Stepping backwards, Raziel moved deeper into the shadows, towards where the rough-hewn stone walls of the building butted up against the jagged cliffs. The stone was black, grainy to touch and weathered down to a sheer face that offered few handholds, assuming that they were desperate enough to try to climb. But it was not the sky to which Raziel was looking. Instead he picked through the jumble of detritus, muttering a little as he poked through hopelessly tangled netting, seaweed, and other trash thrown up by the sea, all layered over a jumble of piled boulders.
"...ah. Here it is," he murmured to Rahab in satisfaction. Setting pale fingers underneath a particular boulder, he crouched, lifted-and rolled it aside to reveal a hollow bored through the stone, down into the dark. "The sand warrens," Raziel said by way of explanation, setting back upon his heels as he scented the air. "Underneath these cliffs are tunnels worn away by the sea. They are used by smugglers, at times-though none know of *this* particular entrance."
Rahab trailed behind, watching with avid intent his elder's search. Even still, he could not spot the concealed entrance, until Raziel worked his fingers beneath the cover stone and shifted it away. The rock was heavy, perhaps even beyond Rahab's strength, crushing discarded bones and sea-wrack bulbs alike beneath its weight. A trickle of loosened sand drifted down into the revealed borehole. Little wider than a man's shoulders, the tunnel snaked into the stone at a slightly-downward angle, and beyond the first few feet it was impossible to make out any details - nothing but black void against black pitted stone.
Tight and labyrinthine passages, steeped in darkness, from which no screams could escape... young though he was, Rahab could see for himself the eminent suitability of this place. Fascinating too that the sea, as well as harboring deep secrets, could carve tunnels! Controlling his eagerness as best he could, Rahab cast one last look back out into the street. Finding no observers, he took the point, entering headfirst, that claws and fangs might be brought more swiftly to bear, if needed.
Behind him, there was a muted scraping of Raziel's boots and he too climbed in, then the heavy slide of the cover stone, and then darkness descended, utter and enveloping, a Stygian cradle that soothed the senses. The spread of Rahab's palms on the worn floor, the echo of quiet sounds, told him all he needed to know - slope and pitch, the rough places ahead, the shape of the chamber around him. Small creatures of the sand skittered before him, their simple nervous systems sensing power in the air, and urging them flee. A few more lengths, and Rahab's fingertips met a lip of stone, beyond which was nothing at all, and the young vampire risked summoning the smallest of lights, a pale greenish glow that would be near unnoticeable to even night-adapted human eyes. Even if spotted, the patch on the wall of the tunnel might be mistaken for some natural phosphorescence of lichen.
To Rahab, the illumination lit the whole of the chamber quite well. The crawl-space from which he emerged was some eight feet off the floor, partially concealed by a fin of stone. As if a great worm had gnawed through the rock, an unnaturally smooth tube-like cavern extended left and right, stretching far beyond the reach of the light. Here, some chance of geology had broadened that passage, making a sand-bottomed cove of sorts. Scraps of lumber and rope were piled haphazardly on the ground. Crystals of salt, some thick as a man's wrist, clustered on exposed surfaces. Distant dripping, measured and regular as the action of waves, echoed.
Rahab climbed to the sand, clearing the way for Raziel. He lifted his head, tasting the scents of this place: warped rock and old heat, salt-rotted wood and leather, rust, the burning pitch of torches... and everywhere, water.
Raziel soon followed suit, dropping lithely to the sandy floor of the cove. What would have been pitch black to human eyes was as clear as twilight to a vampire's gaze, aided by Rahab's magelight. Tiny scurrying sea-creatures skittered away from the sudden intrusion into their lightless world, burrowing deep into the sand or scrabbling away over rock as their natures dictated.
iThis way,/i Raziel Whispered, turning right, confidently choosing one of the rocky passages, even though there seemed little to distinguish one from the other. iSilence is our ally in this place. Sound echoes oddly within these caverns, and in places where even a human might be able to hear./i Suiting action to words, he moved deeper into the dark with a loose-limbed and stealthy steps, setting his feet precisely upon the uneven stone. As they went deeper, the tunnel gradually grew even more damp, the stone about them redolent of the sea and the scent of the deep earth. iWe are not the only creatures to use these warrens-no doubt the smugglers we saw earlier have found themselves a bolthole closer to the light. But none but we enter this way-humans are afraid to come this deep. And for good reason …/i He stopped short, a hand hard upon Rahab's arm as he nodded at a deeper shadow than the rest. A flicker of magelight was all that it took to reveal a fathomless inky pit, dropping away from where they stood with shocking abruptness. Haven the sand warrens might well be, but they were not without their dangers.
Rahab sucked in a breath sharply as a shallow depression, a mere shadow amongst shadows, was revealed to be far, far deeper. Wide enough to swallow three men, the edges worn smooth by the passage of water and eons, the hollow snaked its way beyond any reach of light or vision. Rahab had not yet developed the ability to modulate his descent in freefall, but even if he had, the skill might do him little good were he swallowed by this void... for distantly, distantly... the hollow lap and pulse of waves echoed up through the darkness.
Rahab withdrew slowly from his precarious footing, edged with his elder around the wider rim, ducking the salt-frosted spears of mineral stone that depended from the uneven ceiling. He paused on the other side, looked back - the fading patches of magelight he'd left periodically on the stone walls were like breadcrumbs, trailing behind, marking the way with islands in the blackness. iI see,/i he replied, awed and tantalized by turns. So many traps into which the unwary might be led, so many nooks and hidden places...
Alert, he followed Raziel over a jumble of fallen stone, keenly aware of each quiet click of rubble upon rubble under his feet. Raziel bore right at the next intersection, and the passage twisted sharply, spooling its way through several turns, opening at last into a chamber that glittered like a treasurehouse, choked with pillars of cloudy salt as tall as a man, a thousand crystalline points bristling like swords, catching and refracting whatever glimmer of light fell upon them. Deep brackish pools, severed from their parent ocean for centuries, harbored life stranger than any Rahab had yet seen - scuttling and gauze-finned things, blind and pale. But his elder picked his way confidently through them all, and Rahab followed, much though he wished to hesitate at the sight of each new wonder. Another turn, and the scent of torches and tar and the sea grew stronger; the salt on the walls was muddied with flecks of char.
Raziel slowed, though not because of any uncertainty as to their location. It had been decades since he'd last visited this place, but stone changed but slowly, not as swiftly or unexpectedly as human habitations did. What had slowed his approach, in fact, was the distant sound of voices in the dark. Human voices, hushed yet still echoing oddly off water and stone. Moving with the stealthy care of a predator, he moved along one wall of the tunnel, using the deepest of the shadows to cloak his approach as the darkness fell back before the fitful light of torches that illumined the walls of the chamber before them.
"-I tol' ya, Erik, we shoulda waited. Iffn we'd waited, we coulda gone ashore, had us some grog, mebbe even a woman. But you had ta move the damned crates, and now we're stuck here! Can't do nuthin but sit in th' cold and damp, 'til the poxy dock inspector takes himself off."
"Aw, shut it," snarled another voice, lower and rougher than the first. "You've never stopped at one drink in yer entire pox-ridden life, Squint. Do you *want* the Captain to catch us? That would be somethin', awright-no cargo, no coin, and a flogging to boot."
"You weren't inna hurry cause of the Captain. You just were getting antsy, an' now we're paying for it," the first voice grumbled. A few muttered imprecations were lost in the echoing stone, even as Raziel slid forward, towards a massive boulder, cleft nearly in twain, that separated the tunnel from the cavern beyond. From such a vantage point, both he and Rahab could see the hapless smugglers; one sitting, the other standing, pacing to and fro upon the pebbled cavern floor. Both were clad in the rough garb of sailors, stained and roughly woven, adorned with a multitude of patches, and had the swarthy skin and tight-curled hair characteristic of the southern lands, the older man's face seamed with scars and adorned with a luxuriant beard. Focused as they were upon the dim light of the cave's entrance, and blinded further by the torchlight, the arrival of Raziel and Rahab did not attract any outcry from either of the waiting smugglers. The vampires were, in effect, invisible-at least for the moment.
After the stygian caverns, the ragged and narrow gape of sunlight was abrupt as a wound. The entrance was a gouge, accessed by a rude rampway of planks and trash, and just wide enough for a single man to squeeze through. While the opening was above the line of high tide, seawater surely entered occasionally, for there were shallow puddles in depressions in the stone, and further back, deeper pools. The smugglers had dragged their goods further up, to dryer venues, and were backlit quite nicely by the noonday light. Even still, the glare was not enough for their weak eyes; both men bore rag-wrapped torches. Squint swung his back and forth as he paced, liking the hiss as it flared. "We done this, wot, six times now? Everyone gets his cut, nuthin goes wrong, you sed it. How many times you sed it? Too many, that's how. And now sumthin goes wrong, all sudden like. So's I can't get my grog, mebbe not today at all. I don't like it."
"The thing I don't like none," snarled the second sailor, "is your flapping tongue, Squint. 'An he hears you caterwauling in here like a whore with the split-rot, someone might take it upon hisself to come find out why." His torch was wedged beside him, between two stones, leaving his hands free for the saber sheathed at his belt. He sat atop a pair of the small, stacked crates they were moving - the boxes were solidly built, and sealed along each slat with wax, proof against the slow seep of dampness.
Squint sneered, but lowered his voice. He wore only a long dagger, the kind useful about a ship for eating or cutting or prying, but even still, he reached to touch its hilt for reassurance. "Ain't nobody gonna hear us here," he said, torch swishing in agitation. "An iffin he does, he'll be feeding the fishes."
In the approach, focused upon his prey - and singled out like this, they *were* prey, even as similar mortals in a crowd had not been - Rahab was nearly as stealthy as his elder, his grace instinctive. At Raziel's silent gesture, Rahab maintained his course close to the wall while his elder stepped out, circling.
While the elder sailor was likely to put up more of a struggle, Raziel decided the younger was likely to be more dangerous-or at the very least, more likely to use the torch he had in hand against any hapless fledgling vampires. Rahab had little to fear from a sword or dagger, barring an unlucky impalement-but fire was far more deadly, and a fledgling's instinct to flee when confronted by it could be difficult to overcome.
"I do not think it will be the fishes that will be feasting this day," Raziel said with dark humor, drawing both humans' eyes to him even as he stepped into the torchlight. For the barest instant, he stood revealed-a creature as ghost-pale as any cave-fish, inhuman golden eyes glittering in the torchlight. The smugglers gawked, caught by surprise, the elder half-rising from his seat-and then Raziel *moved*, closing the distance between them with preternatural speed.
"Whut-?" Confronted by a demon-creature out of the dark, Squint managed only a single abortive cry before it was upon him. Black-clawed fingers closed upon the torch in his hand, twisting it away with shocking ease and tossing it into a nearby tide-pool. Shadows closed in as he scrambled to free himself, fingers fumbling upon the hilt of his dagger. "Erik! Help me!" His cry went unanswered as steely fingers dug into his flesh, claws closing about his throat.
Rahab was undistracted by his brother's theatrics, which most usefully and thoroughly drew
the mortals' startled attention. Time seemed to flow through syrup, each moment stretching, each sensation heightening. He could hear both mortals' heartbeats, the bellows rush of their angry breaths, could scent the sudden salt tang of sweat. The hunt was a pleasure, a drug, an imperative. Each step was silent, every muscle taut with coiled violence. Rahab watched his prey twist, grasping for the hilt of his blade and exposing the length of his flank, weight shifting as the man rose...
Rahab's leap caught the mortal off-balance, a fist staving in the pirate's unarmored ribs like twigs, the force of the spring tumbling them both, grappling, to the sand. Rahab went for the man's throat, confident that shock and pain would make the man weak - and snarled furiously as the mortal slammed an elbow into his jaw, snapping his head back in a way that might have broken his spine, were his bones still mortal-fragile.
Enraged, Rahab tightened his grip on the bigger man's arm, wrenching, and felt the joint of the shoulder dislocate. The satisfaction of that click-tearing sensation, the sailor's ragged cry, was short-lived as the man twisted under him. A stunning point of fire blossomed at Rahab's temple, the glancing impact of a piece of coral stone, and then they were somehow reversed, he flipped to his back, the mortal clubbing down, one-handed, with the hunk of jagged rock.
"Erik! Err-kkk!" Squint's desperate cries were cut off, along with his air. Gagging, he flailed ineffectively for a moment, his nails scrabbling against hands so strong they felt sculpted of cold marble. He kicked out frantically - in vain, as he was lifted from the ground by that terrible grip at his throat, his assailant's strength inhuman. One hand clawing at that steely arm, Squint tried again for the dagger at his belt. His fingers jerked numbly at the hilt - and then the entire sheath came loose, the blade not yet clear of it. Frightened beyond thought, Squint slashed at his attacker's eyes with the leather-encased blade.
Raziel jerked his head back as the rough leather of the scabbard scraped across his cheek and brow, snarling in annoyance. His prey's flailings could do nothing to injure him-but as that dagger finished its arc, the scabbard slipped free of the curved blade. His face mottled as he fought frantically for air, the human stabbed blindly downward, desperate to free himself. The strike was ill-aimed, yet still scored pale flesh, bloodscent intermingled with terror perfuming the air.
Growling under his breath, Raziel caught the man's wrist before he could stab downward yet again, twisting brutally. Bone snapped under his grip, and his prey gave a despairing, breathy cry as the dagger dropped from his spasming fingers. Raziel took a moment to eye Rahab, who still struggled with his own chosen prey-but chose not to intervene. The younger vampire was in no mortal danger, and subduing such a skilled brawler without assistance was a useful lesson indeed. Instead he bent his head, savoring the frantic thump of the sailor's heart and the hot bloodsmell that pumped beneath the begrimed skin-then bit down, cutting deep as he went for the kill.
The younger of the pirates continued to struggle for a moment longer, but asphyxiation left him on the verge of consciousness. The pain of the sudden tearing bite was sharp counterpoint to his broken wrist, but after a few swallows, both began to recede, attenuating. Gradually he went lax, unresisting.
Rahab's own prey landed two more clubbing blows before he managed to strike one of his own, rocking Erik back, stunning him a moment. The vampire lunged up with a vicious snarl, stronger than the mortal despite his size. One palm shoving the sailor's head back, Rahab locked fangs in the exposed throat, wrenching a gory mouthful free. Blood splashed across his face and chest before he could shove the man over and seal his mouth over the gaping wound.
Salt, and the richness of health and sun, the complexity and mouthfeel of the abundant seafood the man consumed, slightly sweet and enthrallingly salty... lacking in some respects, perhaps, but a delicious alternative to the vitae of slum-dwellers. Rahab gulped rapidly, knowing the man would bleed out far too fast, relishing every swallow. His own skin itched intensely as his scrapes closed over with visible speed, the cartilage in his nose clicking audibly as tiny muscles began to draw it back into proper place.
Raziel drank deep, relishing the pumping life of the blood as it spread over his tongue, burning down his throat to coil in his stomach. There was no way to preserve any of it for later-he had no way of transporting his prey back to the slums where the rest of his brethren waited without attracting notice, and leaving either of the sailors alive, even bound, was a risk he was not prepared to take. The man's struggles slacked, weakening as that frantic heartbeat slowed-until finally he hung limp, his skin ashen. Satiated, Raziel lifted his head, letting the sailor's cooling body drop to the cavern floor, smearing the back of one pale hand across bloodstained lips. Rahab had subdued his chosen prey, he noted with satisfaction, though the kill was more messy than he would have liked. Cleaning up his younger brother enough to make their way through busy daylight streets would be challenging, to say the least.
Few blisses were so intense as this, as gulping freely of heartsblood, like drinking from the very pulse of the world, drawing Rahab into a red animal space that felt outside himself, outside time or thought. But like all unalloyed pleasures it was over far too quickly, the flow easing to a seep, to a trickle. Rahab lifted his head from the wound, leaned back to survey his kill - perhaps there was another artery he could open - and surprised himself by sneezing. Rather messily, given the extent to which his face was covered in gore. He wrinkled his nose, trying to determine if it was still broken. Difficult to be sure, but he did catch sight of his elder brother's leveled gaze.
Hissing brief, greedy anger, Rahab bent to cover his prey from view, ducking to lick and worry at the wound he'd carved.
Raziel suppressed a sigh and went to sit upon the sandy cave floor, after taking care of a minor bit of housekeeping-dragging the remains of his meal into the deeper shadows, out of the sight of any casual observer. Precocious Rahab might be for a fledgling, but a fledgling he still was. Raziel did not feel inclined to interrupt the younger vampire's feeding before Rahab had been satisfied; not when there was no need to either enforce his brother's obedience or wrest his own share of the kill away from those greedy fingers. No, better to let Rahab savor his meal in peace; such chances were vanishingly rare, especially when Rahab had his other brothers to contend with. Once he was done, they would let the sea take both bodies; with the right currents, the monsters of the deep would devour the remains far more thoroughly than a vampire ever could.
It took several inelegant minutes before Rahab came slowly to the conclusion that there was nothing more to be gained from his kill. He sat up at last, vaguely disappointed but pleasantly sated. There was still blood on his lips, and he licked them, tasting it. The fluid was drying, and beginning to lose its vital essence, but most agreeable nevertheless. Rahab swabbed his palm over his face, lapping the red from his fingers, and thereby making of his visage an even more disturbing horror-mask of gore and long white fangs and angel-blue eyes, slitted in enjoyment.
Ineffectual self-grooming complete, Rahab cocked his head a little, idly eyeing the sailor whom Raziel had dispatched. He knew better, by now, than to look upon Raziel as potential prey - that lesson had been thoroughly ingrained, starting just days after his resurrection.
Catching that look, Raziel growled, the warning rumbling from the back of his throat. Precocious Rahab might be, but Raziel's patience with his brother did not extend to allowing him to forget his manners! Only the rawest fledglings were allowed to gnaw upon the corpses of others' prey like scavengers. Such behavior was all one could expect of a new-made vampire-but Rahab was now several years past his resurrection, and could no longer claim a newborn's incapacity for thought.
"We were fortunate," Raziel remarked, the sound of his voice echoing oddly off the stone around them. "Smugglers do not always use these caverns. Their existence is oft forgot for years or decades, before some human stumbles upon an entrance and discovers them anew." He tilted his head, regarding Rahab's blood-spattered state. "And as you have learned, sailors are not nearly so easy to subdue as soft-bellied merchants …."
Rahab blinked, frowned, the haze of fight and feeding clearing from his eyes. He looked to his own hand and, finding it covered in gore, tsked in pique and tried to wipe his palm clean on the sand - only to discover that much of his arm and shirt and face were similarly coated. "Not nearly so easy," Rahab admitted with dismay - he'd fought trained humans before of course, though mainly guardsmen already crippled or disarmed by his elder brothers - and a certain degree of shame as he surveyed his state. How were they to leave the caverns like this, with Rahab anointed liberally in the evidence of his own excesses? It was well he'd not made such a error in front of his Sire - Kain's patience and his tolerance for such youthful exuberances was vanishingly thin.
Fastidiously, Rahab gripped his sailor by the wrist and dragged the corpse over to lay neatly beside Raziel's kill. Then he circled to where Erik's torch still smoked and guttered, wedged firmly between two boulders. Crouching, flinching a little, Rahab reached out to grip the thing carefully as far from the lit end as possible, and doused the offensive flame in the nearest water. That accomplished, the only light came from the thin crack up the wall, a muted blue light reflected from all the many pools and puddles. In that cool glow, Rahab selected a clean space on the dry sand. "How soon need we depart?" he asked quietly, drawing his tunic up over his head and toeing off his sandals. His torso was stippled with short lines of blood - his own, from scrapes he'd received during the course of his fight. The minor wounds were now vanished, leaving only a little vitae to mark the struggle.
Raziel tilted his head, considering. "We have some time-the sun is yet high." His time-sense was imperfectly accurate, especially mewed underground like this; but he still could feel the sun's progress in his bones, his undead flesh yearning for the cool safety of twilight. Their painstaking progress through the caverns had taken some time, but the subsequent ambush and meal had not been lengthy. They could afford to linger.
Ripping an unstained portion of cloth from one of the corpses, he pushed to his feet and proffered it to Rahab. "Here-this may help." Then he turned his attention to the crates that the humans had so diligently guarded, crouching next to the nearest to consider it. Made of rough-hewn wood and sealed with wax, there was little upon the surface to indicate what might lie inside. The faded stampings of a foreign port adorned its surface to declare its origin, but even those might have been faked in order to allow these crates to go unremarked amongst more ordinary cargo.
Raziel sniffed experimentally at the wood, but found it scented only the sea and the reek of months spent in the dank belly of a sailing ship. Finally curiosity got the better of caution; levering sharp-nailed fingers into one corner, Raziel pulled the lid upward, metal studs shrieking in protest, and peered within. He had expected spices, or perhaps some other exotic goods heavily taxed-at most, perhaps a windfall of the addictive white-powdered 'sugar', banned by Freeport authorities and thus worth its weight in gold.
Instead, the crate was full of … vials? Frowning, Raziel reached in, plucking one out to scrutinize it more closely. The vials were full of liquids in a rainbow of gem-like hues-sapphire-blue, dark crimson, some even a virulent and unnatural green that glowed slightly in the darkness. The bottles themselves were embossed with strange symbols he did not recognize, and tightly sealed. Some were even adorned with strange charms made of beads and bone, or their caps threaded through with gold and silver wire in elaborate interlocking shapes. None seemed to be warded against handling, yet Raziel could feel the magic thrumming within those bottles; some inimical and prickling against his skin, others more alluring, as if they welcomed his touch, singing silently of blood and darkness.
Rahab joined him beside the crates. Most activities were of far greater interest than scrubbing soiled clothing in the sand of course, but the treasures his brother had found were nothing short of fascinating. He leaned over to peer at the little vials - most were no longer than a finger, and some not even that wide. Each was nested in one of the holes of an odd, many-pocketed wicker frame, of which there were three stacked in each small crate, and the whole of the assembly was padded in strips of soft fur. A great deal of care and caution had gone into packing the little glass baubles. Even still, one had broken, Rahab saw when his elder lifted the topmost frame out; one pocket contained only broken glass, and the fur there was stained a rusty shade. Raziel drew another wax-sealed vial from its sleeve and this one shed its own light, a pale violet glow that seemed to dance and twist as the potion was moved, casting a strange silvery pattern of shadows and light over Rahab's naked skin.
It made his fingers itch to touch, to explore, to seek and find out... and curiosity was a temptation to which Rahab could offer naught but token resistance. He knew better, however, than to grab blindly at the whole vials - they were his elder's find, and therefore his elder's property, unless Rahab wished to challenge Raziel for them. And that... that would be a very poor idea indeed. Nearly shivering with excitement, Rahab dipped two fingers into the wicker well, and drew out one of the little pieces of broken glass, which he judged of no interest to his brother. His hand tingled where the dry, rust-colored stuff touched his skin. "What... what are they?" Rahab asked, sniffing his prize, trying to place the powdery iron scent. Whatever it was, it was certainly unlike the next one which Raziel drew from its sleeve - that one was white as milk, and some trick of the glass seemed to give it a faint halo in gold that make Rahab want to flinch.
"If I were to guess," Raziel said slowly, scrutinizing the glowing-gold vial held gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if it might bite, "I would say these are alchemical potions, though what their purposes might be, I could not tell you." Setting down the vial full of white liquid, he plucked another from its fur-lined nest. This one was a dark crimson, vibrant as heart's blood, encased in a vial topped with dark metal scrolled into arcane runes. "Except for this … I have seen Kain use these, upon occasion." They were rare, moreso now than ever, and Raziel had only ever seen his Sire use them in moments of direst need. "It is a blood glyph-a vial of human blood, preserved and made more potent by ancient magic. Even this tiny amount could heal wounds, or provide sustenance to a hungry vampire. I have heard that human physicians may even use them in their surgeries, or to replace what has been lost during a bloodletting." A criminal waste, in his opinion, that such rare and precious items were destined to be wasted upon inbred human nobles or overfed merchants, but such was the way of the world in which they lived.
Pale fingers curling protectively about the vial, Raziel glanced at Rahab. "This is indeed a prize. I know not what other magics might be contained within these bottles, but there are many that might be of use-and all would fetch a high price from any sorcerer or alchemist looking to enhance his spell-workings. We will need to hide these-conceal them deep within the caverns where none but we can find them." The two would-be smugglers might have had confederates, unlikely as that might seem, and Raziel was not about to leave such precious goods where any wharfside scavenger might stumble upon them. They would not be able to move the crates unnoticed until nightfall; until then, they would need to hide them well.
Rahab exhaled in disappointment, but nodded, laying down the broken bit of glass. "As you say, brother." If only he could take the artifacts for himself, could secret them away and study them and discover their properties! The very thought raised a shiver up his spine, an obsessive's compulsive yearning. Each vial that Raziel held up in turn for examination seemed to sing a different siren tone, a hum just beyond the borders of hearing.
For a moment, Rahab contemplated simply taking the objects of his desire, perhaps in a moment of his elder's inattention. But the vials would clink in his beltpouch, and even if he could wrap them well enough, what if Raziel wished to inventory his find?
It was a kind of torment to watch Raziel handle the artifacts. "But... shall we not take some with us? Now? Today?" Rahab asked at last, looking to his brother. In the pale glow of another of the little vials, a stain across the collar of Raziel's dark tunic stood out, and Rahab frowned. There was another scent on the air, Rahab belatedly realized. "...did you take injury?" he asked.
"Mm? It is merely a scratch, nothing more," Raziel replied, dismissing the injury that still remained red and livid-if sealed over-upon his pale skin. He weighed a vial in his hand, considering it-then slanted a knowing glance at the younger vampire. Rahab's motives were transparent to anyone familiar with a fledgling's acquisitive greed, after all; and Raziel, especially, knew his brother well.
"Very well-we shall take a few," he finally conceded after some consideration. "A few blood glyphs may well be needed, and perhaps two or three others for further examination. We shall stay away from those that stink of holy magic, however." It would be folly indeed to allow such dangerous magic within reach of a fledgling vampire's greedy fingers! He slanted a warning glance at Rahab. "Only a few, Rahab. And I would suggest discretion." Only Turel was likely to be foolish enough to try and challenge his elder brother for such prizes; but Rahab was unlikely to be afforded the same consideration by his brethren.
Rahab ducked his head, far too delighted to be properly embarrassed at his evident transparency. The relics would be his! Only a few, to be sure, but that term could be stretched quite far in Rahab's opinion. And the things he would do with them... perhaps he could apply a drop of each vial to a stone or insect or a little blood, and thereby learn something of the artifact's properties. When he again had access to an almebic, such as the one he'd assembled at the manor house, then he could learn even more. For the first time, Rahab dared draw the tip of a finger lightly - ever so lightly! - over the intricate caps of a line of little bottles, reveling in the feel of the different magics playing over his skin. He'd choose... he'd... which ones would he pick?
Rahab withdrew his hand, twisted his fingers in the scrap of flannel torn from the sailor's shirt, knotting and unknotting it anxiously. Later, he would decide later - but just right now... there was something else he wanted. Rahab was well and fully aware of the indulgence his sibling had granted already, of course. Dare he make a further request, and a forward one? But just as the blood on his hands was drying and flaking away, so too was the vitae on Raziel's skin drying, losing its potent vitality, seeping into the weave of Raziel's tunic, wasted. "Then, before we secret the crates, brother... may I clean the wound?"
Putting the blood glyph carefully back within its furred compartment, Raziel glanced over at Rahab, annoyance warring with a certain wry amusement. "Two humans to dine on this day, and you still desire more?" Rahab's appetite, it seemed, was insatiable. Still-the sun was yet high. They had time before they would be able to return safely, and there were none of the others about to squabble and snarl at their elder brother's obvious favoritism.
"Very well," he finally said, rising to seat himself upon another of the crates and beckoning his brother forward. "However, I expect you to mind your manners, Rahab. If I feel fangs in my hide, I will not be well-pleased." Left unspoken was that Raziel's displeasure was likely to be both swift and unpleasant, for if his temper was not quite so capricious as that of their Sire, he had still learned what he knew of discipline at Kain's hand.
Rahab grinned slyly, hurriedly gathering his hair back in a tie. It was bloodied, and his elder would little appreciate being painted with dead vitae in the course of Rahab's greed. "I did not finish the first," he offered by way of explanation, scrubbing his face vigorously with the flannel, "and the second did spill somewhat, after all." Which was all true as far as it went. But even still, Rahab was well-fed, and would remain so for a day or more. No, the prize here was the prospect of tasting *Raziel*, an indulgence which Rahab valued every bit as highly as the opportunity to drink of his Sire.
Kain's blood was overwhelming in its potency, was like being swept under, leaving a fledgling helpless with the rapture. Raziel's was strong, too... but not so much as to obscure the complexities, the currents of power, the layers of taste and sensation and energy. As neatened as he could make himself in a few seconds, Rahab approached as his elder's gesture, sinking to his knees in careful respect. Steadying one mostly-clean hand on Raziel's thigh, he reached to the neckline of his elder's tunic.
Rahab's clever fingers made quick work of the buttons that opened to his brother's breastbone, and Rahab peeled the wet fabric back from the injury with care. The dagger had stabbed straight down just above Raziel's collarbone, slicing the thick muscle there; the wound probably had been nearly a finger in depth. Had the blade pierced a little deeper, it would surely have punctured larger arteries or even one of Raziel's lungs - which was a decidedly uncomfortable injury indeed. As it was, the stab had bled freely before closing. The scent was intoxicating.
Rahab insinuated himself a little closer. "My thanks, Raziel," he murmured, and laid his lips upon the wound, carefully, fangs well-covered.
Raziel did not move as those cool lips touched his skin, staying patiently still under Rahab's ministrations. After a few moments, one hand lifted, black-taloned fingers curling over the join of neck and shoulder in a caress that held both warning and approbation. Suckling carefully at inflamed flesh, the touch of Rahab's pale lips and eager tongue was a subtle benediction, each slow lick sparking a frisson of pleasure over sensitized skin. It was a minor pleasure, to be sure; a precursor, perhaps, to other, more potent diversions. But in this chill and exposed space, with water lapping far too close for any vampire's comfort, such minor attentions were all Raziel could afford to allow.
The wound had bled well before it had closed, which afforded Rahab more sustenance that he might otherwise have found. Raziel could hardly cavil at the opportunity to be so thoroughly cleansed by his brother's devotions; however, always at the back of his mind was the thought of the others, left to their own devices. He had commanded them to remain hidden, yet the longer he was gone, the more opportunity there might be for some mishap or fit of temper. Zephon, especially, needed little excuse to stray, and Dumah was easily provoked into foolishness.
Indulging Rahab for these few moments was harmless enough, but Kain had left all his brethren in his care; and Raziel did not wish to fail in that duty.
Rahab was far too absorbed to much notice Raziel's reaction, taking care to lave every trace of vitae from his brother's skin. The taste was exquisite, richer by far than any mortal's. Sweetness, yes, and a layered complexity of spice, but somehow crisp too, like a distillation of the high mountain breezes, the cold wind before dawn. Every time he was permitted this pleasure, the taste of his brother seemed to grow deeper, more nuanced, bespeaking Raziel's developing power.
When Raziel's chest was thoroughly bathed, Rahab leaned back a little to survey his work. The revealed breadth of the stab was dismaying, even given a vampire's quick recovery from such wounds. Rahab might require a half hour - a very long, very uncomfortable half hour - or more to entirely heal such a wound carved into his own hide. "You should, mnn," Rahab started, then found an untouched smear of blood down Raziel's shoulder, be more careful, brother. This could have been serious. Rahab's fingers slipped to the clasp of Raziel's cloak, letting the heavy fabric fall to the sand. As he began to draw his hands up Raziel's sides, tugging his brother's shirt up as if he meant to slip it off, Raziel's grip on the back of his neck tightened a little. Shall I not scrub the blood from your tunic, and mend this rent, Raziel? Rahab whispered, slyly, tongue otherwise occupied.
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This story is a cowrite with HopeofDawn. The naughty chapters are posted to:
archive of our own . org /works/180073/chapters/264780
(remove spaces in address.) major warnings for noncon and kink. The chapters posted here to are safe (except for violence and blood.)