It's been ages, I know. I stopped writing because of work, and then I lost my confidence, and then forgot how to. But hopefully this makes up for it. Hope you enjoy, and thank-you for all your kind reviews. They mean the world
P.S. If anyone remembers, number 4 is the beautifully cheek boned Benedict Cumberbatch, because, as a friend put it, he is 'ding dong' ;)
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Paris, 1719
"Do you know who I am, Henry Yorke?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"And do you know why I have called you here today?"
"No, my Lord."
"You are 200 years old."
"Yes, my Lord."
"And you were turned...?"
"At the Battle of Orsha, my Lord."
"Ah, yes. Orsha. I watched that one from the sidelines. Cold, wasn't it?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Colder for you, I'd imagine."
I laugh to myself at his palpable unease and confusion as I study my fingernails. Slightly rotten, but I suppose 3 millennia will do that, even to an immortal. No matter. I'm as strong as ever.
"Perhaps, my Lord."
"A lowly, brothel-born bastard turned foot soldier. I bet you were nothing. Worse than nothing. And I bet that bit into your skin more painfully than the frost ever could."
I glance up just in time to watch the corner of the boy's mouth quiver as if he wants to scream at me to be silent. His eyes bore holes into the ornate gilt wall behind my throne, never flickering from the intricate loops and swirls of gold writhing against the ivory plaster. I can feel through the bond of the blood we share that he's panicking, hoping that no hidden ears heard how the powerful, seemingly high born vampire stood before me has rewritten his own history and made fools of them all. I can also tell that he thinks the cherubs depicted on the fresco behind me are particularly ugly.
The candlelight highlights the planes of his face, and I'm pleased. He'll definitely do. It's about time we had a pretty one. And the hunger I can feel. It comes off him waves, like smog, thick and choking, never sated. Oh yes, he'll be perfect.
"There's no one here. There's no one listening but me. I'm right though aren't I, boy? Yet look at you. I'm sure the six of them would be so proud if they could see their little Hal now."
His fine green eyes widen and flick to me for the first time since he was ushered into the room five minutes ago. I raise a lazy brow at him and he quickly busies himself with staring past me once more. I want to break that stoic endurance. I want to know that I can make this man-child feel pain, and I have no need for crude implements to inflict agony. Let the torture begin.
"Don't look so surprised. Your soul is bare to me, Henry, Harry, Hal. I know everything about you. I know, for example, that you loved them, and despaired when the last of them died and you were left, alone and unwanted. I know that Agnes was your favourite. I know you thought Marion the prettiest, until the syphilis rotted her face. I know that when you were ten you pissed yourself in a cupboard while a customer with a particular penchant for violence beat Catharine to a bloody lump of flesh. Can you remember, Hal? Can you remember her screams? I suppose you've tried to drown them out with the screams of others. But it doesn't last. It never does."
I'm not bored; not yet. This new entertainment is far too diverting. His cheeks flush with stolen blood, his nails dig deeper into his palm as I spew truth after ugly truth at him. I particularly love the brave little wobble of his full, lower lip. Such a martyr. I lift myself carefully out of my throne and descend the dias, stalking towards to him. He still doesn't look at me, but his breath comes in short, sharp pants and it sticks in his throat as I draw closer. I feel the elation that only comes with breaking someone as I lean into his ear, watching his face as I whisper my final cruelties.
"I can't begin to imagine how impotent, how humiliated you must have felt, hiding in that stinking little cubby hole while your mother died. How can one ever escape the guilt, the torment?"
His breath is heaving now, and against his will a solitary tear falls. I press my finger to it and stop its progress, slowly dragging the moisture down his face and along his beautifully muscled neck which quivers delicately under my touch. "Only blood can chase the memories away. But you know that by now, don't you? I've heard of the atrocities you've committed, and I'm so proud. Killed quite a few whores of your own, haven't you? Make sure to check the cupboards when you do. Witnesses are such a bore, and the young are always so delectable"
I can feel that every fibre of his body is screaming to run, far away from me and my poisonous tongue. But he won't. I won't let him. I pull my finger away from his skin and suck the tip into my mouth. My footsteps echo through the hall as I ascend the dias and take once more to my throne.
"You need to shed your humanity Hal. Don't mistake my meaning; you're doing an awfully good job. But your daemons are making you sloppy, desperate, and we can't have that now, can we? Own up to your guilt, confront your fears, and you shall be magnificent, I promise you that. So confront them Hal. Own up to me. Where were you born?"
Silence. He stares defiantly past me, head still high.
"Come, Hal. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours. You were born in...?"
"I was born in a brothel." His voice suddenly rings out loud, and I applaud silently him for his backbone. My admiration, however, does not translate to mercy.
" – and your mothers were...?"
"And my mothers were..." His throat cuts off and his words falter and die. I ignore the new tear tract that's carved its way over his ironically aristocratic cheekbones and down his smooth, delicious skin. His bright green eyes have dimmed somewhat.
I do hope it wasn't anything I said.
"Try again, Hal."
"They were whores" he finally whispers, bowing his head in defeat. Even to my black heart it sounds like a final betrayal to the six he called mother.
"And you let them die, one by one, and you did..?"
His shoulders drop in shame. "I did nothing" he breathes.
I smile, and all is well.
"There, now. Doesn't that feel so, so much better? My dear boy, you can live again. You have been absolved."
I feel a shiver of hope cut through his abject despair. That's my boy, Hal.
But I'm tiring of this sport. He's broken pathetically easily, almost human in his weakness, and all I need do now is rebuild him into even more of a monster than he was before. But that won't be hard. Blood is a powerful motivator. I break the silence suddenly, but he doesn't even twitch.
"I have decided to honour you. You will join me, Hal. You will take your rightful place in our brotherhood. The Old Ones will welcome you with open arms, and we will care for you better than your whores ever could." I hear him stifle a small sob at this, head stilled bowed like a naughty school boy. "But I want you to remember that you do not join us because of your age, or your noble blood. You're like me, Hal. So talented, so perfectly sadistic and so very, very violent. I want you in our ranks."
I sit back in satisfaction as he nods slightly, jerkily.
"You have a lot to learn. Subtlety, for one. Restraint. Obedience. As my fathers taught me, I will teach you, and you shall become great, Hal."
I let out a slight chuckle and his head jerks up quickly. He seems more unnerved by this than our entire conversation.
"And, of course, watching everyone bowing and scraping to a Lord who is the son of no less than six whores? Well, the very prospect is hilarious."
His ashen face tells me that he doesn't quite seem to get the joke.