A/N: Okay, I notice from the hit counter that you are in fact reading this story. Please do me a favor and leave feedback! I like to know what people like or don't.

Also... I notice my Krolock here seems a little homophobic/incestophobic. I think it's because Herbert's inability to respect boundaries must be extra difficult to cope with while you're still trying to work out who or what exactly you are now. I imagine he'll chill out over time.

Krolock never regretted what he did to Herbert, even though the thought of that evening still made him ill. He knew he was going to do it eventually; he'd known it ever since he realized that his illness (curse? gift?) meant that he would never age. Herbert had pestered him from the start, but I want to be able to fly too, Papa! had never really impressed the count. I don't want to die had a little more force. What kind of father would watch his child grow old and expire when he had the power to prevent it?

And it was no surprise that Herbert pressed him more and more insistently as time went on and his loneliness grew. What kind of son would allow his papa to wallow alone in misery and darkness, instead of standing beside him?

Besides, they had always liked one another and always gotten along, even after it became apparent that Herbert was never going to grow into the strong, steady man his father had envisioned him.

He's like the daughter I never had, Krolock thought sometimes, watching Herbert shriek at a spider or fuss over his shoes. (Not, of course, that there was anything wrong with being well-groomed and fastidious. Krolock himself took nearly as long to get dressed in the evenings as his son. But still.)

So he'd meant all along to make Herbert like himself… but if he had a chance to do it all over again, he would wait. He didn't want Herbert to live forever with his voice cracking, his hormones raging and his limbs too long for his body. Once some more years had passed, once he'd lived a little, grown up, maybe had some children of his own (somehow), and seen his fill of the sun... then would be the time. They would discuss it and be sure that Herbert knew what he was asking for. They would take their time and think it over.

When the big night came, Krolock would arrange a splendid gala party, after a last beautiful day in the sun. He would dress to the nines, find someone to take the edge off so that appetite wouldn't rush him, and then he would go to Herbert's room and ask him one last time: Are you sure?

Everything would go well. It made him happy to imagine it.

It did not make him happy to remember that one night he came in and Herbert was sitting at his vanity, brushing out his long pale hair. "Evening, Papa," he said into the mirror – even though Krolock knew perfectly well he saw only his own reflection and nothing behind it. His smile was inviting, almost coy, and Krolock's lip curled. The boy would flirt with anything that moved.

But when Herbert turned to look over his shoulder, he immediately pressed his mouth closed. Letting Herbert stare at his teeth always led to trouble; soon he would start whining or begging or arguing, or any of the other thousand methods he had invented for asking to share his father's darkness. "Herbert. I just came to let you know I'll be-"

"Papa, do you like this shirt?" Herbert stood and faced him in one impossibly fluid movement. Even to someone who could walk through mist without disturbing it, that looked graceful. Herbert reached up and swept his hair all to one side, off his neck, and tugged on the shirt's wide, open collar. "I just had it made. Isn't it nice? It's so soft..." his fingers trailed over the silk, and over his skin - which looked even softer.

"Mm." Krolock looked away, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the press of his fangs against his gums. He had long since gotten used to them, no longer cut himself by accident and in fact never noticed them at all... except in moments like these, when he was desperate not to.

He hadn't tasted blood in a while. He was in fact on his way to do so right now. He'd only stopped by to remind his son that he wouldn't be back til tomorrow night, and...

He realized in a flash that Herbert knew it, and was doing this on purpose. Tempting him. His own father. That was truly disgusting... and even more disgusting, it was working.

"Herbert." You know what danger I am, he wanted to say. I try to be different towards you. Why do you make it so hard? But he couldn't manage, because his mouth was watering. He could smell...

Blood. Herbert had pricked his finger with a pin, and was now raising his hand slowly. He drew it down his neck, leaving a fragrant rusty smear that Krolock could not look away from.

"Papa, please." Herbert took a step forward, then two, and tilted his head. "Do it," he whispered. Nothing more, just an echo of what was already hissing through Krolock's head over and over again: "Bite"

Krolock bit.

When it was time, he would stand behind his son and he would place one hand on Herbert's temple and one on his shoulder. He would push Herbert's head to the side, calm and sure and strong, exactly the way a father should touch his child.

He would sink his teeth, and he'd suck hard for a second. Because it would taste good, it had to, Herbert was his own flesh and blood and nothing could possibly taste any better. After he'd indulged for that first moment, though, he would wait. He'd ease up, letting Herbert's flighty little heart do the work and feeling the blood fill his mouth. He would drink slowly, swallowing only what was given him, so that there would be no pain. Or nearly. If Herbert whimpered anyway (which he likely would; he never had been known for his stoicism), Krolock would squeeze his shoulder for reassurance.

Soon he would feel Herbert weakening. Shivering, growing cold. Krolock would let go of him, still latched on to his neck of course, and would wrap his cape around them both. He'd permit himself to draw one more long generous sip. Two at most. By then Herbert would be slumping against him, dizzy and no longer able to stand on his own two feet. Krolock would suck hard, as a test, and when it got no reaction he would know that his son was nearly unconscious. He would take his mouth away at once, duck down and scoop Herbert up.

Krolock would cradle him and carry him carefully to the bed. He would bend and set him down, lying him comfortably and pulling the covers over him.

(If Herbert's blood was still dripping down his neck, and it still smelled so perfect, he might swipe it up with his finger for one more taste.)

And then he would sit down by Herbert's bedside and just wait until he woke up.

He grabbed Herbert by the shoulders and bit deep into his neck.

Blood exploded into his mouth, amazing and fulfilling him... it did that every time but somehow this was different; somehow nothing had ever tasted so good. This was rich and sweet and intoxicating and addicting and... perfect. Perfect. He groaned deep in his throat, and the sound woke him out of his rapture a little because it was unthinkable that anyone should sound that way through contact with his own son.

Herbert, for his part, had been surprised and overwhelmed, and so for a moment jumped as though he meant to fight back. But he soon corrected himself and relaxed, flinging his arms around Krolock's neck and one leg up over his hip.

Krolock was repulsed but not really surprised; with his bizarre love of men of course Herbert would be affected by the low, hoarse noises of pleasure he was hearing. He was in no state to be picky about which man exactly was holding him. It wasn't his fault.

It's mine, Krolock thought, and forced himself to pull back and turn his face away. Herbert hung on, so he slammed him hard against the wall. "Stop," he ordered. "Let go!" Blood sprayed out of his mouth when he talked, but he tried to ignore the smell of it and ignore the heartbeat against his chest.

Somehow, though, without ever being aware that he'd changed his mind, he eventually turned and latched onto the wound again.

Herbert behaved even worse the second time. He breathed yessss and arched his hips up against his father's, grinding around hard. He was enjoying this; Krolock could feel the proof of it against him.

That was unacceptable, and at last he managed to tear himself away and shove Herbert out of reach. He tried not to stare at the blood that was dripping down to soak the silk collar. "Go," he rasped, but instead Herbert took a step closer. Oh, he smelled good.

Krolock seized him by the hair and wrist and wrenched his head to the side. This time he didn't even drink from the same wound; he bit him all over again. Harder, deeper, without even a shred of control.

"Ow!" Herbert struggled and squealed, his enjoyment vanishing in the face of the pain. "No Papa you're hurting me, wait, let me-... oh..." Krolock was sucking too greedily and he knew it; people became ill when he did this to them. He knew it, but still it took time before he could get a handle on himself long enough to let go and shove away.

Herbert collapsed, and tried to hang onto the bed and drag himself up. "Papa... help," he whimpered, but Krolock still saw the blood all over him, and still wanted it. He wanted it even though if he took any more he might kill him outright instead of infecting him with the strangeness. He wanted it even though it was his own son. He wanted.

He turned and ran out of the room, hand over his mouth, and locked the door behind him.

By the time Herbert's eyes opened, his body would finally have stopped twitching. Krolock would be sure that everything had gone well but just in case: "Herbert, open your mouth. Let me see."

No reaction for a second, and then Herbert would suddenly sit bolt upright with a roar.

"All right, shh. You're hungry, you're hungry, that's all," Krolock would soothe, pushing him back down with a firm hand on his chest. "Look to your left - there's something on the floor for you."

Herbert would turn, nearly flinging himself out of bed in his eagerness, and fall on the sleeping peasant girl his father had laid out for him. Krolock would watch him devour her, hear him moaning, and cross his fingers that maybe he'd develop a new appreciation for females after this experience.

But even if not, the poor girl would definitely have served a purpose. Herbert would drink her blood until he was full, then sit up and look at his father. "Papa?" His voice would be thick and strange until he learned to talk around his fangs.

"You did well," Krolock would tell him. "Now put her down before it's too late. You don't want to drink of the dead; it's spoiled and it will make you sick."

"Oh." He'd look down at her, and with any luck he'd sigh and touch her cheek. "She's pretty."

"Yes." Krolock would extend a hand and pull his son to his feet. "Come – let's present you to the guests."

Herbert would smile, and it would be a different smile now: fanged, for starters, and intimidating. Just like his father's.

Krolock paced the hallway so angrily that his cloak snapped against the wall with every turn. He wiped his mouth. He could still taste it. Eventually he heard some movement, heard someone picking himself off the floor. "Papa?"

Krolock found he still didn't feel capable of facing his son calmly, and turned away.

A pounding against the locked door. "Papa, help."

He covered his ears. But he could still hear the thump as Herbert fell against the wall, could still hear him slide to the floor. And he could definitely hear him start moaning. He winced as he remembered the agony of his own changing, the terrible hunger cramps that had brought him to his knees...

Herbert pounded on the door again, but weakly. "Papa? Papa please, no, help me, I have to- oh-... AAH!"

Listening to him scream was bad, but letting him run amok in the castle would be worse. Krolock braced both hands on the door but didn't open it. "I hear you, Herbert," he said after a moment, as coolly as he could manage. "Stay there - I'll get you something that will help."

He swept off, trying not to think about what he was about to do. Herbert was new to this, he was hungry, and he was likely going to kill whoever his father brought him. Krolock had to choose someone from his own house to-

A loud creaking got his attention. He turned just in time to see Herbert's door opening - Herbert's favorite valet had apparently been lured by all the commotion. "No - don't go in!" he shouted, but it was already too late. He ran back down the hall and got there just in time to see Herbert jerk the boy's head aside so hard his neck snapped. The boy convulsed once and was already still when Herbert started gnawing on him.

"Stop it, stop it, you can't bite corpses!" Krolock wrestled the body away, but Herbert was out of mind with hunger and pain and ignored him completely. He tried to get his teeth into it again, and then into his father, snarling and snapping like a wild beast.

Krolock shoved him hard enough to send him flying out of the room. Before he could rectify that mistake Herbert was on his feet, howling, and he took off down the hallway.

Krolock chased him. They raced down the stairs and through the kitchen, and there was a woman there, a cook. Krolock shouted "Not her!" but Herbert was long past caring that she'd served them since he was a little boy. He tore into her throat ravenously and sucked down blood as fast as it would fountain out.

Already there was nothing Krolock could do, so he just destroyed some things that were lying around on the counters and tried to get his temper under control while he waited for Herbert to finish. At last Herbert released the woman and she collapsed, eyes fluttering for only a moment before it was all over.

When Herbert came back to himself enough to understand what he'd done, the first thing he did was start bawling. Krolock was in no mood to comfort him, and just clamped a hand on the back of his neck and steered him out of the room... bumping him into as many walls as possible along the way.

When they reached the stairs that would lead to the cellar Herbert hesitated. "Where are you taking me, Papa?" he lisped through his new fangs.

"Coffin," Krolock snapped as he helped him down the steps. It was his own coffin since Herbert didn't have one yet... and rather than cuddle up with him and share tonight, Krolock was going to just dig himself a hole in the garden instead. He heaved him over the side and threw a blanket in on top of him. Then he picked up the heavy lid, but before he put it on he took one moment to look over the new and improved Herbert von Krolock and snarl: "Welcome."

The End.