood forcibly pulled from him, his life fading with every greedy mouthful. His insides burning and frosting over. His mind on fire in pools of ice.
“Von Stump!” Frank shouts blindly, feeling rage build in his exhausted body. “When I find you, I will kill you!”
He slams a tired fist again the door, his body sagging. The fire is out, he can’t even set himself ablaze if he wanted to. Not that it sounded like a quick way out of this misery.
“Small portions,” Frank says weakly, feeling tears form in his eyes. “You said small portions! Please! Please, can I have a small portion? Please, I don’t want to die!”
As his tears made miniature pools on the cold stone floor, Frank hears no one outside his door, and agony rips through him.
“One portion!” he screams, his throat straining. “Please! One order!”
No one responds. Nothing hears him. He is utterly alone and ignored.
“Please!” he sobs. He slams his head into the ground, feeling anger and rage build again, giving him fresh strength that he uses to scream and bang his fist against the door. “I will kill you!”
He must sound utterly monstrous. Yet, the moment he thinks that, he hears the voice of the doctor again.
You are not a monster.
Frank’s heaving breaths hitch. His mind unfolds.
You are not a monster. You are a person. You must never forget that.
The face of the doctor, his face becomes so clear. Soft smile, dark hair tied back, small square glasses resting on an overly angular nose. His chin is square too, and his jaw, and his shoulders, and Frank holds onto that image of his face because it is the only thing that has stopped his stomach from dominating his thoughts.
Not a monster. He sinks to the ground, curling in on himself. He is a person. He is not a monster. He is a person. He is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a person, he is not a monster, he is a
“-person. You must never forget that.”
Frank stares blankly at the doctor. He smiles back at his patient, satisfied with his advice. Frank lurches forward, teeth bared, and the doctor’s smile does not falter, because Frank doesn’t get anywhere near him. There are chains around his neck and chest. He is bound to the wall.
The doctor looks satisfied with this too, pulling his clipboard from under his arm and scribbling down notes. “Now, let’s see… No doves, no horses…”
Frank’s eyes are trained on the doctor’s throat, on full display because of his chosen hair style.
The doctor looks up from his clipboard. “Forgive me, but I need to diagnose this properly.”
Frank tries once more to jolt forward and take a bite out of his neck.
“Close your eyes,” the doctor says with unwavering authority. Frank’s vision cuts out entirely. “As I thought…”
“As I thought…”
Frank comes to slowly, the world blurry over him. He reaches toward the image of the doctor, but the whiteness of the hospital fades and dims until the room is gray and brown, stone and rugs. And Duke Von Stump is over him, candle by his side. He takes Frank’s lifted hand, gently placing it back down.
“You’re ready now,” the duke says, and Frank can’t even comprehend what he is talking about until he is being forced upright.
Because that is when he sees they are not alone, and there is someone sitting across from him with their neck bare and Frank’s mouth waters, his stomach clenching so hard he winces. He’s so hunger-blind that he can’t recognize any features of the person across from him, he is so hungry.
“Wait,” Duke Von Stump says firmly. All of Frank’s body fights the command. “No. Do not drink, do not feed from him. Stay.”
An animalistic cry rips from Frank’s throat. Just one taste, just the smallest portion, he said small portions—
“No,” the duke says again, hand on Frank’s chest. He had started to move forward against the command. “Sit back, wait. You may not drink.”
Frustration and fury blend together, Frank reaches to grab the duke’s arm.
“No,” he snaps, and Frank’s hand freezes, stuttering in the air. “Put your hand down. Now.”
Frank’s hand drops, but his arm spasms. “J-just a small- please-”
“No.” The duke’s voice gets firmer, more strict, and it pulls a pitiful, agonized moan from Frank.
“Please!” he begs, because he must, he must drink something, he must eat something. He will die if he doesn’t.
“No!” The duke shows his own rage, and Frank feels part of himself recoil and try to reign himself in, fearing retaliation from his master, but the starving part of him is ravenous, he doesn’t want to listen, he wants to drink.
Frank reaches once again for the duke’s hand.
“No, Frank, stop!” the duke urges as Frank finally shoves his hand away, surging forward and taking hold of the man’s shoulders, his mouth watering in anticipation, the thrum of his pulse under his hands sends pure excitement through Frank’s whole body.
“No!”
The dukes cry is ignored, Frank sinks his teeth into the man’s neck, finally tasting the blissful metallic flush of fresh blood against his tongue, and he cannot stop once he starts. He’s so grateful for the full, rushing mouthfuls of blood. His head is buzzing, pure relief surging through him, and he almost doesn’t hear the soft murmur of the man he is drinking from.
“It’s okay now,” he’s saying. “You’re safe now.”
The words snap Frank out of his hunger. He unlatches his jaw from the man’s neck and shoves himself back, horrified. Blood drips from the bite in his neck, a man with dark hair and eyes, whose soft features are on pale white skin, whose blood drips from Frank’s mouth.
“Frank, drink more,” the duke says, and confusion is all he feels.
“What?” Frank looks at him in shock. “What on earth-?”
“Take another bite,” the duke commands, and Frank only stares at him, appalled.
“No!” Frank belatedly wipes his mouth, his face turning red. “N-no, I will not!”
To his further confusion, the duke smiles wide. The man he’d drank from is also smiling.
“Wh-what?” Frank feels exposed, though he’s fully dressed.
“You’ve just passed your feeding test,” the duke said.
Foggy memories of explaining the process of all this come back to Frank. The blind hunger, the repeated commands not to drink, the (hopeful) eventual break of the Thrall, of the hold as the duke had called it.
A new wave of relief sends Frank back on his butt, his head spinning.
“Now, we can really begin your rehabilitation.”