Chapter 50: Revelation
Cain was well down the hall before his rational mind overtook his urgent need to grab Damien and run like hell. The werewolf in his arms was even more frail than he'd been when Cain had left the castle, and he had barely-healed cuts and bruises littering every inch of bared skin on him. He could tell from the way the young man had moved when the two of them had walked out of Crowe's special room that he had other injuries concealed beneath his clothing, too, though Cain wouldn't know the extent of them until he had a moment to look Damien over. Now, though, he was struggling to decide what to do next. He was still running, but where was he running to? Was he taking Damien to the thrall residences, or should he take him somewhere else?
Cain recalled then that Johann had played some part in Crowe's abduction of the young man, and he decided that he couldn't trust any of the thralls (except, possibly, Grace, though he wouldn't count on that just yet) around Damien for the foreseeable future. Decision made, he turned down the next hall, and proceeded deeper into the vampire wing, eventually reaching his own room and fumbling with the door before finally flinging it open and stumbling inside.
Once he was in, he slammed the door shut, took four long strides and carefully laid the werewolf out on his bed before returning to the door and deadbolting it. Then, he looked around the room, wondering if he had anything else to ward the door. Seeing nothing immediate, he pulled the silver dagger he carried with him from his boot, and laid it (still in its sheath, of course) on the dressing table that stood between the bed and the door.
That done, he turned to the candle, and realized that the only lights were outside the room. He fumbled in his stolen traveler's coat, and eventually withdrew some flint and tinder. He picked up one of the wash basins, blessedly empty, and arranged the tinder inside it, striking the flintstone until he got some sparks to catch. Once a little blaze was dancing, he dipped the candle into the fire, and it lit only a few seconds before the tinder burned itself out. Careful not to extinguish the candle, Cain lit one of the lamps in the room. He rarely lit them himself, since vampires could see even in the dark. But he felt fairly certain that Damien would want to be able to see when he awoke, so he made sure there was at least a little bit of light to be had.
Then, he turned to the boy and began inspecting his wounds. He was a little bit grateful for his blessed blood at the moment, because the boy was a mess. While cold, dried blood held very little appeal to a vampire, there were enough cuts and scrapes over his body that Cain felt certain there was a high likelihood of one tearing open and beginning to bleed freely once more. With his blood hunger mysteriously absent, though, that shouldn't be a concern.
Cain didn't have a mirror at his dressing table (it would be pointless), and he'd used the wash basin to start a fire, so his only recourse was to use the water directly from the pitcher. He thought that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Even if some of the blood from the cuts dissolved in the water, it shouldn't be potent enough to attract another vampire, and hopefully he would be able to get Damien patched up without making him bleed much more than he already had.
The one concern he had at the moment was the ticking clock looming over both of them - the full moon was coming, and Cain certainly didn't want to be trapped in a room with a werewolf when that time came. But he couldn't exactly leave the poor soul in such a sorry state with something as brutal as a total body transformation looming in the near future, either. Sighing, he picked up a clean washcloth and dipped it in the water pitcher, wringing out most of the liquid before moving back to the bedside, folding the washcloth into a small square and gently dabbing at the young man's battered face. It looked like Crowe had broken his nose at some point, and Cain hoped that it would heal all right. It was a little crooked, but not terribly so. Maybe he should re-break it and hope it healed right this time. Werewolves' accelerated healing could be a bit of a negative, in cases like this. A lot of the injuries that could have been set right, had they been inflicted on a human, were already well on their way towards healing due to Damien's more magically-inclined ancestry.
As Cain dabbed the washcloth against the werewolf's face, he was pleased to see none of the cuts or scrapes there seemed inclined to start bleeding again. He was just easing the washcloth down from the face to the underside of Damien's jaw when the young man's eyes flew open.
"Don't," he rasped, and tried to scramble back like he'd been burned. "Don't touch me," he said, back up against the headboard, eyes wide and panicked.
Cain lifted his hands, showing the mildly dirtied washcloth to the werewolf. "Apologies," he said, because even if he might have taken offense in another situation, he understood that Damien had been through quite a lot the past few days, and anyone might feel leery of being touched after such an ordeal. "I was trying to get you cleaned up."
Damien stared at him, his look of panic giving way to suspicion. "You were touching my throat," he countered, lifting a hand to cover the side of his neck, as if he needed a barrier between it and Cain.
"It's as bloodied and battered as your face," Cain replied. "That's all."
"You don't get to touch that," Damien said, as if he hadn't heard Cain's explanation at all. "Especially you."
Another day, Cain would remember to feel a bit insulted that apparently he rated worse than Crowe on a scale of 'who gets to touch Damien's throat'. But he honestly didn't care that much, he'd merely been trying to help get the young man cleaned up. If Damien didn't want to be touched, Cain could work with that. "Do you want to clean yourself up?" He asked, turning and grabbing the pitcher of water, showing it to the young werewolf before explaining, "I don't have a bath in here, but a bit of water and a cloth should be better than nothing, at least."
Staring with naked distrust in his eyes, Damien scooted forward on the bed, gingerly reaching out for the washcloth. His arm was shaking, though Cain couldn't tell if it was with fear, pain, exhaustion, or something else altogether. He didn't think Damien would be able to hold the pitcher of water in his current state, so he took one step towards the bed, then another, then perched on the very edge of it, holding the water towards the werewolf, who stared at him, unblinking, for several long seconds before he carefully dunked the washcloth into the water. He didn't take his eyes off Cain for a moment; not when he dipped the cloth, nor when he wrung it out.
He lifted the cloth back to his neck, pressing it lightly in the place where Cain knew Crowe must have been feeding, given the distinct bruising and numerous puncture wounds. He hoped they didn't get infected - a vampire could ensure their dark magic kept the wounds from becoming a problem, but Crowe wasn't one to expend any extra energy to help the thralls he fed from recover. It was entirely possible he hadn't bothered to clean the wounds, much less heal them.
As Damien peeled the washcloth away from his throat, he hissed in what was clearly pain. At first, Cain wasn't sure what had happened. Then, the smell hit him.
Rich. Savoury. Thick. Heady.
Cain felt himself begin to salivate, felt his fangs ache in his mouth. His stomach clenched, but it wasn't the same sort of twisting pain that he'd felt from drinking the kitchen blood, or the blood of the woman he'd journeyed alongside, or the scarlet splatter of a crazed thrall who wanted nothing more than to be fed from. No, this was an empty, aching need that desired to be filled. A hunger that he hadn't realized had become foreign to him until it came at once roaring back to the forefront of his psyche.
"Oh," Cain said, a bit numbly, then turned to look at Damien, who was holding the washcloth in his hand, a stricken look on his face.
A pea-sized stain of warm scarlet bloomed in the center of the cloth. From there, Cain's eyes traced indelibly upwards from Damien's trembling hand to where it had been resting mere moments before. He spotted a tiny bead of blood, trailing its way down Damien's throat, its origin clearly that of a bite that wasn't quite as healed as the rest of the marks Crowe had left behind.
He wanted - no, needed - that blood. The hunger roared in his chest like a chimera, pounded in his ears like a heartbeat (or perhaps that was the werewolf's heartbeat he was hearing as his senses instantly alerted to the presence of prey–).
"Oh no," Cain said, more forcefully, and then with the last remainder of his good sense, he threw himself off the side of the bed, hitting the floor in a graceless tangle of limbs. He heard the wet slap of a washcloth, and thought that Damien had realized the problem, and had covered his wound to try and staunch the bleeding.
It was too little, too late. Cain could feel his mouth filling with saliva, almost drooling like a rabid animal in his frenzied need to drink. He clawed his way across the room but couldn't bear to leave, the smell of blood an anguish and a delight he couldn't bear to part from, even as his rational mind screamed at him to leave before he was no longer able to do so.
On the bed, he heard Damien curling up, tucking his limbs under and around himself, muttering "No, no, no, no, no."
Cain would have repeated the mantra, but he was too busy trying to think. Damien was in no condition to share blood, and Cain was in no condition to control himself. He didn't understand what was happening; hadn't his blood been blessed? He couldn't feed, so why would he suddenly start craving blood, after no other bloods had given him even the slightest pause? Was this the final cruelty of the blessed blood, when he started to crave the very blood he wasn't allowed to have? Would he begin to hunger for blood, only for it to rip itself violently back out of him again? He groaned at the thought, and tossed his eyes around, looking for a solution, anything.
His eyes landed on the dagger. The one he used to attack other vampires.
Scrambling, he reached up and grabbed the dagger, still sheathed, and tossed it to the bed. "Here," he said, "use this."
Damien looked up at him, eyes wide, one hand still pinning the washcloth to the side of his neck. "What?"
"If I get too close," Cain said, "use it. I – I'm not in control right now."
Damien picked up the dagger, and started to slide it from its sheath, only to hiss and shove it hurriedly back into the leather case. "That's silver!" he protested.
"It'll stop me," Cain said. Though given his current unpredictable vampiric nature, he wasn't entirely sure. It would probably work, though. And arming Damien seemed like the best solution at the moment.
"It will?" the werewolf asked, eyeing Cain thoughtfully.
Cain remembered, belatedly, that he'd killed the young werewolf's first family. Ah well. If he died here at least he wouldn't suffer a slow death by blessed blood. He leaned against the dressing table, willing the hunger he felt to abate. But it wasn't going away. It was getting worse. He was drooling, now, he could feel the wetness in the corners of his mouth. Disgusting.
The werewolf shifted his weight. It sounded like he was settling back down.
The smell of blood was back, thicker and stronger than before. Damn. Damien must have ripped open a few more of his cuts and scrapes with the mad scramble of panic. Cain shut his eyes, clenched his fists, and held his breath. He didn't need to breathe.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"Why is your heartbeat so damn loud?" Cain complained, before he could stop himself.
"Because unlike some of us here, I'm actually alive," Damien retorted. "Shut up and stay back, monster."
Cain didn't sigh, if only because he was trying to avoid emptying his lungs. It seemed easier to save the breath he was holding in, rather than refuse to inhale once he'd breathed everything out. It felt slightly easier, even though he knew logically that he did not need breath for anything but normal speaking.
A moment later, he heard the sound of the washcloth being dunked in the water, and rivulets being wrung out of a dirty cloth. He held his breath so he wouldn't smell the blood when Damien inevitably ripped off a few more scabs. If he could just hold his breath and pretend to not exist, maybe the blood hunger wouldn't turn to insanity. Maybe he would escape this cruel fate. Maybe…
But then again, when was he ever so lucky?
Time eked by with maddening slowness. Damien continued using the washcloth to sponge-bathe himself, and Cain didn't breathe. He had never held his breath this long, and it made him feel even less human than he already did. It was his only option, though, and so endured as best he could.
Then, after an agonizing eternity of quiet splashes and soft scrubbing sounds, Damien hissed, a sharp exhalation of pain. "Cain," he said, his voice high and quavering. "We have a problem."
Cain, eyes still closed, expended a bit more of the precious air in his lungs. "What is it?"
"My throat won't stop bleeding." Damien sounded a bit like he was on the verge of tears. "Everything else has healed over. But not…"
Cain considered the problem for a moment, and found a solution almost immediately. "It's likely Crowe's magic." He probably wanted the wounds to keep bleeding as long as possible, Cain thought, a bit disgusted by the pointless cruelty of feeding like that.
"Is there a way to stop it?" Damien asked. "It's been bleeding a long time, and it's not showing any signs of stopping."
Cain could see the blood in his mind's eye, even though he tried to make himself not think about it. His mouth, which had gone almost back to normal once he could no longer smell blood, started to salivate again. Scowling, Cain considered the problem for a moment, and could think of only one possible solution. He had barely any air left with which to answer, so he did his best to stay concise. "I could use my magic." He doubted that the werewolf would allow such a thing, though, since it would involve touching Damien's throat.
"What would that look like?" Damien asked slowly.
Cain was a bit surprised the young man hadn't refused outright. "I would use my saliva," he said. He was running preciously short of air, now. He had maybe one sentence left before he'd need to inhale to speak again.
"Just saliva?" Damien asked. "Do you need to put your mouth on it, or could you… I don't know, spit on the cloth?"
Cain wasn't entirely sure, but he felt fairly certain at least some manner of physical contact would be required. "I could use my fingers," he suggested. He wasn't sure if that would be enough, but it was worth a try.
Damien was quiet for several long seconds. Finally, in a quiet voice, he said, "Okay. Use your fingers, then."
Chapter 51: Taste
Damien's heart was pounding in his ears, and he hated the way he could feel the blood from where Crowe had repeatedly bitten him throb, hated the way drops of blood slid down his throat with every thump-thump of his heartbeat. He hated even more that the only way to resist the magic of Crowe's bite was to introduce another vampire's magic into the mix. And of course it would have to be Cain, because what other vampire would bother coming to his rescue?
He didn't like knowing that the only vampire who would even consider crossing a monster like Crowe on behalf of him was the vampire he hated more than anyone.
Across the room, Cain was pulling himself up from where he'd been reclining on the floor. He looked as haggard as before, but there was a gleam of hunger in his eyes that reminded Damien chillingly of the way Crowe looked at him right before he would sink his fangs into his throat. Moving slowly, the vampire stepped closer, and Damien valiantly fought the urge to scream, choosing instead to close his eyes. He heard Cain draw closer, barely able to make out the sound of his soft footsteps. He wasn't breathing, so the only sound he made was the swish of his cloak and the light impact of his boots on the floor. He paused at what must have been the side of the bed, and Damien tried to open his eyes, only to find he'd lost the confidence.
The vampire said nothing, just stood there.
Slowly, Damien fumbled around for the dagger he'd been given, clutching the hilt of it in his hands and then trying to open his eyes again. After a few deep breaths, he was able to open his eyes. Cain was staring down at him with a strained expression. His fangs were out, the corners of them dragging at his bottom lip on each side of his mouth. He wasn't breathing, but he was watching him with what seemed to be single-minded intensity.
He looked down, at the large amount of space between the edge of the bed, and where Damien had backed himself up against the far corner, right along the headboard. There was a question in his gaze - did Damien want to come closer, or did Damien expect Cain to come closer, instead?
As much as Damien hated the idea of being the one to initiate by drawing closer, he also didn't want the vampire on the bed. He was under no illusion that the mere fact of Damien not wanting him there would function similarly to a revoked invitation - after all, the bed was Cain's, not Damien's - but he still wanted to think of the bed as his own space, and he didn't want Cain to encroach on it. So, despite the way it grated on him, he cautiously moved towards the edge of the bed, until he was perched right in front of Cain. He crossed his legs one over the other so that he was seated on the edge, but without dangling his legs over the side. Then, with a heavy sigh, he looked up at Cain and said, "So now what? Do you lick your finger, or…?"
Cain stared down at him with naked hunger, but oddly, Damien wasn't afraid of that look on his face, at least not the way he'd been afraid of Crowe's ravenous attacks. Maybe it had something to do with the rigid control with which Cain held himself utterly still, or the fact that the man had chosen to arm Damien with a silver knife specifically because it would give Damien the opportunity to enforce his 'no' with a genuine threat, but he didn't feel trapped by the vampire looming over him.
Cain didn't speak, but he did make a bit of a face at Damien's question. Then, with a mild shrug, he popped his thumb into his mouth. It was such a childish gesture that it took Damien several seconds to realize the man was applying his saliva, as he'd stated earlier. He wasn't sure why he'd expected the man to use another finger - the thumb made the most sense, given the wound in question was on the side of his neck. Still, it looked hilariously incongruous, the dark and foreboding figure staring down at him and sucking his thumb like a toddler.
Damien fought to keep his face straight, but from the slight frown Cain sent his way, it was clear he'd done a bad job of it. "You look like a baby," Damien explained.
Cain popped the thumb out of his mouth with a grimace. He didn't respond verbally, though. Instead he raised his eyebrows, as if asking a question, and gestured vaguely in Damien's direction with his suckled thumb.
Somehow, Damien found this even funnier, and he began to giggle. At first it was fine, but then he began to realize that the laughter was showing no signs of slowing - that he couldn't stop laughing. He wheezed with laughter, doubling over, clutching his gut as his ribs protested the paroxysm of hysterics he'd fallen into.
A moment later, he felt four cool fingers come to rest on the back of his neck, and he looked up, laughter so forceful that his eyes were filling with tears. His watery gaze barely found Cain's serious expression before he felt the cool, wet swipe of the man's thumb press against the bloody puncture wound, the pressure insistent but not painful. He felt something there, not sickly and too-sweet like the rot of Crowe's magic, but instead light and ticklish, almost like getting a deep breath in a field of wildflowers, when the pollen filled the air, making his nose itch and his lungs prickle. There was a tingle that danced over his skin where Cain's thumb rested, like when he pressed just the right (wrong) place on his elbow and the prickle that resulted made his hand feel momentarily numb. It was simultaneously wrong and right, uncomfortable and familiar, cool and yet there was such a deep sensation of warmth he wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him.
The uncontrollable laughs died on his lips as the cool feeling of Cain's hand on his nape centered him. For a moment, the laughter was replaced with a feeling of all-consuming rage; no one should touch him there, never, not ever again, he hated it, hated it, hated it - He clutched the dagger, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.
Immediately, the vampire took two deliberate steps back, his hand lifting away from Damien's neck, taking with it the calm that had descended upon him. As he felt his heart began to pound again, his breath quickening with some indescribable blend of too many emotions to even attempt to identify, Damien watched Cain. The vampire was watching him, his brow knit with concern, his attention clearly focused on Damien and not on his own actions. Damien felt like time itself slowed as he watched the vampire lifting his thumb back to his mouth.
"Wait," he said, a bubble of panic building in his chest, "the blood-"
He didn't have time to finish his sentence before Cain popped the blood-smeared thumb into his mouth. He froze, then, like he'd been carved from marble. Not breathing, not blinking, nothing. Then, after several agonizing seconds, he swallowed, once. He shut his eyes, removed the thumb, and inhaled deeply, before pronouncing his next words in a solemn tone. "That… was a mistake."
The quiver in his tone was unmistakable, as was the way his hands seemed to want to curl into claws. He was clearly holding himself back and struggling to do so.
Damien gripped the dagger harder, feeling like he'd swallowed a stone. "Why did you do that?" he demanded.
"I didn't mean to," the vampire protested, lifting his hands like he was showing he was unarmed. But the clear edge to his nails and the flash of fangs from his mouth did little to reassure Damien. "I forgot."
"You forgot there was blood on your own hand?!" Damien challenged, frustration beginning to overtake the panic he was feeling.
"I wasn't thinking," Cain tried to explain, badly.
"Clearly!"
"I'm sorry," Cain said then, and Damien had to process that for a moment.
He wasn't sure if the apology upset him because it wasn't enough, or because this wasn't the apology he wanted from Cain. The vampire had always been so full of himself and seemed not only unwilling but unable to admit that he'd deeply wronged Damien. And now he was apologizing for instinctively licking his thumb clean, a perfectly normal gesture, when he still refused to apologize for the fact that he'd ruined Damien's childhood and his future?
"Don't be," Damien finally said. "You've worse things that you should apologize for first."
Cain cocked his head slightly, eyeing Damien for a long moment before he slowly nodded. He looked down at his thumb, then Damien's throat, before asking, "How's the injury?"
Damien lifted his hand up to the side of his throat, wincing when he felt the remnants of Cain's saliva, still a bit sticky to the touch. But when his hand came back, he could still see blood. He wasn't sure if it was from before or after Cain had swabbed his throat, though. "You tell me," he said, tilting his head a little, hating the way it looked like he was baring his throat to his mate. Ugh. It was borne of necessity, he tried to tell himself. It meant nothing. Really.
Cain stepped closer, though he was clearly wary of the dagger still clutched in Damien's right hand. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, eyeing the injury site for several seconds before shaking his head. "Still bleeding," he pronounced, sounding disappointed.
Damien swallowed hard, righting his head and resisting the urge to slap his left palm back over the injury. "Now what?"
"Let it bleed," Cain pronounced slowly, his words heavy, "Or…"
Damien didn't like the way Cain refused to meet his gaze when he said the word 'or'. "Or what?"
"Vampire saliva can definitely heal wounds," Cain pronounced. "But for this particular injury it might require… more direct application."
Damien felt like he was going to vomit. "You have to lick it?"
Cain still wasn't meeting his eyes, but he nodded slowly.
"No," Damien said, instinctively, before he even had the chance to think about it. "Absolutely not. Never." He couldn't let a vampire that close to him again, and especially not his mate! The chance of being bitten was too great. Cain had already fallen prey to his own instinct once, and now he was literally shaking with the need to taste more of Damien's blood! He wasn't an idiot, he knew that the fangs out and grasping claws were clear signs of a vampire in need of blood.
He also knew there wasn't a god in the pantheon that could promise him enough to let that man feed from him. Not even Brinn.
He felt another bead of blood trickle slowly down his throat, watched the way Cain's eyes tracked the droplet as it trailed down the side of his throat, curved into the lip of his collarbone, and came to rest there, over his heart.
"It can heal more than just the bleeding wound," Cain said quietly. "I could heal your other injuries, too. All of them."
As tempting as that may have been on another day, Damien wanted nothing less than to be fed from by the vampire standing before him. And he knew that if he allowed the monster's mouth to descend upon him, he would absolutely feed. It was his nature, an instinct he could no more control than Damien could his transformations. Somehow, Crowe's repeated feedings hadn't led to Damien's enthrallment, which was as much a mystery as it was a relief. But given all the weirdness that had revolved around him since he'd imprinted on Cain's scent and recognized it as mate, perhaps the failed enthrallment was related in some way. If that were the case, then he sincerely doubted he'd be afforded the same level of protection from his mate. For that matter, what if his own instincts took over, and he asked to be bitten? Could he trust himself not to succumb to his instincts, this close to the full moon?
Damien inhaled, of half a mind to tell Cain that enough was enough and he needed to leave,but when he did, a bolt of piercing pain shot through his cracked ribs, and all that he ended up doing was releasing his breath in a low groan, wrapping one of his arms around the injured area and trying to stop breathing until the agony subsided. By the time he could see past the spots in his vision and cautiously resumed his shallow inhales and exhales, he realized that he didn't have a choice. Even if Cain's instincts won out, or his own did, if he didn't allow Cain to at least try and heal him, he would certainly die on the night of the full moon. He'd barely survived his last transformation. There was no way that he would survive again, especially not in his current condition. He didn't have the magic available to transform normally, much less the magic needed for an expedient healing. Normally, a werewolf's body healed itself as part of the transformation process, which was a large part of why so much magic was required. But if he was going into it already injured, that would mean that he'd need healing, transformation, healing, and then returning to his body. Three rounds of healing was too much to ask of his magic in this weakened state.
And as much as he'd rather die than be bonded to Cain, he couldn't just go and die without at least trying his best to survive. If he did that, Dezzy would absolutely learn necromancy just so that she could raise him from the dead and kill him herself. He couldn't do that to her. Plus, necromancer's robes really weren't her style.
"Well?" Cain prompted, his arms now folded defensively over his broad chest as he stared down at Damien with blood-red eyes.
"No teeth?" Damien asked carefully.
"None," Cain agreed.
"You won't drink," Damien said, more threat than question this time.
"I will not," Cain answered, though he didn't sound confident. Damien decided it wasn't worth agonizing over again, though. If Cain did drink, there would be nothing for him to do about it once it happened. Despite his better judgement, he would have to trust the vampire to keep his word, in spite of all the instincts that had to be screaming at Cain to do precisely what he'd agreed not to.
Damien wanted to sigh heavily, but suspected his ribs would be most displeased with the act. Instead, he stared down at his criss-crossed legs, at his hand, still wrapped around the dagger's hilt, and said, "Fine. Do it."
"Right," Cain said, a bit of an edge to his tone. "We'll need to take off that shirt of yours, then."
"We need to do WHAT?!"
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VHBlood
Sorry this chapter took longer to update than usual. It's been a busy weekend! I'm really excited to finally be at this point in the story - I've been writing towards it for MONTHS now, and it's been such a wild ride getting this far. Hope you enjoy what's up ahead, too!
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