Chapter 7: The Original Wacko JackoYear of Three Emperors
London, England
Year 1888 A.D.
His mouth was like a slash across his face, smeared red with blood lips that stood out against his paper-pale face. A whore's lipstick couldn't compete with the redness of his mouth, his lips, the red on his stained teeth when he smiled. The whore's mouth would be kiss-smeared, much like that face, the red streaming down her chin with the smeared paint, drying like powder on her jaw. The red on his lips streamed wetly, liquid and horrific. There were no kisses in that smile, in the painted canines like the dog's.
The insanity, the insanity was beautiful on his face. He wore it like a slinky dress on the shapely whore, sliding her way through the back alleys of the city, lit only by the dim yellow of the lights swinging over the back doors of roach-filled kitchens in which the rapist hides and cooks the short-order fish and chips for his next victim. His black eyes glittered like streetlamps reflecting in car windows, in the passing of the taxi when its driver ignores the frantically waving woman in her business suit, chased down by the dark beasts that haunt her dreams.
"You haunt my dreams," he whispered against her ear, his cheek pressed to hers in anything but a romantic way. The bite of teeth on her skin was dangerous, fangs just brushing the first layer, leaving faint trails of saliva, like tear tracks on her face. He had moved like lightning from one corner of the room to hers, moved in a blink, a flash and rustle of the fabric of his robes, his silent robes.
He watched her, fingers laced into her hair, clutching and pulling gently, leaning her head back. She submitted briefly, then pulled back, backing away as his fingers slipped out of her hair, releasing her. Her brown eyes watched him, met his and matched them. She was breathing hard, her breasts heaving prettily as she watched, realizing at last how much danger she was in. She screamed.
"I do believe you get too much pleasure from your hunts, Master," he said, his ears flicking forward and back nervously, a habit of his since the great arsenic and silver scare three years ago. It finally matched his tic for a constantly wagging tail, unlike the happy dog; it suggested unease, a misbalance in his system. He didn't understand the system. Did he even have one?
"It's the only pleasure in life I get, why not enjoy it?" he reasoned, leaving his hat, gloves and cloak with the butler as he strode gracefully into the main hall, followed by his werewolf. The other was following him with a propose, he could tell with how he walked just behind him and not the three respective steps he usually held and by the way he carried his notebook, a page opened and marked as important.
He stopped quite suddenly, the other just stepping to the side to avoid a collision, used to such annoyed antics by now.
"What is it?" he demanded tiredly. He was quite tired. It was getting close to dawn, he could see the gray crawling up the windows even now, and he wanted to sleep, stomach full and untroubled by thoughts that might keep him up. Thoughts he typically left to the werewolf to fret over.
The werewolf held a slip of paper out to him, the parchment awash in dim lamplight. He squinted at the unfamiliar writing, the troubled script, not the werewolf's. He couldn't write.
"It's from the Eyes, Master. They've said that the police are going to find us if we don't make off away now," the werewolf explained in a hurried whisper, eyes flickering down the hallway for any human servants who might've heard. He didn't trust the human servants like the vampire did, possibly from betrayal or the misplacement of his paranoia.
The Eyes were partially human spies, moles in the police, the detective agencies and other government officials that might've posed a threat to their way of life. Sometimes they were werecats or wererats, though rarely wolves, which were sparse even in unpopulated and forested areas where humans could not hunt them. Sometimes the Eyes would be human servants, brainwashed and accurate in their disguises and information-gathering.
"The newspapers have been going on about your entertainment, Master, with quite explicit pictures to top it," the werewolf continued.
"You can't read."
"The servants have taken to calling you 'Jack the Ripper'. Some smarmy human developed the name."
The vampire smiled at the name, eyes still deciphering the hurried (he decided) writing. The werewolf waited a brief moment, tail switching back and forth impatiently for a comment, even a grunt of dismissal, if it came to that.
"Cute. It has a pleasant ring."
"You're not being sarcastic." Deadpan, observant. He disliked it when the werewolf emotionally backed away far enough to study him objectively. He'd been doing it for years, but he didn't enjoy feeling like a specimen. He did the same thing to the werewolf, study him, and it wasn't rare that he found the tables turned.
"Don't tell me you actually like that name, Master," the werewolf continued, voicing his disgust. The vampire only smiled.
"So they're closing in on our little den, are they?" he said darkly, letting a lazy smile spread across his lips, still pinked and thick against the fed-flushed face. He reached out and slid soft fingers down the werewolf's cheek, eyes distant as they stared into the dying flame in the wall lamp. "You're suggesting we turn tail and run."
"They aren't prepared for fighting vampires, but times have changed. If a large number of human police go missing, someone will notice, take account. Master, certainly you can understand the tactic."
The vampire pulled away, hissing softly. The were-servant flinched, stepping back against the wall and hunching there, nursing a hand printed cheek. The vampire was in his face a moment later, eyes angry, a hand clenching the werewolf's jaw tightly so he couldn't look away.
"It isn't a tactic, it's cowardly," he hissed. He released the werewolf, letting the other breathe but not backing away, watching the lowered head with narrowed eyes. "You said they aren't prepared for fighting me. Let them come."
"It's foolish, Master. You know it. Why can't we just go somewhere else, somewhere less hostile? We might be able to stay more than a few months next time…"
The vampire hissed again, turning around and stalking to the staircase as he sensed dawn's arrival. He paused on the third step, his hand gripping the banister as he looked down at the werewolf, who was now sliding to the floor, tucking his knees against his chest. He considered the creature's shaking shoulders, the taste of fear that lingered around the other's form with the musk and scent of forests, a constant since his arrival.
He knew the other missed the forests, racing free through them as he had in his youth. Even in Romania the werewolf clutched to the mountains on which the evergreen trees grew like clover in the peasant fields below, left to fallow for a year or two before the next tilling. The cities they had inhabited since Romania had constantly tugged at the werewolf's heart, a heart that always called him to the forests, even when the moon was empty. Paris, Berlin, Morocco, London and more. Every time they'd settled for a few months (rarely more than ten, if they were sporadic and careful about their hunting), the werewolf had complained in his quiet way, silently protesting the ever-present smell of humans and horses and iron and all the noise, noise, noise that drove the werewolf's sensitive ears mad late into the night that had once been reserved to silent anticipation and fear of the monsters.
No one feared the monsters in the cities. In cities, the monsters were only farie tales. It was why Vladimir liked them and why his werewolf loathed them. The vampire could stand the presence of humans, could mingle and blend with them and pick them off efficiently. With his ears and tail, the werewolf couldn't and with his appetite for flesh as well as blood, could never silently hunt and kill his prey. Without a pack, he was not proficient, and Vladimir never offered to help. The werewolf wouldn't have accepted it anyway.
"I will consider it if I don't fall asleep first. Make plans for leaving, just in case I do decide that we go. List all we will take with us, but only what is important."
The werewolf bowed his head in acknowledgement, though he did not immediately rise to obey the order. He had all day to do it; he'd get around to it after managing the house as he usually did.
"Oh, and Rothen," the vampire added, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a brown paper package. The werewolf looked up, ears perked expectantly. "Eat. You're starting to look starved…again."
He tossed the package down and continued up the stairs without waiting for the werewolf to catch it. He heard a murmured 'thank you' and stalked down the hall to the master bedroom of the small house, latching the door behind him and snapping the thick velvet drapes closed against the breaking sunshine with a snarl.
The liver had plenty of blood in it; the werewolf should start looking better soon. Maybe they should move to the country for a short time after all.
He woke to the slight depression of the mattress next to him and groaned. It was far too early to wake up and he knew it. He reached out blindly, slashing lazily at the air with extended fingers until his hand was caught up and held. He felt soft lips press against the back of his hand before the weight on the bed shifted again and a whoosh of air brushed against his nude form as another body slid under the covers and curled close against his side. He smiled slightly, just the barest twitch of lips, as hot breath ghosted over his ear, followed by an almost affectionate lick.
"You enjoyed your meal, I presume," Vladimir whispered, sighing as curious fingernails slid across his chest.
"I'd prefer to hunt for myself. The blood here is tainted. It doesn't taste right," came the quiet reply. The hand slowed down and rested against his side as the body pressed warm against him and a head rested on his shoulder. The hair on his chest and arm tickled pleasantly and he reached up to pet the head there, huffing a laugh.
"Stop complaining. You're a messy eater if I'd let you out on your own."
"I know," was the pouted reply.
He stroked the hair in silence, the werewolf humming softly in appreciation as he settled down for sleep. He could feel the slowing breaths against his side, hear the tired heartbeat in the vein at the throat, nestled there beside him in what he would've called 'trusting' if that hand wasn't sprawled oh-so-innocently against his stomach, ready to rip and tear and rend the flesh there, make some real damage before their connection blinded him with pain. The werewolf still didn't completely trust him.
Good.
"Maybe we'll go back to Romania this time," Vladimir said softly against the other's forehead, his lips just brushing the skin below them.
"Hmm?"
Rothen wasn't awake, almost on the edge of sleep now, he knew. There was no point in waking the werewolf up. His pet was tired, it was better to let him rest.
"Go to sleep, pet. I'll tell you later."
Ja, Meister
Fin Chapter 7
Please Review
Author's Notes: As a reference to the ID title 'Year of Three Emperors'. I was looking for a way to describe the time period as I had in earlier chapters (Ex. Present Day, Middle Ages), so I ended up referencing Wikipedia because I wasn't sure when precisely the Victorian era ran and decided that this title would work much better. Besides the allusion to the Germanic heritage of our lovely werewolf, it holds little historical importance to this story. For further information, go look it up yourself.
To my readers: Yes, there is a certain emotional distance I took when I tackled this story. It was both as an experiment and a fluke. I was actually paying more attention to details than relationships, but trust me; it'll get a little more personal later on, when I get a hang of the plot.
I am accepting suggestions on how I might improve and get you all a little more involved (and interested) in the story. Please, tell me what you would like to read about…something with a little more depth than smut. Please send via reviews, because I have a tendency to delete email I do not recognize. Good day, then.
-Poco-poco
