Max could not cook many things. That much was simple.

There was no need when you drank blood. It was just one of those things that all fledglings were unwilling to let go of, still clinging to their humanity. He found it almost amusing-they required no food, yet they often continued to eat like mortals. He shook his head with an amused sigh. Perhaps David would learn this quick enough. There was no need.

He found a pot of chicken soup left by the maid. Bless her. She came by each morning and left each night. As far as she knew, he worked all day and was never home. Spent all Sunday at church. She was very good; kept the floors swept and everything clean. She usually left a bowl or pot of food, covered, for him. On the rare occasions their paths crossed, she would comment that 'sir should eat a little more'. He had a tendency to eat his maids and servants after six months. By that point, they had a habit of being unbearably nosy. She had already lasted a year without that.

Well, Max didn't need the soup, but he imagined that it would be good for David. Chicken soup good for illness and all that. He chuckled. The boy wouldn't have to worry about illness soon enough.

The soup was heated up over the fireplace in the living room. Unconventional, yes, but he didn't use the oven unless he really needed to. He wasn't too fond of it, in all honesty. Too much smoke and soot. And it took so long to fully warm up. He wasn't totally sure how it worked, either. The fireplace wasn't much better, but he found he preferred it. It reminded him more of his life….what? Two, three hundred years ago? How the years pile up after a while.

The soup pot was steaming gently and he ladled it into a bowl. He carried it in on a tray, a spoon gleaming next to it.

David was still lying on the bed, just watching the ceiling. The boy's thoughts were focused mostly on his human life, his parents, a girl-ah, broke tradition, just the night before, Max noticed. He laid the tray on a chair while he picked up another pillow. It was nearly impossible to eat soup lying down. David didn't do anything as his new father propped him up. His eyes merely flickered to the steaming soup.

"Mine?"

"Yes, it is." Max laid the tray on David's lap, before looking at the other bed for a moment. The boy's conscious was still submerged under his pain. He still had no idea what his name was, the only thing he got occasionally was flashes of fire-fire everywhere. He checked the bandages. They needed rewetting. What he had told David was true, vampiric blood was good for healing, but only if put directly on the wound. It was a sneaky way of making them into a half vampire, since the blood entered into the blood stream without them realizing. It was very slow, and the transformation was later assisted by drinking sire's blood. Otherwise, they'd be forever changing. But it did tend to help ensure survival in cases like this.

"David? Please, hold your breath for a minute."

David complied, and Max pulled out a small knife. The sharp edge was bloodstained, and the sight made David feel weak with desire.

Max pulled one of the bandages off the boy's arm, revealing a nasty gash at least an inch wide. He frowned at it, as it still had not healed-obviously. His wrist was held over the gash, and with the swoop of the blade, trickles of blood began to drop onto the wound.

David stared, amber beginning to shift into his normally blue eyes.

"No, you can't have it, drink your soup." Max said firmly. His back was to David, but he had no trouble in guessing the boy's thoughts. Any half vampire would be desperate after smelling blood.

The wound in his wrist closed after a few minutes, leaving the gash coating in a sticky covering of blood. Max replaced the bandage, and looked at David. His eyes were fully amber, and his baby fangs were just beginning to sprout from his gums.

"Back to your soup." Max told him. "If you really want it, I can put a little blood in it. A little."

David nodded eagerly, and the bottle was tipped into the bowl's side, giving the broth a slightly red colour.

"Better?"

"Yes."

The room was overtaken by silence, save for the sound of David drinking. His arms shook just a little as the boy moved. Max shook his head. Poor boy. Well, he would be fine soon enough.

But the silence…the annoying, absolute silence…it needed removing. He didn't have anything that could make it lift the dreary mood. Perhaps his maid-Anne, that was her name, right? - would find a letter addressed to her that morning for something. Even if it was just a harmonica.

Or maybe his sons would like to read. He assumed they could, since he knew David's original parents had been well off, and the other had been working in the hotel as a clerk. Or, rather, David might like to read, since his brother's eyes were still badly injured. Maybe, he thought, a smile forming, he'd read to his brother. He was drawn from his thoughts by a voice.

"I'm done."

David looked at Max, his bowl now empty of soup. "Excellent, a good appetite. You'll do well." He said. The boy was going to be an outstanding blood drinker in a few years. For now, what books should he bring them?

Dracula, of course. Max had a first edition copy, which he had...ah…forcibly made Bram Stoker sign. It was one of his prized possessions. The boys wouldn't get that one, no, he had a second copy. They could read that. Polidori had a good story, as well. Carmilla. He would get them the best vampire literature; miniature lessons contained within each. There were small things incorrect in each tale, but they made them, to him, all the more enjoyable. Yes, those stories would do nicely.

"I have to leave now, David." He said. He would have preferred to stay longer, but his restaurant needed his expertise. "The bottle is plenty full. Drink from it, not your brother. If he wakes, which I find unlikely, offer him the choice to be eternally young and healed. Do not say the word 'vampire', it can lead to difficulties. I will be back around three."

David watched as Max left with only slight interest. The man confused him a little. What was the point in keeping so many secrets? And why did he continually refer to him and the other boy as his 'sons'? Was he one of those lunatics, who wanted to force people into being his family?

He had a feeling that that much was true.

He dozed on and off that night, slumbering through the next day. He was out solidly when Max returned, removing the tray and bowl. He was not interrupted when Max brought home a woman, only to kill her as she screamed. He was interrupted the next night when the boy groaned and spoke.

"Where am I?"

David woke slowly and turned to look at the boy. His head was turning side to side, trying to figure out where he was. Only problem was, Max still had him blindfolded, and there was, of course, his injured eyes. He had a soft voice, but it was raspy. Then again, David didn't know how he could talk at all, since there had been a chandelier and rock crushing his chest, according to Max.

"You're with me."

The boy stopped turning and trying to look when David spoke. Apparently, he thought he was alone.

"Who are you?"

"David. And you are?"

"Dw-Dwayne."

Max was coming in to check on the boys when he heard Dwayne naming himself. "Ah, good! You're awake."

Dwayne stiffened as Max patted the boy softly on the shoulder. "Would you like to feel better?" Max asked him. "I can give you something that would keep you healthy for eternity. You'll never age, you'll never hurt. Do you want it?"

David turned away from the pair. He felt they should receive at least a little privacy. If he could, he would have left the room, but his legs were still immobile. Dwayne seemed to agree, since he could hear Max lift the wine bottle and goblet off the nightstand between the beds.

"You won't regret it….Dwayne, wasn't it? You won't regret it, Dwayne." He said, filling the goblet steadily. David eyed the stream of red blood. It was pressed to Dwayne's lips. "Drink."

Dwayne swallowed several mouthfuls of the blood, giving a spastic shiver once the goblet was removed from his lips. David didn't envy him. He was in for a shock. "Can I have some more, Max?" he asked.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt." Replied Max, pouring some more into the goblet and passing it to David. "If Dwayne wants more, please try to give it to him, eh?" Max asked. "I have to go back to work. Lucky I could close it after the earthquake."

Dwayne turned to David after Max left. "There was an earthquake?" His quiet voice shook.

"Yeah. Max picked us up after it." David shook his head. "You shouldn't talk, you need to rest." Great, he sounded like Max. "You've got enough damage to recover from, so I won't tell you what Max told me unless you keep quiet."

Dwayne didn't respond, but nodded his head.

David recounted the story. "…So now, you and I are, well, half vampires." Perhaps he shouldn't have told the poor guy so soon, but he was going to find out eventually, wasn't he? Better to tell him now than to let him find out on his own, as David had. He was doing him a favour.

Dwayne was silent, which didn't bother David. He had told him to be quiet, and had been crushed, so it was probably good that he was silent. Then again, was he in shock about the part where he had been told he was a half vampire? He couldn't decide.

A thought brushed against David's mind, startling him. Oh, God, what have I done? He realized that he was hearing Dwayne's thoughts, and grinned. So, that was how Max knew what he was thinking. Made sense. "What you've done is drink blood. So, like me, you're a half vampire."

What is he talking about? I've never drunken blood. Is he going to kill me?

"I'm not going to kill you. Never thought of it. And you did drink blood, that was the stuff Max gave you." He was half amused by Dwayne's confusion, but half pitied him at the same time. "You and I, though, we're 'brothers', according to Max."

There was no response from Dwayne's thoughts, just a curiosity as to how David knew what he was thinking. David reached for a book on the nightstand, anything to alleviate the boredom setting in. "Max left some stuff for us to read. Want me to read out loud?"

Dwayne nodded, prompting David to look at the cover of the book he picked up. Dracula. He smirked. That was fitting. He opened the book and flipped to the first page. "Chapter one." He stated. "Jonathon Harker's journal. The third of May, Bistritz-Left Munich at 8:35 P.M. on the first of May, arriving at Vienna early next morning…."

They progressed quickly through the novel, Dwayne sometimes thinking the meaning of a word or David sometimes explaining one back. The sleep that David had begun associating with sunrise came upon them when Jonathon Harker's journal was ending.

David stopped when he caught Dwayne's yawn. "We can continue tomorrow night." In all honesty, he was quite impressed by what had been revealed of Dracula so far. Could they really fly, crawl down walls and turn into mist? Fascinating.

Dwayne shook his head, thinking, No, continue the story. I can stay awake.

"Oh, no, you can't." David said, shaking his head. The closer the day came, the harder hearing the thoughts became. It was like the daylight haze covering their minds closed them, as well. "We seem to be sleepy in the day." He marked their page in the book with a provided bookmark-had Max thought of everything? It seemed like it- and placed it on the nightstand, his fingers brushing over the wine bottle. The thought of the blood within it was so tempting. David lifted the bottle, pouring a healthy amount into the goblet. He lifted it to his lips, draining it. "Do you want a drink before we sleep?"

Dwayne's head bowed slightly before he gave an answer. David caught argumentative thoughts, whether it would help, whether he should. I suppose it won't hurt. It won't, will it?

"No." said David, refilling the goblet. He was still unable to stand or walk, but he found that, if he reached over and leaned on the nightstand, he was just able to reach Dwayne's head to pour the blood into his mouth.

Dwayne's upper body lifted a little to help him drink, and he fell back onto his pillows after with a small thump.

Dwayne's mind was quiet, his breathing slow and steady. David slumped back onto his own pillows. The boy seemed to be out for the day. He wasn't totally surprised; after all, he had fallen asleep quickly the first day. Even now, his eyelids were drooping heavily, and it was just seconds before he followed Dwayne into slumber.

-----

Emily was worried. Her father had broken his arm in the earthquake, and he was checked out of the hospital as quickly as possible to make room for more seriously injured patients. He was sitting upright in his bed, staring vacant holes into the wall across. Occasionally, he'd pick up a pencil and scribble a note or scrawl a drawing onto paper, but mostly he just stared. It was like he was still in shock.

She herself was lucky. She had run from the sinking hotel unharmed. But there had been a moment, running through the lobby, that she had thought she heard David's voice, crying for her weakly. She hadn't seen anyone there, but the cry still made her heart feel heavy.

With a sigh, she picked up a cloth and wiped the thin sheen of sweat from her father's face. Now he was mumbling to himself. The darkness in the room was stifling, she had to leave, just get out, if only for a minute. Her cousin had come to their home in Los Gatos after the earthquake to help them both. Emily left her with her father and went to the front lawn. The sun always rose to the front of their small home, and as her room was in the front, she woke with the sun daily. She loved it.

Emily took a deep breath, the fresh air and sunlight relaxing her a little. They had let their only servant go; with her father unable to work in his current state, there was no money coming in and they had to save it however they could. She could cook a few things, and she was rapidly learning how to cook more. Cleaning the lavatory was one task that she soon detested.

The sun warmed her arms under her puffy sleeves, and she took another deep breath. The light always found a way to relax her, as if warming a dark hole inside of her. She felt better already.

Her hand fell to the pocket of her skirt. A piece of paper, a fold line worn down the middle, was tucked inside. She reached for the paper, unfolding it for the umpteenth time, to stare at the face drawn. David looked so happy and carefree in it, and now, he might be dead. She flipped it over for the address he had added onto the back, the tidy, flowing letters telling her that his mail went to San Francisco. Maybe, if he had lived, he would have gone back to San Francisco-or maybe he was already mouldering in the hotel. Once as many survivors and bodies had been pulled from the wreckage, the council had the police stationed outside, saying that the place of tragedy should be left alone, and the dead in peace. He had already announced that a statue would be placed in the town park.

Tears welled up in Emily's eyes, not for the first time. She turned and went back into the house, pulling a handkerchief from her bedroom and dabbing at her eyes. The worst part of it was when she had seen Mr. and Mrs. Laurent, frantically looking for their son. She had helped look, and none of them had any luck. His mother's had dropped to her husband's shoulder, sobbing in desperate agony over their loss. And now, he was gone.

She stared out the window in her bedroom, placing a hand on her abdomen. Her lower stomach had felt a little funny when she woke up that morning, and she almost felt somewhat nauseous. It was not a good time to become sick, not with having to care for her father. And she had to find a way to bring money in. There were few jobs she could take, fewer jobs that suited her. Even so, there had to be something.

Having taken a few minutes to compose herself, she straightened and returned to her father's room.