BASED ON: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND Dracula – Bram Stoker

CASTLES IN THE AIR

TWO

11 MAY 1897, Cont.

Are you going to kill me?" I asked, watching my host carefully.

He decanted an aromatic wine, long aged, into a metal goblet embossed with an imperial monogram, and offered it to me. I wanted to accept it, but my hands were clenched in my lap, numb with the uncertainty of my future. My host, Lord Vladimir—the vampire—set the goblet down on the narrow table between us, where the last of my dinner rations sat. The table's surface, polished to shining obsidian, reflected the flames of a merrily crackling fire, which was warm and yellow and familiar. Fire is the great equalizer, for no matter how imperial or impoverished the hearth that contains it, fire is fire, the purest of all the elements. The warmth of the chamber lulled me into a sense of security, despite the potential threat staring back at me through eyes as red as the reddest coals. He pinched his lips, and said:

"You are my guest, Mr. Bookamooka. I will not hurt you unless you attempt to hurt me, you have my word."

"I promise that I will not hurt you," I said after only a brief moment of reflection. In truth, I do not think that I could have harmed him even if I tried, but, to my surprise, he seemed earnestly relieved by my oath.

My bare toes curled into the wool rug at my feet. It was one of half-a-dozen intricately woven rugs of eastern origin, as valuable as the large, colourful tapestries that covered the stone walls. Tall, golden candelabras lent smaller, softer pockets of light; and the furniture was heavy and intricately carved. The bed—for this was a bedchamber, not a reception or salon—was large, with four towering posters hung with a canopy of fine, embroidered silk. Together, the room was medieval in character, everything about it heavy and dense and enduring, but it was undeniably made for the resident's comfort. There was no window, I did not fail to notice.

My host had shed off his long cloak and faced me now in a graceful state of undress, covered but not layered; ruffled and pearl-studded, but not bedecked. He was a stark whiteness in a chamber of warm colour.

I looked a shivering, disreputable vagrant in only my shirtsleeves, with no shoes or stockings or waistcoat or hat. No fit company for a gentleman, let alone a lord, but he did not rebuff me.

"You are hungry," he said, indicating the food and drink without gesture, inviting me to partake.

Gingerly, I cupped the goblet in my hands. It was warm and the spiced wine tickled my appetite. I took a sip and let slip a sigh of pleasure at the taste and texture.

My host smiled wistfully.

"That one has been waiting for a long time to be drank," he said. "Tell me, what does it taste like?"

"Do you—I mean, would you like to taste it for yourself?" I asked, sheepishly offering the goblet.

"Yes," he replied, smiling sadder still, "but I cannot. I have too delicate a pallet," he added, giving emphasis to the lament. "But I miss the taste of real food and drink. At least, I think I do. I really cannot remember."

"Forgive me," I ventured, "but you do not look old at all."

A flattered, if patronizing smile and a shallow incline of his head. "Why thank-you, Mr. Bookamooka."

I blushed, thought to explain my impolite curiosity, then decided better of it and stayed silent.

My host drew closer.

"Do I not frighten you?" he asked, matching my curiosity.

The more he spoke, the more I noted and appreciated the faint hiss in his aristocratic voice. It was alluringly serpentine, like the slow, erotic uncoiling of a bejewelled creature. Slant, feline eyes, glinting now like Burmese rubies, regarded me with an infatuated bemusement that made my heart beat ever faster, staring at me from a face like virgin canvas: all careful lines of perfect, aquiline beauty, untouched by colour. His long hair shone in the firelight, imbued with the flames' brightness and little else.

He was a stunning thing, but a starving one. He looked like an improbably beautiful corpse.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, with more suspicion than intended.

"Parched," he admitted.

I looked guiltily down at my meager meal, paired with a priceless spiced wine.

He chuckled.

"Please, eat," he urged, every bit the gracious host as he retreated into the shadows. "It serves neither of us if you go hungry, as well."

I was pleased to eat, if a little disquieted by his presence. I did not think I was afraid of him, for he had done nothing to merit my fear. Indeed, he had rescued me from the storm. But I felt nervous of him—of myself, perhaps. I could not still my racing heartbeat and I felt the chamber's heat acutely. My palms were sweaty. I felt lumbering and clumsy opposite Lord Vladimir, who cut a trim, elegant silhouette against the fire's light.

"You are staring at me, Mr. Bookamooka," he said after a time. His voice was quiet, coy, and his head tilted. The dancing firelight chased the shadows across his face.

"Oh, apologises, my lord," I said bashfully, forgetting myself. "It's just..."

I hesitated, then chanced a peek up at him. He regarded me with curiosity. I replaced the goblet, emptied now, and swallowed my cowardice with the last of the wine. I had never been brave enough to speak candidly of my feelings—my uncommon desires—but something about his interest emboldened me, and, whatever he thought of my inclination, I did not think that he would despise me for it, so I risked the truth.

Earnestly, I said: "I think you must be the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life, my lord. You are captivating."

My compliment provoked a modest smile from him. "More beautiful than all your lovely ladies in Sofia?" he asked through a film of long, lowered eyelashes. "You are a very strong and handsome young man, Mr. Bookamooka. Clever, too. And charming. You must be quite popular amongst the girls, all vying for your favour—?"

My stomach tightened, but I could not look away from him. He was utterly alluring, effortlessly more lovely than anyone, man or woman, I had ever seen.

"Girls tend to prefer men who pay them attention, I think."

"And you do not?" he pried, leaving his place in the dark and moving cautiously toward me; cautious for both of our sakes, I think.

"I have been a student for many years, now. I am a scholar," I said meekly, losing my nerve at his approach.

It is what always happened on the rare occasion that I found someone like me. I would muster the courage to smile or give some other communicative encouragement, but if he reciprocated; if my intended showed any signs of responding in kind, then I fled, afraid of my folly and ashamed of myself. I often used my profession as an excuse for my marital status and my disinterest in the softer sex. I would tell inquirers (gossips): "I do not have time for flirting." But the moment I said it to Lord Vladimir, my heart leapt into my throat. He was so near to me now, having circled the table's barrier between us, and I found that I could not lie when he could so clearly see the truth.

"Is that the only reason?" he asked, giving me leave to confirm or deny his suspicion.

It was a gentle question, but shamelessly direct, and he read the reply plain as day on my face. Slowly, he slid his hand across the table and rested it mere inches from my own.

"You never answered my question, Mr. Bookamooka," he said lower, huskier. He looked down at me with a predator's sly hunger. "Do I frighten you?"

My answer was very slow to come, but he was patient. I pursed my lips, ruminating on the beguiling creature in front of me, looking at me as if at something delicious in every sense of the word. I could not help but feel seduced by him, and by this place, and even by the storm raging outside. I felt vitalized by it all.

"A little," I admitted honestly. "I fear that I know what you are capable of, my lord. I feel lost in this place."

"But—?" he guessed, reading my hesitance. His soft lips relaxed, losing their predatory curl as he eased his fingers over mine, never taking his eyes off of me.

"But I am in no hurry to leave you," I blurted.

I felt the blood rush to my face in embarrassment, but, strangely, not shame. It felt good to speak the words aloud, and better yet when his smile grew bigger, touching his ruby eyes. I may have felt uncertainty and even fear—a delicious fear—but I was not ashamed of the desire I felt for him. Not here, not locked away in this secret place. How could I be? How could anyone be ashamed to want such a superior creature as he?

He reached out and cupped my cheek, pressing his cold palm flat to my hot face. He breathed in deeply. And sighed.

I felt calmed, assured by his tender touch, and leant into his hand like a dog, even as I asked: "How long has it been since you fed?"

"Since I fed?" His voice was a sweetened hiss; a little strained, but soft. "A month, at least. But there is such a big difference between feeding and feasting, my dear scholar, and I have not feasted in a very long time."

"Feast on me," I whispered.

His pupils dilated and he swallowed. For a moment he looked likely to deny my offer, but then he said: "Are you certain?"

There was a note of urgency—desperation, even—in his voice, and greed in his eyes, large and reflective now, like a nocturnal beast. A predator once more.

But I was no longer afraid, for I felt like a predator myself. I hungered for my lord and wanted to please him, and repay him, and utterly lose myself in him or to him—I cared not which. I just wanted to be with him.

I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed them as I stood up abruptly, but he did not flinch. I shrank the distance between us, peering down at him now, our chests inches from connecting. His left hand fell to take mine, clasping both tightly, and he pulled me forward. He walked us to the waiting bed, me following like a dog on a tether.

No—not a dog. You lack the basic survival instincts that God gave a dog, my mother said. But I did not care.

In that moment, I would have walked with him into the fires of hell.

"Come with me," said the vampire, opening his arms in invitation, "and we will feast on each other tonight."

I took him into my embrace, and I kissed him, and whispered:

"Yes, my lord."

I feared that I was afflicted with some strange malady, and do so still, because that night—it could not have been real! It was a dream, too good for the likes of me; altogether too good to be true. And yet I know it was true, because I can feel him on me still.

The vampire's skin was as cold as marble, smooth and unblemished and yielding beneath my groping hands, and impossibly, evenly white. His slender body looked like milk poured over the dark bedding, a fine-boned specimen with the softness and virginal deception of a Caravaggio angel. I had draped my long limbs overtop him, betraying the stark lines of a fading brown tan, the only lasting memento I had of a scholarly pursuit in the Bosporus. I felt slow and hulking as I pressed myself down upon him, the most uncoordinated I had ever been. I felt bumbling compared to the elegant creature beneath me: my knees and elbows too bulbous, my rough skin—patched and scared and uneven—stretched over a big ribcage and wide shoulders that still clung to the rangy musculature of youth, rather than filling into the bowed muscles of adult masculinity. My body was flush with arousal and perspiring, leaving streaks of sweat and mess on the vampire. My raven hair had slipped from its tie and fell in clumps, framing my cheeks, sticking to my face. It curled in a wet, unsightly way over my lord's fair face as I bent to him. I took him in my hands, and—Oh God, spare me! My hands: wide and long-fingered and much too large and callused for a scholar, and my bitten fingernails stained permanently black with ink.

I redirected my aim and braced my weight onto the bedding on either side of him, too mortified to touch him with such naive, crude human hands.

Then, a soft chuckle in my ear.

I lifted my eyes to Lord Vladimir's face and saw there a twinkle of amusement in his hungry, lust-heavy gaze.

"Are you afraid to touch me?" he teased, even as he looped his arms around my neck, resting his forearms on my shoulders. He tugged the tie free from my hair and it fell forward in a black curtain. His weight was light upon my shoulders, like the hollow bones of a songbird, and he felt wonderfully cool against my heat.

"Do not be," he continued, leaning into my lips for a kiss. It was firm, but chaste. "Do not be shy about it, if it is what you want. If I am what you want. It gives you joy and pleasure to touch me, does it not? Then do so, my dear. I would see you happy," he urged, dragging his hands down over my biceps, down my arms. He took my hands in his and placed them low on his prostrate body, my fingers pressed into the curve of his hips and wrapping around the soft swell of his backside. I held the shape of him in my hands and felt my pulse quicken and my member stiffen ever more in erect eagerness. "You cannot hurt or defile me," he said. "So, take me now as you want me, my dear. Tonight, I am yours and you are mine."

He kissed me again, and this time I parted his lips with my tongue. I took him into the wet heat of my mouth and sucked, gasped, groaned, even as my clumsy hands touched him, stroked him, indulged in him. I spread his legs and pressed myself to him in unencumbered want.

"Tonight," he whispered, his lips pressed low and sultry to my ear, "we feast together."

He lowered his mouth to the column of my neck in the parody of a lover's kiss. He parted his lips and sucked me there. He scraped my skin with his elongated incisors.

I felt a wonderful shiver of anticipation, and then plunged into him at the moment his teeth pierced into me.

I cannot put into words the feelings I felt—and would not if I could, for it was too intimate an experience, too precious a memory. The night we shared together was not the melodramatic passion of some tawdry novel, but rather a relief for us both; a sating of our long-denied desires and indulgence in each other. We took from each other like two starving things, wrapped around each other's bodies, and loved each other for the mutual wantonness we both craved.

I cannot recall the details of our coupling. Only that I felt things I never had before. I know I yelled. I know I felt pain and pleasure together and indistinguishable from one another. I know I felt a deep, enthralled affection for him. A liberating recklessness for myself. And love.

Later, I awoke with my cheek resting on his chest—his unbeating heart—still atop him, still inside of him. His thighs were pressed to my sides and his fingers were teasing my unruly hair.

His hair shone with a bright luster now, and his skin glowed from an internal iridescence. I lifted my head in awe of him, so dazed and weak, and still thinking myself asleep. He smiled at me tenderly in the dying glow of the embers, an indication of just how much time had passed. It became clear to me then that the vampire I had met only hours before had been no more than a pale, emaciated shadow of what he truly was. As coldly beautiful as he had been, now—Dear God, now! I felt a flood of pure admiration for the bright, youthful being that now laid beneath me. He was changed and yet unchanged in the most spectacular way, still himself, still hauntingly seraphim, but more now. Oh, so much more.

"I am sorry, my dear," said Lord Vladimir kindly. "I fear that I have taken too much from you. It's only... you are very delicious."

And he blushed, actually blushed! because he could do so now with my blood circulating within him.

I began to protest—"no, I feel fine"—but failed to lift my head from his chest; failed to pull my body from his. I saw my reflection in a brass heat-shield and realized, with some horror, that I now looked the corpse.

Lord Vladimir eased my concern—for me, for him—by passing a hand across my face and brushing back a stray lock of hair. "Rest now," he advised, holding me comfortably. "You are quite weakened and need to recover your strength."

I relaxed against him. "I feel emptied," I said, uncouth in my grogginess. I wrapped my arms around him as I would a pillow. "But... in a good way. A very good way.

"But—" a thought struck me, "—are you okay, my lord? Did I hurt you?"

I could not bear the thought, but he merely chuckled.

"No, of course not," he reassured me, petting my head. "You cannot hurt me, I promise. Did it feel good for you?"

"Yes," I said, breathier than intended. "It felt wonderful. Does that... make me a necrophiliac?" I accidentally asked.

Combined blood-loss and exhaustion had stolen my wits.

"You know, I believe it does.

"Oh, my dear!" He laughed, his voice like bells, and kissed my temple. "Do not fret, my sweet human-child. I do not have a pulse, but I am no dead thing, I assure you."

I tensed a little, but not for his admission of being undead. "Please," I said, pushing myself with effort onto my elbows, "do not call me that."

His hands stilled upon me and he tipped his shining red-gold head. "Call you what?" he asked, perplexed.

I swallowed, feeling petty for my churlish lack of self-confidence. I may be clean-shaven and hawkish, but I do not look like a child.

I repeated the word distastefully: "Child. I am not a child, my lord. I am four-and-twenty."

His full lips curled, and I could tell that he was biting back another teasing smile; another laugh, perhaps. He tried quite hard to hide it, but failed. I could hear the quiver of amusement in his voice, and a thread of nostalgia, too.

"Four-and-twenty, yes, indeed," he indulged me in a shallow apology. "Of course you are a man. Forgive me, my dear.

"But," he continued, his head cocked, his spider-long eyelashes gleaming like gold, "I, too, have a request for you. I must ask you not to call me by my title. My name is Vladimir, and it would please me very much to hear you say it. It has been so long since I heard my given-name."

I smiled, happy to comply. "Vladimir," I said slowly, emphasizing each letter, letting the syllables roll off my tongue.

His answering smile was apple-red and warm and puckered, and I leant forward and kissed it, helpless to its provocation.

"My Vladimir," I repeated with love.

I closed my eyes.

Then opened them to find myself swaying atop him, my head swimming dizzily. My body felt heavy and my arms trembled, unable to hold my weight. I caught myself before falling upon him and crookedly lowered myself to the bed.

"I am... tired," I understated, my eyes falling closed once more. "I think... I would like to sleep a little, now."

"Sleep then," he permitted, and I felt him lie down beside me and pull a blanket over us both. Then he kissed the tip of my nose.

I smiled, half-asleep.

"Sleep sweetly, my Boris. You are safe here with me."