Turning
When the inevitable finally happened and the sun went down, Jerry had been disappointed. He deliberately hadn't fed since Amy, knowing this confrontation with Charley was coming; he had wanted to finish him. 400 years old, centuries of tribes behind him, he knew how to do such things. Just as he knew a certain spot to feed from that would keep the victim alive for days, and one that would spill virtually no blood, and one that would make it spurt like fountains, he knew one that would kill instantly. Effortless draining. He couldn't wait. It was better when they were alive and struggling, the blood warm and flowing and live, but Jerry wasn't doing this for pleasure. He was doing it out of principle; the little brat just had to be dealt with.
And so Jerry's fledglings, knowing his plan, had ignored Charley and fallen back onto Peter the minute the sun went down and Jerry, no longer caring about how much he could tease Charley or prolong his suffering, had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and sank his fangs into that killing spot, severing the life from his scrawny body.
It was the blood he was disappointed in, and not because it was no longer flowing. Getting Charley all worked up and righteous as he had, Jerry had been expecting a feast. For all his bravado, the kid was a bland, weak nothing. Still, Jerry had been restraining himself and now finished Charley off with ease in a matter of minutes, with the expertise of an older one. When he was done, he let the body drop and looked up with a feeling of anti-climax in his mouth.
The others were still on Peter, crawling all over him and feeding messily. Probably hurting and not actually taking that much, still learning. Some had learnt how to take long, deeper gulps from certain areas, but most just gorged on whatever they could get. Jerry watched for a while. Peter was still alive. He must have heard Charley die.
"That's enough," Jerry said, after a bit, and they retreated. They had to learn not to gorge all at once but to make their treat last. It was more fun that way.
He could see Peter trembling out of the corner of his eye but ignored him. He had a fucking ceiling to fix, not to mention whatever the two of them had smashed upstairs. Amy was trailing after him again, looking wistful, but with no Charley around to goad, he wasn't interested. Another reason he preferred turning to killing; he now had a dead body to get rid of.
After a busy night, Jerry checked on Peter and found his groans had subsided but he was still alive. As he was turned, he wouldn't be missing food or water, but the lack of blood and long exposure to sunlight had weakened him. None of the others would let him feed without Jerry's permission. If Charley hadn't been dead, if the small amount of blood left in him hadn't been congealing, Peter probably would have attacked him. He wouldn't have been able to help himself. He looked like he wasn't going to last much longer, and had become indifferent to the others' occasional assaults.
Jerry almost told them to knock it off; he couldn't decide whether he wanted Peter killed or turned. At first, he was sure of the former, but he was wavering now. Perhaps it was dissatisfaction of Charley. Jerry had been unprepared for Peter; he was sure the man would run when he finally unbolted himself from the panic room, and Jerry would have quite happily let him run. He had no idea what had gone on the magician's head and had more or less ignored him while concentrating on Charley. If Amy had been able to hurt Charley when she had the chance, that would have been different; Jerry had quite enjoyed cornering Peter on his own and taunting him, had been growing excited by his familiar, more masculine scent. It was then, maybe, that it occurred to him that there was more to Peter than a potential fledgling feed.
He had been aroused, more than he had been for some time, when he watched them feed, though he kept a mask of perfect, casual indifference over his features. He had been about to tell them they had had their feed and take the man for himself when Charley had got away and distracted him and Jerry just knew he had to go. The kid would grate on Jerry for the rest of his days and make things difficult for everyone if he was turned. The little brat. There was no need for Peter to burn in the sun.
He looked at Peter now. To turn or not to turn, that was the question. After the first few weeks or so, the euphoria of turning and feeding and experiencing a whole new world would wear off, and Peter would struggle with his loyalties to Jerry, to settle. Oh, Jerry could wrap his words around the best of them and coax the most stubborn of victims, make them feel safe and sheltered and wanted, but with Peter he had to admit he'd have his work cut out for him. That, and the magician knew a dangerous amount about vampires, and might take it into his head to commit suicide and take the rest of them with him. Maybe.
Jerry approached the man now and knelt beside him. His clothes were torn and open where the others had fed, bloodied and dirt-ridden. His skin was pale and still hot from the sun, Jerry noticed with some displeasure when he touched his cheek. Whatever he chose to do, allowing him blood and turning him or just putting him out of his misery, Jerry didn't want to leave him here for the others to pick at whenever they felt like it. He took Peter into his arms and lifted him, carrying him out of the basement with ease and up the stairs, through his corridor and into a vacant room. Peter was conscious but didn't resist, as limp and pliant as a child. As if denying the act of conscience, Jerry dumped Peter unceremoniously on the floor, and locked him in without looking back.
When he returned - and he couldn't leave it long as he suspected Peter was actually dying by now, and he was housebound now anyway, noting the light through the drawn curtains with distaste - he expected Peter to have crawled into a corner, they all did, but he was lying prone where Jerry had left him.
Jerry knelt beside him and pulled the limp form into his arms. Despite the lingering smells of dirt and fledgling saliva and sunlight and approaching death, he could still make out Peter's scent, and felt his fangs pulse with desire. He could tell Peter was still conscious although he didn't open his eyes, but said nothing.
Jerry licked his lips. He was still gorged on Charley and in no rush. He didn't normally kill at once; drinking to kill took a lot, enough to possibly kill a fledgling who wasn't used to it, and Charley and Peter's parents had been few exceptions; Charley for obvious reasons, the Vincents because he just happened to be starving when their house was the first he came across.
He'd had room for the kid when he was done, and had considered it as he looked up the stairs and saw his poor face in the dark as he realised what had happened. But then he had decided against it. He forgot why. He didn't really feed from kids, not out of any moral reasoning but because they just weren't very satisfying.
Yes, he was gorged on Charley, but Peter didn't have much to give anyway. He sank his fangs in slowly, in a spot that produced little pain, and little blood, for that matter. Jerry let what little was left slide down his tongue and into his throat - practically painless for the victim. He did it in the manner of feeding from a fellow vampire he was dating, in a slower, more love-making mood than a fucking one. It was hard, though. Peter tasted wonderful. He'd been wasted on the younger ones.
Soon Jerry made himself stop and licked what was remaining away, before pulling back to admire Peter. His eyes were still childishly closed, and although Jerry quite wanted to see them open and staring pleading into his own, he did nothing.
Instead, he held his claws to his own throat and dug in. Peter's eyes flew open instinctively, seeking out the smell. Claws began to form at his fingertips, and he twitched as his fangs began to grow. Jerry could hear his heart, before faint and barely there but now building. Peter stared at the blood running from Jerry's fingers and licked his parched lips.
Jerry had barely moved forward again when Peter's fangs were buried in him, feeding deeply and gratefully. His claws dug into Jerry's bare shoulders, all the way in, and Jerry didn't know if it was a form of rebellion or just the desire to increase blood.
He had deliberately cut where the blood would flow thick and fast, and felt Peter slowly coming back to life. The magician dug his claws down hard, producing long lines of blood, and although it hurt, Jerry didn't do anything.
When Peter was done, lapping up his parents' murderer's blood with his tongue as if it were ice cream, Jerry almost laughed. He watched as Peter leaned back and closed his eyes again, shaking, and licked his palms clean. His body throbbed with pleasure. His scent was fading, and Jerry savoured the shame and fear and human fragility while he still could.
He waited a little longer and then it happened, Peter opened his eyes and Jerry saw it there, the euphoria of turning and the first feed kicking in. Euphoria that he would experience a lot but was that much stronger the first time. Jerry couldn't smell his fear at all now, and he looked innocent and quite content. And he didn't know why, but Jerry leaned down and kissed him.
Peter wasn't quite as doped up looking as Amy had been, or as attractive, and more to the point he had no reason to be doing it, no Charley to torment, but he'd just wanted to do it. He was rewarded with Peter's open, welcoming mouth and the slip of his tongue, the taste of his own blood passing between them.
Just then, Jerry felt a wave of tiredness come over Peter, the combination of sunlight exposure and the lack of blood and turning taking its toll. Sure enough, when he pulled back, Peter more or less dropped and slept. Jerry left him. He should probably take him back to the basement, he was one of them now, after all, but he couldn't be bothered about that now. Despite having his doubts, something told him that turning Peter had been the right thing.