Chapter Text
The moon is full tonight, silver light painting the dark wood table and intricate walls of the sprawling room. Every jagged corner and gothic column is as cold and lifeless as the creature that lays within them.
A single, towering chair sits before a desk perfectly centered on the carpet, a shadow hiding its occupant. There is no sound except the constant etching of quill on paper, the tapping of nails on wood. There is nothing visible except two eyes of bright red, retinas reflecting the dim light.
They flick back and forth, across the paper too dark for any man to see.
The quill writes; the eyes rove until both stop. Bright fangs shine in a smile.
“There. That should suffice,” a light voice sighs, returning the pen to its ink well. The movement reveals dark hair; a pale porcelain jaw. “What do you think, Barnabus?” The eyes rise, staring across the room to a bundle in the corner.
An old man lies on the expensive carpet, a gag wrapped around his mouth and limbs firmly bound with rope. He trembles like a fly on a spider’s web. A whimper leaks through the fabric between his teeth.
The man flinches as the tall chair scrapes backward and the figure rises, silhouette calmly making its way towards him. He begins to panic, attempting muted pleas as he squirms but there is no escaping a spider’s thread. The figure’s hands remain behind their back, steps slow and unbothered until they stop, head tilting to the side. Their eyes remain red and unblinking.
“You’ve been good and quiet for me, Barnabus,” the creature says softly, playfully sweet. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t wave you of your crimes but…” They approach and bend down, face to face with the man whose skin has paled to match the moon. “I promise, I’ll be quick.”
A clawed hand reaches to grab the man’s hair, wirey grey grasped between long, curved nails. They pull, forcing his head back and exposing his neck. The man heaves, breath rapid as he strains against the hold but to no avail. He tries to scream.
The figure smiles again, displaying long canines as they press closer, breathing deeply. The smell of fear in their nose, the thudding of veins in their ears. It’s enough to make their mouth water. “Do yourself a favor,” the creature whispers. “Close your eyes and count to ten.”
The figure leans into the man’s neck, mouth opening. “One.” Their teeth sink into flesh with ease.
Barnabus shrieks as blood spurts from his neck, even the gag is not enough to silence his shrill squeal. The figure’s lips expertly seal over the wound, blood bathing their tongue as they swallow, not wasting a drop. Their grip tightens, a groan rumbling in their chest as they feast like a starved man.
They suck at the skin, unforgiving as Barnabus struggles and strains, quickly slowing as the creature draws more and more blood, coaxing it with their tongue, from one body to another. There is no stopping, fangs have dug in like hooks.
Far too fast, the man’s eyes roll upward, any consciousness pulled from him as the blood drains from his limbs, lips going blue and muscles ceasing in its absence. He spasms and goes limp, but that doesn’t stop the creature. They will continue to feed until every vein and artery is empty, a shell, hollow.
At last, the figure lets their fangs slide from flesh, licking their lips of stray droplets. Two wounds are the only evidence of their presence, no longer able to bleed.
They rise unbothered, releasing the now-corpse’s hair and walking back to the table as the body slumps to the floor. “Much better.” They sigh, wiping their mouth with the back of their hand before reaching for the freshly written letter. “Now for you.”
They scan their words, assuring their accuracy.
Father Dream,
It is with pleasure I invite you to the Masquerade at Davidson Manor. As a new arrival in London, I’d like to give you a warm English welcome. I wish you luck on your progressing ministries and hope that your duties to Our Lord won’t keep you from pleasant company.
The celebration shall be held on Tuesday, November 16 at 6:00 pm. I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
George H.D.
The creature—George—nods and folds the letter, placing it inside an envelope and pouring wax to seal its contents. He presses it with a golden ring, embedding his sigil in shining red.
“Now, let’s see who you really are, Father.” Red eyes continue to glow as the vampire chuckles, leaving the letter on the table for the morning. After all, who was he if he didn’t clean up after dinner?
_________________
If there’s one thing that defines Dream Wastakin, it is persistence.
In his many years of vampire hunting, it’s what’s kept him successful and how within the dangerous occupation he found himself in, he’s survived. No matter the goal, no matter the risk, he prided himself on stubbornness, his unwavering obsession to follow a task to its undeniable conclusion.
So when he receives a letter with the emblem of one of his suspects, he knows he will not stop until he has an answer as to why.
The rain patters lightly on the stained glass of the cathedral, dulled by the roaring fire before him. The light outlines his broad shoulders, a mess of curly hair, and the cracks of the ancient floor. The stone columns and vaulted ceilings of consecrated ground are cold but not him, he burns.
The hem of his priests’ robes sway as he stares at the wax seal, red glistening in the embers.
“George Henry Davidson,” he murmurs as he smooths a thumb over the sigil, easily breaking it. He takes out the letter, unfolding its crisp edges until inked writing is visible.
Dream reads in silence. The fire waits.
Dream stops on the signature at the bottom of the page, heart thudding in his chest as the large looping name taunts him. He wets his lips, fingers digging into the paper.
He knows. The monster knows.
Dream calmly refolds the letter, sliding it into his pocket. Of all his years of hunting, never had a suspect invited him into their home, let alone a large public gathering. It sounded like a joke and Dream didn’t like to be laughed at. If he was right and this George was a vampire of London, then he must be planning something terrible. A masquerade was a perfect cover-up for a murder.
When Dream had decided to move to the old country and aid in the war on vampirism, he’d been warned that the creatures here would be older and smarter than their American counterparts.
But that just meant Dream had to be smarter in return. He’d already vanquished other vampires in the surrounding area, and perhaps that’s what had drawn this one's attention.
According to Dream’s brief research, nobles would vanish around these parts every other month or so. It always varied from month to month, year to year. Sometimes it was from the city center, other times the outskirts—always in different sectors to keep attention low. It was methodical, with each noble having enough questionable connections that the disappearance wasn’t surprising. The most recent one was just in the past month.
But Dream knows better. He’s been raised for this.
The priest takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes and sending a quick prayer to the heavens. May the Lord protect me from evil. May he steer me true and bless my hand to smite the wicked. I do this all in Your Name.
May this be enough for You to forgive me.
The white collar on his neck sits like a chain.
He opens his eyes and turns to his left where an array of tools lay: a crucifix-shaped stake, vials of holy water, and a silver dagger—all small enough to hide beneath his robes.
Before the letter, he hadn’t known for sure if Mr. Davidson, the strange faceless noble, was what he suspected, but this coincidence seems too hard to ignore.
If this was a trap, then Dream would be prepared to surprise him in turn. You have a death wish, demon. Dream grabs the stake to admire its red-stained wood. Don’t worry, I’ll give it to you.
_________________
The day of the masquerade arrives far too quickly. Mass comes and goes, scripture flowing thoughtlessly from his mouth as his mind turns towards the looming hunt.
As the evening of the sixteenth approaches, Dream dons his robes; a pair of gloves and shined shoes being the only high-class garments he wears. He procures a mask for the sake of entry, a simple black eye covering outlined by a white band—not that he intends to wear it. Showing his face should draw the vampire to him.
The priest makes his way through the streets, aware of the weight in his pockets and eying the other passerbys in their elaborate finery, pearl necklaces and embroidered suits. Carriages pulled by snorting horses make their way in the same direction and Dream wonders just how many guests Mr. Davidson invited.
When he reaches the correct address, apparent by the long string of people waiting outside, Dream can’t help but stare. Rising from the road like a great mountain is a manor house distinct from any other. Its walls reach three stories high, ridges of dark stone and gothic carvings that accent the blue-tiled roof atop it. Four pointed spindles stick up from the uppermost levels, sharp like horns at each corner. Marble carvings of birds and other nature’s ilk lay displayed in a central fountain before it, framed by great spiraling stairs. But of all the grandiose features of the estate, the most eye-catching is the distinct red accent at the base of the building; large and tangled rose bushes.
Dream isn’t unfamiliar with the decadence of high-class society but how Mr. Davidson procured such a place is unknown to him. His family name held long-rooted connections to the spice trade but to Dream’s knowledge, that business died with the passing of George’s supposed grandfather decades prior. But vampires did have a longer time than most to acquire their hoards.
As night takes hold and the crowd gathers, Dream’s interest wanders through the outer courtyard, noting the numerous raven motifs splattered throughout the architecture and how easy it’d be to bury a body in the towering bushes.
Through all the waiting bustle, only one movement catches his eye, a shadow in his periphery that lingers in one of the upstairs windows. He swears it stares at him but by the time he looks its way, there is nothing but the sway of curtains to indicate anything was there at all.
Soon enough the doors open and wave upon wave of bustling bodies are announced and make their way inside. Once through the large double doors, Dream realizes with concern that the inside is a giant, confusing labyrinth of hallways. It's full of distracting details, the interior even more elaborate than its exterior.
It takes him a moment to figure this out of course, the large antechamber leads directly to the central ballroom but a quick look around corners and into closed doors revealed a crisscross of large rooms, all of which had at least two entrances leading to more hallways. Without a guide, it would be easy to become lost in this place. In Dream’s experience, this was usually by design.
Where are you, George Davidson? Dream lingers in the main ballroom, eyes roving the multitudes of guests in search of potential candidates. That was the frustrating thing about Mr. Davidson, no one quite knew what he looked like, only that he was rich and threw amazing masquerades—always masquerades. Another point of suspicion.
But surely, a host must welcome their guests—and Dream would be right.
After waiting away from the condescending stares he received for his lack of dress, an announcer suddenly raises their voice. “Ladies and gentlemen if I’ll have your attention.” The butler stands at the top of the staircase at the far edge of the room, a figure behind him. “Lord George Henry Davidson.” The room goes quiet as hundreds of masked faces turn to catch a glimpse of their mysterious host. Dream leans closer.
The figure steps forward, laying gloved hands on the banister of the balcony. It is too far for Dream to make out more than dark hair and an equally dark mask.
The main thing Dream notices of Mr. Davidson is his manner, calm and reserved, unbothered by the attention turned to him. He carries himself with a floating grace. Only a few steps are enough for Dream to know this is a man of elegance. He draws all focus, charismatic without a word spoken. His movements hypnotize and Dream finds himself drawn in harder than he expected.
Mr. Davidson raises a hand and smiles, tight-lipped. “I’m glad you’ve all managed to find you’re way here this evening.” His voice is light, calming with the lilt of his accent, more proper than most. “To those unaccustomed to my hospitality I welcome you, and give you a piece of advice: don’t tire yourselves too quickly. We have a long night ahead of us.” A chuckle rumbles around the room. “I’m sure you are all dying to begin the festivities.” The noble’s eyes scan the room until they stop on Dream. The priest freezes.
The noble tilts his head, smile widening as he continues, “But who am I to entertain my guests without a proper meal? Who's hungry?” A whooping cheer fills the room but still, the noble’s gaze stays fixed upon Dream. The priest doesn’t move, the intensity of those eyes impossible to look away from. He shivers.
Finally, Mr. Davidson turns away, spreading his arms. Dream takes a relieving breath but his heart continues to thud in his chest. “Then let the feast begin!” Another cheer sounds as servants enter the room carrying gold platters filled with drinks and piles of food.
Dream ignores all of it, making his way towards the staircase as the room begins to come alive. Musicians join the madness of the party, a din of noise paired with the growing chatter. Dream’s attention doesn’t leave the figure on the balcony.
The noble glances his way again and Dream swears he chuckles before descending the steps and disappearing into the crowd. By the time Dream crosses the floor, he is nowhere in sight.
“Curse you,” Dream hisses, left once more adrift searching for an unknown face.
He doesn’t know how long he spends winding through drunken guests, trying to catch a glimpse of dark hair within the rambunctious crowd. The clock finally chimes seven o’clock before Dream laments, finding one of the food tables. He eats begrudgingly, a furrow on his brow. He ignores those around him and they ignore him in turn, what fun was a stuck-up priest anyway?
Dream decides to stay in the corner, scanning the room back and forth until finally, a familiar feeling crawls up his neck. His hair stands on end as he registers the feeling of eyes on him from somewhere he can’t see. It’s a sense, an instinct that keeps him alive.
Dream turns and like a magnet, is drawn to wide, unblinking eyes in the center of the room. They don’t waver as they stare him down in a way that makes him stop breathing. The noble is still, waiting. It’s a predator’s stance.
Dream immediately moves from the table towards him, to which the noble smiles and slinks away again. Dream grits his teeth in frustration, hand hovering over the stake in his pocket. He swivels his head, round and round because Dream is a tall man and he should be able to spot his target.
A finger taps his shoulder. “Hello.”
Dream spins around and there he is. George Davidson stands in front of him with an amused smirk on his lips. The priest looks down and takes him in.
Mr. Davidson is a lithe man, thin form framing a pale face topped by silky brown hair. It curls over his ears, swoops onto his forehead to compliment the soft pink of his lips. Soft. Everything about him looks soft until he reaches his eyes.
It’s like a shock, a slap to the face as Dream stands speechless and takes in the undeniable red irises.
Red. Vampire. No denying it.
The noble chuckles, dimples and crow's feet crinkling. Angelic features suddenly become cold.
Dream’s jaw clenches. He nearly forgot that he was spoken to. He settles on a quick, emotionless, “Hi.”
George clicks his tongue and there’s that smile again, all lips and no teeth, mocking. A fire spreads in Dream’s gut. The tilt of his head, an unwavering gaze. “Is that how you greet your hosts? I must say, Father, I expected more manners from you.”
Dream swallows, sweat forming on his brow. His fingers itch to grab the stake but they are in public, there are people here.
“My apologies,” he quips. “Such gatherings aren’t my specialty.”
“Obviously,” the vampire rolls his eyes, too confident, too comfortable with their hunter right in front of them. “But there’s nothing like a new experience, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mhm,” Dream hums, brow still furrowed, glaring now.
The vampire huffs, “A man of little words. Funny, I thought the mouth of God would have plenty to say—“
“Why did you invite me?” Dream interrupts.
George raises his brow, a gleam in his eye. “Is it not acceptable in the States to welcome a new neighbor?—”
“What are you planning?”
George finally frowns, annoyance marring his expression. “Come now, have some fun.”
“Only when I know this city is safe from—“
“I know what will fix your mood.” George raises a hand and snaps his fingers at the musicians. “Minstrels, I think it’s time for a waltz.”
Dream’s heart beats faster as the vampire raises his gloved hand and bows. Eyes turn from all around them, fixed on the both of them. Clever, Dream thought.
“You wouldn’t deny your host the first dance?” he drawls.
Dream’s lip twitches. “No.”
Begrudgingly he takes George’s hand, the long delicate fingers cold even beneath his gloves. It was far from formal to have such a dance between two men, but the vampire doesn’t seem to care. He blinks at Dream, slow and unbothered as he waits. Dream’s brow furrows in confusion until he realizes what he’s waiting for. His heart thuds louder, red painting his cheeks. He becomes achingly aware of the others in the room. Never breaking eye contact, Dream bows in return and presses a kiss to the back of George’s hand. It sends a tingle through his lips and bile up into his throat.
Satisfied, the vampire rises. Dream pulls George’s hand to the side, placing a hand on his shoulder as the musicians prepare to play.
They’re too close, George’s chest pulled tight to his. Dream can smell his breath, his hair and its sweet, roses covering a deeper scent that must be blood.
Dream gasps when George’s other hand lands on his waist, sending a shock down his spine. “You little—“
The music starts and Dream has no choice but to move and he has nowhere else to look but the vampire in his hold. It makes him feel filthy.
Dream curls his lip, sneering at the lovely smell of the creature’s perfume, the beautiful disguising the wicked. The vampire must notice because as they sway and step to the swell of violins, he presses closer, forcing him to breathe it in, to feel George move beneath him.
“There.” George blinks up through long lashes. “Isn’t this fun?”
“Yes,” Dream lies as others join around them. The heat under his collar grows steadily.
“You know you’re incredibly underdressed, Father. If you need a new attire, I’d be more than happy to relieve you of this one.”
“You—you’re… shut up.” Dream has no response, face reddening at the proposition and perverted image forced into his mind.
That only seems to goad the creature more, amused by his discomfort. “Aw,” the vampire dramatically juts his bottom lip as they twirl, “I apologize. Was that too much for your pure heart? It must be revolting to live in a world so full of us heathens.”
Dream tightens his grip in response, hand near crushing the others but he seems unbothered. He just needs to ignore him and find a way to get them away from this crowd.
“I pity you, Father,” George continues. “So much life to enjoy and yet you're forced to loathe it. I’d say you’re hardly living.”
The priest’s eyes keep looking behind George for an escape, ignoring his words.
The vampire sighs, “There’s no way out of this. You should just accept that you’re here. Enjoy yourself.” The point is emphasized by the vampire crushing his hand in turn, much stronger than his own. Dream has to bite his lip not to cry out.
He tries to avoid the creature's gaze, but it is the brightest thing in the room, a focused, brilliant gleam. His entire skin feels sweaty, his gut squirms and he can’t escape it. Eventually, he stops trying, settling for glaring back—whatever rebellion he can.
The vampire smiles, cheeks dimpled. “Good. You’re learning.”
The music rises and leads them around the ballroom, caged by other joyful guests. The vampire hums along, dragging Dream with him, content in his own puppetry.
The twisting of Dream’s gut intensifies as he’s pulled along, the realization that it's him being held and not the other way around. It’s scarily easy to let the vampire do as he pleases.
“Is this how you treat all your guests?” he manages after a few minutes of nothing but music between them.
George looks up with a false fondness, Dream knows it’s not for him but for what lies within him. It still sets his skin ablaze.
The vampire licks his lips. “Only the honored ones.” He inhales deeply, so close Dream feels the air on his neck. He nearly trips and the creature laughs softly. “You really don’t know how this works do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” George leans into him further, and Dream tenses at the pressure at his torso, George’s voice dipping low in his ear. “I confirm what I want to know…” The hand at Dream’s waist suddenly lowers, grasping onto the stake in his pocket. “And you—“ The hand raises to the small of his back, Dream hissing as claws grab him through his robes. “Confirm what you know, and see how this plays out.” George grins again, this time letting the full display of his teeth show. His fangs just peek out over his bottom lip. Dream eyes the pressing of his tongue behind them.
“If you touch anyone—”
“I think we’ve become well acquainted now, Dream.” He hisses his name. “I think I’ll take my leave for now.” As the waltz continues around them, George steps away before Dream can comprehend it.
Dream tries to hold tight to George’s hand, but it’s tugged away. “No, you’re not leavin—” It’s too late. Dream blinks and George disappears into the crowd, nowhere to be seen.
A frustrated huff leaves him as he exits the center of the dancefloor alone.
Several hours pass without much change. Dream tiredly watches people come and go, trying to keep track of any missing parties but there are hundreds of people and the buzz of noise is too distracting. He debates sneaking around to explore the rest of the estate but he knows the crowd serves as protection for him as well as the vampire. If he’s caught off guard and alone, he certainly didn’t know this place well enough to escape. Perhaps backup would’ve been beneficial but that might’ve scared the vampire off entirely, and Dream was used to working alone anyway.
Somewhere in the manor a clock strikes midnight and twelve chimes indicate the end of the masquerade. The crowd laments the end of the party Dream took no part in, slowly making their way through the doors. Mr. Davidson doesn’t return to bid his guests farewell.
Dream loiters about watching them, most leaving and a few heading in the opposite direction perhaps for a lavatory or last-minute indulgences. He counts six of them and waits for their return. The ballroom has mostly emptied by the time Dream gets a bad feeling and realizes none of them have returned. Servants have begun to clear the tables and sweep the floors, only a few conversing stragglers left behind when he finally moves.
“Excuse me, sir.” He stops one noble mid-conversation, a middle-aged man with a bird’s mask and white wig. “Would you mind telling me if there is an afterparty? I noticed a few people wander into the manor.”
The gentleman huffs, staring down his false beak at him and his simple robes. “Mr. Davidson chose a select few to stay after hours, a private gathering of sorts,” he replies bitterly. “Don’t hold your breath, priest, he only invites the most elite.” The man shakes his head and turns back to his conversation.
Dream doesn’t register the insult, dread instantly dropping to the pit of his stomach. He’d been so busy ignoring the crowd in his search that he never considered the fact that George could easily lure his prey to him without Dream knowing. He’d made a terrible mistake.
Dream was used to straightforward vampires. Even those he’d slain in London were predictable, killing in the cover of night, attacking him as soon as he was in their sight. He was quickly discovering that George was unlike any vampire he’d ever seen. That was not a good thing.
His heart beats loudly in his chest. How many people did George invite? Where would they be? They might already be dead because he wasn’t paying close enough attention. George might already be long gone.
“No, no, no.” Dream throws caution to the wind and runs from the ballroom, further into the spider’s web.
As he’d guessed, he becomes lost almost instantly. While the main hall is a predictable path around the perimeter, the rooms it leads to are not. That’s not to mention the second and third floors and a potential underground level.
How could he be so stupid? George was smart, too smart.
Dream runs. The halls are void of people, all servants and guests busy in the ballroom, so he takes the stake from his pocket, clutching it readily as he flies from room to room. He slams open doors, surely making lots of noise but maybe that’ll catch George’s attention. After the first five rooms, everything starts to look the same and panic sets in. Save them. Save them! That’s your job!
He bursts through doors one after the other, each room the same dark wood with red curtains and golden decor. Dream swears he’s searched the entire first floor before he stops, sweat dripping from his forehead.
“Where are you!?” he shouts. If he drew the vampire, his life would be better sacrificed than however many people George had taken.
There is silence.
“No,” Dream grits. “I didn’t lose him—I can’t lose him.” He paces in a random room, trying to think. Where would a vampire feed? Someplace safe, someplace hidden. A private gathering.
It’s amidst his mind’s ramblings that Dream finally hears a sound. It’s soft, the thump of something against a wall. He stops and listens. It comes again in succession, muffled but distinct from the left wall.
“Okay, okay.” He follows it through to the next room over, listening again. It takes a while but it continues. Again, on his left just slightly louder.
Dream continues to follow the sound as it grows closer and closer from room to room. When he reaches the far corner of the manor, the noise stops. “No, come on.” Dream stares at the wall in disbelief. There is no door, only a large painting and a wardrobe. This room in particular is dusty, as if no maid had come to clean it in years.
Dream looks around wildly but it's only when he looks down that he notices something off. While most of the room lays covered in dirt and neglect, the floor is oddly clean. He stoops further and just sees the imprint of a boot, facing the direction of the painting.
He straightens, understanding. Clever indeed.
Dream doesn’t hesitate to grab the frame of the painting and pull. It opens outward, like the hinges of a door, and behind it lays a passage, a single curtain blocking its view. Dream steps up into it, his boots crunching on stone.
He takes a deep breath, his hand tightening around the crucifix as he raises it and pushes the curtain aside. The moment his eyes take in his surroundings, his blood goes cold.
Through the secret passage hides a larger room, grander than the others with a long table at its center; a crystal chandelier shining above. But that’s not what haunts him. It’s the figure at the center of the room.
Atop the polished table stands George. His back faces him, a swath of white that ripples and moves with his shoulders; his vest, mask, and gloves discarded on the floor. His hair is askew and his white skin gleams as his fangs sit deep in the neck of a struggling woman.
George holds her aloft like a doll and before Dream can blink, her eyes roll back and her arms go limp as the last life is drained from her body. Too late. I’m too late.
The body drops and slams on the table with a thud.
George rolls his shoulders, tilting his head upward with a sigh. Somehow, his blouse remains perfectly white.
The pause is all the time Dream needs to see the other five bodies strewn about the floor. He doesn’t hesitate any longer. He steps through the passage and into the sprawling room, stake at the ready.
George’s head whips around, eyes near glowing as they pin Dream where he stands, wild with the high of fresh blood. It’s only for a second, the feral gleam settling into a much more sinister smile. “Hello again, Father.” He beams, bright and full of sharp teeth.
Dream responds by charging forward and kicking the table. The table jerks from under the vampire’s boots, forcing him to jump back onto the carpet.
“Now, now. I wasn’t expecting dessert but if you’re offering—”
“All I offer you is death.” Dream stands with teeth bared, rage bubbling in his chest.
“You’re just as devout as the others.” George leaped up to the couch, looking down at Dream across the room. “Faith never saved them though.” Dream sneers and pulls the silver dagger from his belt, stake in one hand, a knife in the other. “Well then, maybe you are slightly more prepared.”
“Why did you invite me here?” Dream stalks around the table.
“Simple.” George leans back onto the wall, unperturbed as he grows closer. “A new priest settles in next door and as the self-preserving creature I am, I take note. As soon as you’re here, vampires start disappearing across London. It was only a matter of time before you sniffed me out so I took the initiative to speed up this process. You’re welcome.”
Dream pauses. “Why didn’t you kill me when I arrived then?”
George shrugs. “I’m self-preserving, not boring.”
“Maybe not boring, but definitely stupid.” Not true, but it’s satisfying to see his words dig under the vampire’s skin.
The vampire's lips quirk in a frown, his gaze darkening. “Your words won’t help you when I make you scream for mercy, little priest.”
Dream raises his chin. “I won’t be the one screaming.”
George chuckles; Dream sees his feet shift on the cushions. “We’ll see.”
Dream braces as, in a second, round pupils thin into slits, elegant hands curl into claws, and soft lips open in a hiss. In the blink of an eye, the vampire kicks off the back of the couch and lunges.
Dream jumps away, the vampire’s claws digging into the carpet where he’d stood. He blinks again and the creature is standing, facing him. They don’t hesitate to charge again, reaching with curved nails to strike at his arms, to weaken his hold on his weapons. But Dream is prepared and smirks at the look of surprise that spreads over George’s features when he slashes cloth and hits not skin, but thick leather gauntlets.
The second of pause is enough for Dream to lash out, slicing a clean line across the vampire’s outstretched arm with his knife. The creature hisses and pulls away, cradling his now ruined perfect sleeve and skin.
For a moment, George just glares at him, his playful smile traded for bared teeth. Dream already knew not to underestimate George and now George was learning not to underestimate him. The priest waits, patience is key.
“Ah.” The vampire rolls his wrist, flexing his fingers around the now bleeding wound, red with the blood he’d just drunk. His brow twitches and Dream braces again.
Sure enough, George runs at him, this time aiming for his side. Dream twists out of the way just in time and brings his stake down to graze the creature’s back. It only seems to piss George off more, a huff escaping his lips as he spins and kicks straight into Dream’s gut.
The priest grunts, feet sliding back on the floor but not falling. He brings his weapons down again to strike his leg but George slips back and takes advantage of his momentum to grab both his wrists. A hiss blares in Dream’s ears as the vampire shoves his weapons backward, trapping them against his chest. White flashes as George presses forward to snap at Dream’s neck, but Dream is far bigger a man than he, he cannot reach it.
The creature tries again, shoving Dream back until he hits the table, nearly forced to fall upon it. He tries to push Dream over the edge with the speed of his movements but Dream remains solid.
The third time fangs flash in his vision, Dream rears his head back and waits for the telltale click before whipping forward and slamming his head into the vampire’s nose.
It distracts just long enough that Dream can twist his wrists from George’s grasp and reverse it, grabbing his hands, small enough to fit alongside his weapons and twist their bodies around.
George’s back slams to the table, Dream nearly on top of him as the vampire sputters and squirms, blood dribbling from his nose. An unnerving bubbling noise rises from where Dream grabbed him, the vampire’s hands pressed to the holy wood and metal in his grip, steam steadily rising.
A scream rips from George’s throat, his legs flying up to kick at him but Dream presses forward further, too close for them to hit anything meaningful.
Satisfaction blooms in his chest, a heat traveling from his cheeks down to his toes, the adrenaline of a fight. George looks up at him, wide-eyed, and for a second he sees fear.
“I told you.” Dream smiles.
Rage twists the vampire’s face, his hair splayed across his forehead and haloed on the table behind him. He could be an angel, Dream thinks, a demonic one.
“Fuck you!” George spits, a new determination settling into his expression.
Dream just stares, hypnotized as George squirms and writhes beneath him. He doesn’t know why he waits but he regrets it when he feels George manage to slip his foot beneath his torso.
Suddenly, he’s kicked upward, his advantage of gripping George now sending him up and over the vampire, his back slamming into the middle of the polished table. It disorients him, his brain spinning with the world.
He releases his grip without meaning to and feels his weapons pulled from his hands.
Fuck.
By the time the world comes to a halt, a body slides on top of him and he just has time to see George straddling him, his own stake raised in the creature’s burning hands. He raises his arms at the same time George slams the crucifix down towards his chest.
He stops breathing, life flashing before him as his faith is used against him—until it stops an inch from his chest. Somehow, he’d pushed up just enough to keep it from skewering him.
His chest heaves, arms straining as he keeps pushing against George. The vampire’s face is framed in chandelier lighting, his features masked in shadow as he stares down at him, a wide, manic look in his eyes.
The veins of Dream’s neck bulge as he holds the stake at bay, the heat he’d felt growing as he lays trapped under the vampire’s legs, a writhing in his stomach. Fear, it must be fear.
A laugh tears him from his thoughts, the vampire’s lips curl as the shrill sound pierces Dream’s ears. “What was that, Father? I didn’t hear you over the delicious sound of your heartbeat.”
It’s Dream’s turn to kick and George returns the same courtesy he’d shown. George presses his hips down, bodyweight leaning fully onto the stake in his hold. Dream’s heart leaps to his throat, a gasp escaping him. The heat grows.
George leans down, letting his face hang just above Dream’s, satisfaction on his lips. “Come on, scream for me.” He dips his head lower, Dream’s eyes going wide as he opens his mouth and drags his tongue across his cheek. It’s hot and wet against his skin. It draws a keening noise from his throat as his stomach flips.
“Pathetic. You whimper like a dog. I said scream.” Dream’s arms are fully shaking now from the will to keep the stake from his heart. George is above him, red eyes encompassing his vision, panting breaths falling against Dream’s mouth. “I said scream!”
Shifting the weight from the stake, George lets one hand fall to the table while the other clutches the stake to the side, and clamps his teeth onto the side of Dream’s neck.
Dream gasps and jolts as the razor-sharp fangs slide through his flesh, breath instinctively punched from his chest. “God—” He claws with his unoccupied hand at the vampire’s hair, trying to pull him back but his fingers keep slipping. He’s still shaking and the vampire works his tongue across his skin, bathing unholy teeth with his blood and drinking ravenously.
Fire bubbles through his veins, settles lower and lower. Fear. It’s fear. George drinks swiftly, swallowing him down with a speed that makes Dream lightheaded. If he does nothing, he’ll die.
No, I will not fail. Don’t give in to him. Don’t give in to yourself.
He tries to push at George’s shoulder and he doesn’t budge, only hums with satisfaction that buzzes against Dream’s throat. He tries to twist the stake towards George but the angle is too awkward. Finally, he grabs George’s throat and squeezes with all his might.
George chokes and sputters as he’s suddenly unable to breathe or swallow. His grip slips from the stake and Dream tries to grab it in his peripherals only to feel it tumble from his grasp onto the floor. That’s alright though, because now he has a hand free.
He grabs George’s hair again and with the combined strength of his hands, pushes him off. The fangs slide from his neck and his blood flows freely onto the table. He didn’t hit an artery, Dream could tell by the continuous flow, but he did need to stem the bleeding.
George’s mouth is stained red, eyes bulging as he gasps for air. He thrashes against him, fingers reaching to claw at Dream’s face but he’s at arm’s length now and Dream doesn’t mind a few scratches.
He rolls them, both of them tumbling on the table until they both crash to the floor. Dream still holds tight, pushing down on the vampire’s throat against the ground. George nicks his arms, his cheeks, digs into his sides but it's not serious enough for Dream to let go.
He sees George reach for the stake beside them and grabs it before he can. Dream raises it.
George stares up from the carpet, eyes wide with fear, a shock like he’d never considered dying before, that Dream could kill him.
He thrashes harder, digging his nails along Dream’s arms in a way Dream knows will scar.
“I hope you like the taste of fire as much as blood.”
A strangled sound gurgles from the creature’s throat and suddenly his hands cease their movements, raising in surrender by his face. He mouths a word, desperately. ‘Wait.’
Dream considers for a moment but there is blood coating his neck and arms. He raises the stake higher.
‘Wait!’ They mouth again, hands splaying by their sides. ‘Talk. Want to talk.’
Dream shouldn’t even consider it, he shouldn’t hesitate to plunge the stake into their cold, black heart. But no vampire had ever tried to talk to him before, then again, George didn’t seem to be a typical vampire.
He sat there, breathing heavily through his nose, staring down at this wicked creature that’d killed so many before. Why should he spare them? This could simply be a distraction.
The vampire’s face becomes greyer than usual, lips turning purple against the bright red blood on their skin as they gasp for air they cannot receive. It’s distracting. Why can’t he focus?
“Why should I—” he starts to say but he’s interrupted by the vampire grabbing the collar of his robes and yanking forward. As he loses balance, Dream blindly slams the stake down and it just misses George’s face, burying itself into the carpet.
George rolls them this time, keeping Dream from aiming another hit and loosening his grip. The moment his fingers loosen, the creature digs his heels into the floor and kicks backward. Dream loses his hold and the vampire crashes backwards, stumbling away from him.
Without hesitation, he rises again. So it was a trick and next time he would be sure he didn’t miss.
His face must say this because George backs up at his approach, a hand on his throat, trying to breathe again. There were already bruises on his neck. “Wait—” he raises a hand as a cough wracks his body. “Stop. Truce.”
Dream laughs, ignoring the blood still spilling from his neck. “Like I’d believe you. One of us dies today and it’s not going to be me.” That’s always how a hunt ended, there was a winner and a loser.
He stalks forward only for George to continue backward, turning to keep himself from being cornered. If he ran, Dream wouldn’t be able to keep up. Most of his success came from relying on a vampire’s arrogance to drive the killing blow. If George ran, he’d get away. So Dream, regrettably, stops, glaring at George until they’re both still.
George looks relieved, rising and taking more deep breaths. They don’t take their eyes off each other, but Dream wordlessly rips a strip of black fabric from his robes and presses it against his open wound. He waits.
“Alright,” the vampire pants when they’ve finally caught their breath. “Color me intrigued. You’ve impressed me.” Dream scoffs. They always underestimate him. “Let’s chat shall we?”
Dream doesn’t move, keenly aware of the bodies scattered around them. No way he’s letting his guard down.
“What do you want?” he deadpans.
“To talk. Maybe we can come to an agreement.” The vampire stood eerily still, even as their chest heaved from the fight.
“Why?” Dream smirked. “Because now you know I can kill you?”
Anger flashed on their face and Dream knew he was right. George held his tongue. His eyes scanned Dream’s face, searching for something. He lingers on the wound on his neck, tongue peeking through the white of his teeth. Dream tracks the movement, his eyes lingering on George’s stained lips. When he looks up, the vampire is watching him, a curious gleam in his eye.
“You’re obviously an experienced hunter,” George begins. “You use your strength as well as your wits. You probably plan extensively, use all of your knowledge to your advantage.”
Dream narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?”
George took a deep breath. “You want to save people, no?” Dream slowly nodded. “What if I told you most of what you know of us is a lie? I can share with you our true weaknesses, how to fight us better.”
Dream blinked. Most of what the world knew of vampires was from centuries of trial and error, learning from the mistakes of the dead. As far as he knew, no one had managed to coerce a vampire into revealing their secrets. No vampire would talk to a human without their end in mind.
“You’re lying to me.”
“Garlic doesn’t actually scare us away you know. See?” George carefully strode over to the table, slowly reaching down to a broken plate and grabbing a garlic clove. He held it up for Dream to see. “Whatever person came to that conclusion must’ve just been a very bad cook.” He tossed it up into the air and let it fall to the floor.
That was new information. Dream had always been taught that garlic worked. They always hung them up about the churches.
“Why?” he stood stiffly, not daring to relax. “What do you get out of it?”
George licked his lips, tasting some of the blood still there. “You give me a steady supply of blood and I will tell you anything you wish.”
Dream stopped, taken aback. “What? I’m not feeding you people.”
“I didn’t say people.” The vampire pointed to the bodies on the floor, then raised his finger towards Dream. “I said you.”
The priest stared, flabbergasted. “You want me to let you kill me?!”
“No!” George snapped in frustration. “I won’t kill you. I’ll drink enough to keep me sustained for a time but not drain you completely. Then no one else has to die.”
Dream imagined the sliding of teeth into his flesh again, heat rising to his cheeks. “No!”
“Fine,” George huffs. “Then I’ll have to hunt down more people. More innocents dead, is that what you want?”
“No! I want you dead! You’re evil! You eat people!”
George snarled at that. “It isn’t my fault your God made me this way. What am I supposed to do, starve?”
“You chose this—”
“Cruel isn’t it?” George spat. “To create something whose means to survive is the very definition of sin.”
Panic spiked in Dream’s throat because it was a valid statement. “Shut your mouth.”
“But I’m right.” The vampire smirks but their eyes are wide, on edge.
Dream’s mouth goes dry as he simply thinks. Was he actually considering this deal? “How do I know you’ll keep your word? How do I know you won’t kill me.”
“For the same reason you won’t kill me: because you have something I want.” George pursed his lips, a nervous shift in his stance. “A steady food supply is safer for me. The less I kill, the less chances I have of being caught.”
He should say no. He shouldn’t believe a word out of this creature’s mouth. He remembered the pressure of George’s lips and teeth on his skin and it should be terrifying. I am afraid, he ensured. Of you or myself it doesn’t matter.
But if the vampire kept his word and he did further the church’s knowledge of vampires then maybe it was worth the risk. His life he’d willingly give, it’s what he was born to do. If he could save more by taking this deal…
And if George became too bothersome, he could just kill him after.
“If you kill me, others will know it was you,” he says as assurance. Dream’s fingers twitch around the stake. Red eyes never wander from him, awaiting an answer.
Dream watches parted lips, the disheveled curls that paint marble skin brown. He swallows down the shame of his wanderings, he’ll punish himself for those later. It will not sway his decision.
“You promise to kill no one else?” The vampire nods. “And answer any question I ask?” He nods again.
For some reason, Dream believes him. Maybe it was the intensity of his expression and the intrigued gleam of his eye. Slowly, he lowers the stake and picks up the silver dagger, placing both in his pocket.
“Fine…” He approaches the vampire cautiously, a hand outstretched. “Deal?”
George looks down at it with surprise, but a smile begins to form on his face. “Deal.” The creature shakes his hand, this time with shortened nails. He doesn’t lunge or show signs of attacking. Maybe, he was actually right.
He releases the vampire’s hand and wipes his own on his robes, trying to rub off the lingering feel of it.
“I can help you clean that if you want.” George smirks, bottom lip held between his teeth as he hungrily eyes Dream’s hand still pressed to his neck.
Dream shifts uncomfortably. “Uh, no thanks.”
“I don’t mind. You’re quite sweet.” A blush burns Dream’s cheeks and the vampire laughs, satisfied with his reaction. “Oh well.” George turns away, walking back over to the center of the room, observing the mess he must clean.
“How will I find you?” Dream asks.
“Don’t worry. I’ll come to you.” The vampire perks up, smiling brightly before his whole expression deadpans. “Now get out.”
Dream turns back towards the hidden corridor, glancing back to see George watching, waiting for him to go. He steps through the passageway and turns around once more. “If you eat anyone else, I’ll kill you—”
“Just leave.”
Dream huffs, catching one last look at the creature surrounded in the destruction of their battle. He nods then turns and leaves.
He’s on edge as he makes his way through the manor house, now long empty, expecting the vampire to change his mind or maybe ambush him in the winding halls, but he makes it to the front door without interruption.
He walks along the street and makes it to the church without so much as a bug crossing his path. Dream closes the heavy wooden doors behind him and lets his head sink into his hands.