**Interlude 11 - My wrung heart, be content and feed upon his pain

Fabien's drank of his sorrows, slow and deep, until barren and exhausted he slept where he had fallen.

The boy awoke when the night was fresh and young, his body curled against the door like an abandoned hound. He wearily found his feet, his thin limbs aching and a hollowness in his stomach that begged his attention.

He ventured from his room, hair a wild tangle of knotted curls and eyes so dark and swollen they were like the blackened pits of a skull.

The pale haired boy wandered listlessly through the shadow rich halls, until he reached the kitchen door and nudged it aside with a careless shoulder.

He began to rifle absently through cupboards, gathering the fruit and bread that Colombe often prepared in anticipation for his arrival. When the urchin had finished foraging like a wild creature, he turned to the stash of wine at his disposal and grabbed the slender neck of a dusty bottle.

With drink and food to hand, the boy slumped across two chairs in a melancholy sprawl. He did not bother with delicacy nor etiquette, but ate and drank with hungry abandon.
He drew the bottle to his lips, throat flexing as a thin trail of wine darkened his jaw and throat. Then with a gasp he withdrew, and leaned back in his chair with his head swimming deliciously.

By all appearances, the usually lively and companionable creature clearly had no desire to be disturbed.

The light from beneath the vampire’s door had fallen dark and there was no movement to detect beyond those austere doors. Whatever misconduct had taken place in the interior of that blood-red room appeared to have abated.

Perhaps this was some small relief to the heavy-hearted boy as he made his way through the quiet house. As he descended the stairs he would hear a faint ripple of laughter from the corner of the house currently occupied by Fakhir and Lacrima, indicating the witch and her consort were tucked away in their quarters. Fabien turned away from this unwelcome mirth to the opposite side of the house where the dark kitchen awaited him.

The lamps had not been lit. All was muted shadow and gloom as he made his listless way through the halls.

In the kitchen, a lone candle flickered valiantly against the encroaching dark - a sure sign his friend had considered his empty stomach before embarking on her endless chores. The boy would have time to finish most of his meal before the sound of a voice raised in overstressed indignation drew close to his hideaway.

“--expect a certain standard, oui? I know you understand, you dégénéré-”

Colombe pushed open the kitchen door with enough angry force that it cracked loudly on the hooks on the wall behind it. Her face was dark with vexation, her cheeks flushed red. She stomped forward as though towards the stairs to her bedroom but came instead to an abrupt halt in the doorway, her large eyes growing wider when she saw Fabien. She turned hurriedly as though to depart but it was too late - the source of her ire was close behind and nearly collided with her as she froze.

Surely those features were burned hatefully into the meat of Fabien’s brain - the exquisite bow of those lips, the fine line of the jaw etched all the way to the curve of an ear. Their hair was so black it would not feel trite to compare it to a raven’s wing, and swept carelessly into dashing waves on one side. The other side was shorn close to their head to better highlight the pale scar that scored their scalp. It had the damnable consequence of making them appear all the more raffish.

In another life the fit of their clothes must have been breathlessly elegant, but these were the ghosts of such finery, the bold colour faded and moth-eaten holes worn into hems. Their collar was undone, and the skin of their throat bloomed purple with fresh bruises.

They drew short upon spotting the wan boy at the table. Their lips took instantly to a curl of disdain that only elevated the patrician delicacy of their sun-kissed features.

“Ugh,” they scoffed. “Another one? Is this an asylum for gutter-trash?”

They spotted the bottle in the boy’s hand and their demeanour altered, their nonchalant spine straightening. Their eyes sparkled with keen interest despite the deep shadows beneath them.

“Oh,” they exclaimed, stepping forward with bold recklessness. “That’s more like it. Care to share, mon ami?”

Colombe, who possessed possibly the only abundance of sense in this room, took a step back, one palm holding the door ajar.

Fabien met Colombe's eyes for only a second before the source of her displeasure revealed itself.

The urchin's eyes widened with despair, before darkening like storm clouds. Everything about him seemed to tighten, the muscles of his thighs tense and fists clenched in white-knuckled aggression.

The sharp-featured youth could not draw his eyes away from this beautiful new arrival. He devoured every inch of their body, until he was left fixating on the smudge of fresh bruises on their elegant stretch of neck.

The boy flinched at the sound of their wretched voice, recalling how it called to his host from the same bed that ...

He lifted the glass so violently to his mouth that it struck his teeth in a loud chink. Wine was poured in an endless stream down his throat, while his grey eyes followed the dark haired stranger as they grew dangerously close.

The boy's quiet was deceptive. At first there seemed nothing in his demeanor to suggest his burning displeasure, save for the faint trembling in the hand that clutched the bottle. But anyone who knew the youth was sure to find his stillness, and the absence of chatter worrisome.

The stranger's bold request plucked a dry, humourless laugh from the boy's throat.

"Insult us to our faces, then demand your share. A strange way to break bread in this house, mon ami." He replied sourly, and drank a further mouthful, the bottle clutched possessively in his hand.

"Who are you?" He asked flatly, his teeth clenched to suppress the flame of his rising irritation. The next question however, was snarled. "Why are you still here?"

The stranger was unimpressed at Fabien’s sour countenance. They halted just beside him, lingering in half-hopeful orbit around the bottle in his hand.

“I assure you I would insult you behind your back as well,” they replied brightly, running a hand through their hair. “If there were anything of interest to say.”

The dim light of the flickering flame cut dark shadows out of their sharp features. As close as they were, Fabien could see the pale sea-glass green of their eyes.

“Émile-Geneviève-Louis-Auguste-André-Timothée de Dubois,” the stranger provided immediately and more listlessly than a name like that warranted. They had discovered they had the advantage of height over Fabien so long as he remained sitting and they looked down at him through dark lashes to withering effect.

It was a name the urchin was doubtless acquainted with - the Dubois family was a popular source of rumour and gossip due to the litany of self-inflicted tragedies that plagued them in spates every few years. They had a voracious taste for gambling and drink, with frequent forays into dog-fighting and whoring, and only within the last year were said to have suffered an estate fire that may or may not have been recompense for unpaid debt.

Even Colombe straightened in recognition, although from the growing look of distress on her features, it could be assumed she was considering the implications of having to bury the Dubois heir beneath the aspen grove. From behind the stranger, she met Fabien’s eyes and splayed her palms in a gesture of exasperated confusion.

“Where else would I be?” Émile continued snidely. “I aim to find a decent meal, but that appears to be above the faculties of the help here.” Colombe’s back stiffened and the corners of their lips lifted with a mean-spirited smirk.

“Who are you?” they returned with idle interest. They leaned winsomely against the table, their eyes still on the bottle clutched in the boy’s hand. “And are you fucking la servante or le vieil homme?”

Fabien's lip curled away from his teeth at the stranger's cutting remark, and he immediately took a further mouthful of blood dark wine.

As he drank, the boy caught Colombe's eye, and her air of perplexity caused an affectionate smile to warm his otherwise dour expression. He no longer acknowledged their guest, but looked beyond to converse with his friend.

"Did you hear that, cherie? We are blessed. Sang bleu in the house. I should have opened the good stuff, non?"

A spark of cheer illuminated the boy's eyes, and it seemed he might simply ignore Ēmile's presence, were it not for his next words.

The stranger would not realise they had overstepped the mark until they found Fabien's hands at their throat. He found his feet so abruptly that his chair was upended with a screech of wood.

He moved with frightening force for one so slight, the stretch of his arm sharp as a blade. There was a great deal of strength within his lockpickers hands, kept firm and agile from his rooftop excursions.

"My name is Fabien." He replied softly, hoisting them close to his chest with a vicious pull of fine cloth. With another tug, he forced the raven haired stranger to look towards Colombe.

"The girl there is Colombe. She too has a name."

His grip tightened and he pulled them close once more, forcing them to meet eye to eye, so close the tips of their noses almost brushed. it was not quite enough to choke the air from their lungs, but it was clear he was toying with the idea.

"I will say this slow Émile, as I know Dubois are not bred for brains." He began, jostling his captive with a sharp jerk of the hands to emphasize his point.

"If you speak ill of my friend again, I will make it so even your aristocratique whore mouth no longer earns you a meal."

The hostile youth's desire to cause pain was tangible. It trembled in his clenched fists and burned within his dark ringed eyes.

"This is understood? Or need I demonstrate?"

Émile’s expressive face brightened at the mention of the good stuff as they grasped at the slim possibility of such delights materializing. They licked their lips and opened their mouth but whatever they had to say was swallowed by the clatter of the chair falling to the floor as Fabien rose.

The assault took them unaware. They winced as the boy’s fingers dug into the raw welt of fresh bruises that coloured their throat. Instinctively, they wrapped a hand around the boy’s forearm and clawed ineffectively at his wrist to pull him away but there was little they could do but submit to the crushing strength of his angry hands as he wheeled them to face Colombe.

“Ah,” they said as though with a sudden flash of insight, though it was rather spoilt by the wheeze of strained lungs. “So the girl, then.”

Colombe took a hurried step back, lingering half in the doorway in uneasy anticipation. She regarded the pair with her face half-hidden by the door held protectively like a shield before her. Her eyes met Fabien’s and, evidently appeased by what she saw there, she cautiously stepped back inside and shut the door behind her.

When Fabien’s grip tightened, Émile gasped, lifting their chin for a slither of air, their spine arching. Their open mouth was haunted by the faintest trace of a smile.

“No need...for such hostility,” they panted. “Fabien, mon ami. I have no interest… in slipping it to the domestics… for free.”

They squirmed in his grasp as though to test his grip, but had neither the strength nor the leverage to pull away and quickly subsided, thin chest heaving. They met the boy’s gaze defiantly, eyes watering.

They paused to gulp another mouthful of air before continuing, “I am here… for the old man… but if you want… a demonstration… of my whore mouth… you need only.... ah, ask, my friend.”

Fabien's breath was ragged, his complexion ruddy, though it was difficult to discern whether it was the wine, or the squirming discomfort of their beautiful guest which enlivened him. When they dared to insult the girl further, the youth's grip relaxed and his hands slipped away.

"Well, that is some comfort, non?" The boy stated quietly, as though this miserable explanation was enough to placate him.

He allowed Ēmile to draw a single breath, before the full force of his clenched fist struck the sculpted curve of their cheekbone. The impact was enough to leave them disoriented, and was sure to gift them an ugly swelling.

"You should leave now, Colombe," the boy instructed gently. "Ēmile and I have things to discuss."

Fabien did not wait to see if she had heeded his request, before their guest was brutally flung across the table. The sound of broken glass and silverware striking the kitchen floor chimed through the quiet halls of the house.

The grey-eyed youth leapt between their legs like a starved fox scenting a hen. His lean body pressed down like a spirited lover, ground their spine into solid wood. His hand rediscovered its grip on their throat, and this time he offered no mercy. This time, he crushed.

"What do you mean "here" for Monsieur?"  The urchin snarled, his bony body stretched across Émile's chest. Half choked, he shook the dark haired youth hard enough to rattle the teeth in their head.

"Why should he need you here?"

The grey-eyed boy's grip relaxed a fraction to enable them to speak.

"Tell me everything he has said to you. And speak it true, because if you lie, I will see you live to regret offering your mouth to me."

Émile breathed a gasp of relief when they were relinquished and took a quick step back. They made a show of adjusting their rumpled clothes before gently reaching to feel the raw, raised skin of their neck.

Colombe, to her credit, did not flinch when the blow struck their guest. She watched with something like fierce interest as they reeled with an unbidden yelp.

She nodded in assent at the boy’s suggestion and walked, straight-backed, to the pantry door that concealed the entrance to her room. She paused to place her hand, feather-soft, on the boy’s forearm before slipping inside the door. Her quiet steps could be heard ascending the stairs and then she was gone.

Émile swore colourfully under their breath and touched two fingers to the corner of their mouth, but would not have the chance to see if they came away red before Fabien was upon them. They landed with a hard thud on the table, breath forced from their chest in a huff. The broken bottle of wine pooled blood-dark on the floor.

They met Fabien’s eyes as his hands crushed the air from their throat. They writhed beneath him, fingers scrabbling to catch hold his wrist. Their eyelids fluttered. They tried to speak but could only produce a choked hiss. The welt on their cheek was already raised in angry red, and it did something to obscure the fine cut of their cheekbones.

When the hands around their throat relaxed, they coughed, panting a strained laugh.

“Oh,” they moaned, their shoulders shaking with hacking laughter. “C'était to. It was you, wasn’t it?”

They had to stop to gulp for air, their body still wracked with wheezing mirth.

“It was you come to his door,” they croaked, the pale green of their eyes glistening with wet tears. “Did you like what you saw, you pauvre fou?”

They raised their eyes to the ceiling above, shaking their head. The boy could feel their body shuddering as they strained to take a breath. The thick scar that scored their scalp from ear to crown gleamed dully in the dim light.

“He said that I was the finest fuck he ever had,” they rasped. “That he would need no other… gutter-rat cocksucker. Is that, ah, what you want to hear?”

Fabien released a pained breath, and flinched back at the dark haired youth's taunting amusement. His eyes, first narrowed with hatred, grew wide and glistening with unmistakable grief.

"T-tais-toi." He rasped softly, his entire body trembling against Ëmile's chest.

As they continued, the strength seemed to leave the boy's arms and he sank against this new enemy like a felled deer. The boy's grip lessened, and with a low growl he rolled up his sleeve with his teeth.

Émile was at least allowed to finish his words before the first blow came. Fabien's clenched fist landed with destructive force in the centre of their divinely crafted face.

"Ferme ta-" the urchin rasped, "-putain de bouche!"

The boy hit them again, this time almost hard enough to loosen a tooth, certainly hard enough to leave their ears' ringing.

The blows did not cease. And with each strike of his fist, the boy's control slipped further. Soon the urchin lost himself to it, became intoxicated by their gasps of pain, a slave to the writhing agony he extracted from each swing of his arm.

The grey-eyed boy pressed down upon their throat with his other hand, squeezing every last word from their poisonous tongue.

"Now tell it again, tell me now how much better you are." He rasped, his brow glistening with sweat.

The boy's attack might have continued, had not the terrible crunch of Émile's bloodied nose shaken him to his senses. He withdrew with a gasp, his knuckles bloodied and dark eyes vacant.
The boy lowered his head, and the tangle of his flaxen hair brushed their cheek. He lingered, waiting to feel the flicker of their breath against his skin.

"You get up. Now." He croaked, panting against their ear. "You leave this room, and get out of my sight. You are not here. You do not exist to me."

The boy eased his body away, his hair and clothing flecked with blood, and he waited.

Émile’s body jolted as the first blow struck their face. They choked, their bruise-dappled neck taut as they struggled for air. Their lips parted but if they lacked the sense to stay silent Fabien quickly rectified it with the strike of a fist that snapped their mouth shut with an audible crunch of teeth.

They struggled, at first, writhing to either side to deflect the blows. Their breathing came in sharp gasps of pain and then, gradually, steady whimpers that rose and fell in time with each sickening thud. They did not cry out.

Their back arched like a fish cut with a blade at the pressure to their throat, the only fight they could maintain. They were shivering, though they did not seem to be aware of it. When the boy hissed his orders in their ear their purple lips moved soundlessly, mouthing the shapes of words, but they dissolved like steam into a pained whistle.

Their breathing came as a faint wheeze, laboured in their throat. Their face was a sordid cacophony of swollen bruises and splatters of dark blood, the dilapidated wreckage of a cathedral. A thick smear of blood trickled from their nose into their ruined mouth.

They slid, with great, heaving effort, from the table and swayed drunkenly on their feet. Their arms hung limply at their side. Their curled fingers reached to the table for support but it was not enough and as their unsteady legs gave they crumpled to a bloody heap on the floor.

The room was silent save Émile’s ragged breathing. The lone candle guttered and hissed, flickering a dance that foretold its imminent snuffing.

And then all at once, as though he had materialized from smoke and shadow, the vampire’s silhouette filled the doorway. His loose shirt was unbuttoned all the way down his stomach, his hair unbound down his back and still tousled as though from bed. It was impossible to say how long he had been there, how much of the event he had witnessed.

He regarded the ignoble scene in silence. His countenance was inscrutable.

“An unfortunate hospitality to offer a guest,” he said coolly. Émile groaned at the sound of his voice but lay unmoving amongst the glass shards on the floor, utterly insensible.

The vampire’s pale gaze turned to the boy without quite finding him. His eyes glinted like spun silver, feline in the deepening gloom.

“You smell of blood,” he remarked.

Fabien did not shield his eyes from the aftermath of his destruction. He listened to Émile's pained breath with a fierce satisfaction, and their terrible struggle drew a hollow smile to the corners of the boy's mouth.

When they collapsed at his feet, the urchin crouched down beside them.

"Et maintenant, Émile? Mm? Nothing to say? All dried up so soon?" He whispered tenderly. "Ne t'en fais pas, mon ami. I can wait. I have nowhere else to be."

Fabien was not aware of the vampire's presencel until he spoke. Then the boy scrambled guiltily to his feet, obscuring Émile's body like a miscreant child caught plucking the fragile wings from a writhing insect.

The vampire's words at once sent the troubled boy spiralling into deep distress.

"But w-why do you… have a ...a guest, M-monsieur? He gasped imploringly. "Why are they- you said that I-" His voice became sharp as anger and frustration bubbled to the surface.

The youth wavered where he stood, his mind assaulted with memories. The vampire's hands on his skin, guiding his body into position as he offered himself like a bitch in heat. The sound of his voice echoed in his mind, pleading with his host like a common whore. And all was broken sometimes, by the soothing warmth of Fakhir's voice "...very, very long time since anyone has stirred the dust of his heart as you do."

The boy appeared not to comprehend his host's words. He lowered his hand in confusion, and flexed his bloodied fingers as though with fresh realisation. His grey eyes moved between his hand and the crumpled, groaning body at his feet.

"Pardon," he croaked, and took another staggered step away.

"Just happened - they wouldn't stop -tried to…ah- " It came again, the dark moon of his anger rising to eclipse the hurt. "...to just make them stop."

The boy stood there trembling as fresh tears coursed from his eyes.  He wiped irritably at his cheek, leaving a smear of Émile's blood in a ritualistic streak across his pale skin

As Fabien began his troubled soliloquy, the vampire moved to the miserable heap on the floor. He knelt at their side, heedless of the pained questions burbling from the boy like a hot spring, his fog-white hair falling over his shoulder as he considered the tableau of blood and broken glass.

Tariq delicately brushed Émile's dark hair away from their swollen, bruise-blackened face. They stirred with discomfort at the touch. They continued to tremble like a frightened hare at the baying of hounds.

"Dubois," he said softly. The strained rhythm of their wheezing breath did not alter and after a pause the vampire straightened.

He stood and turned to Fabien. The dead-man's silver of his pale eyes was incandescent. With the firm hand of one soothing a feral animal, he took the boy's wet cheek in his palm. His touch was cool on fevered skin.

He regarded the blood-flecked boy with those luminous eyes that could not see him.

"How did it feel?" he asked, his voice low and rough in his throat.

Fabien watched despairingly as the vampire lay his hands on Émile. At the brush of his fingers, the boy grit his teeth and turned his head aside.

The urchin's heart grew wild in his chest as his host drew close, and his spine dipped forward like a cowering dog expecting scorn. At the touch of his host's hand, the boy released a shuddery, tormented breath and his muscles softened. The hard set of his jaw relaxed, and his bloodied fingers twitched at his sides, full of bitterly suppressed longing.

His answer did not come easy. The boy fought with himself, his chest convulsing with soft sobs, as tears continued to wet his blood streaked skin.

"S-senti bien, Monsieur," he confessed in a miserable whisper. "Je... l'ai aimé - je voulais - les blesser."

The boy moved in a sickly waver, scarcely able to maintain his balance  He met his host's sightless eyes through the film of his tears, and then shook his head sharply, his grey eyes wide with terror.

"Not right," he sobbed. "J'ai mal fait, j'ai mal fait."

The vampire devoured Fabien's answer with keen interest. He stroked his cheek as he spoke, thumb smearing the tears that glistened wetly.

"Non," he said simply, dismissing the urchin's accusation with a soft shake of his head. He took the boy's face in his hands, his clouded gaze even. This near, his pale eyes were speckled with bright pinpricks like whorling stars.

The vampire lowered his mouth to Fabien's trembling lips. "My good boy," he whispered praisingly against his lips, his voice flush and his breath cool. His mouth was hungry when pressed to his, the salt of the boy's tears mingling with the coppery blood on his tongue enough to pluck a hot breath from the vampire's chest.

He drew away slowly, licking the front of his sharp teeth with animal relish.

"You have not killed them," he breathed, as though this were sufficient evidence of his guiltlessness. He kissed the corner of the boy's bloody mouth with a shuddery sigh.

There was something wolfish bristling beneath the next words whispered hoarsely against his mouth. "Would you like me to?"

Fabien closed his eyes at the press of the vampire's mouth. The boy released a small, soft sound of joy as he bathed in the welcome return of his master's attention.

He responded to his praise with a soft moan, and his mouth opened eagerly to the vampire's tongue. The boy's breath shivered against his host's lips, as his blood stained hands curled possessively into the fabric of his open shirt.

When he broke away, the urchin was left panting with want. His grip tightened, and he opened his eyes to meet the pale beauty of the vampire's sightless eyes.

At the vampire's question, Fabien grew still, his breath shallow in his throat. He did not respond at first, but merely studied his host with eyes that were bright with adoration, but no less troubled.

"They...they would be gone? I can - I can be with y-you, Monsieur? You will keep m-me close - as before? You will not l-leave me?" He whispered with nervous affection.

His head turned to regard the shivering, wheezing creature lying so forlornly among the glitter of broken glass. The boy swallowed firmly, and his teeth began to chatter inside his skull. The youth looked back to his master, then back once more to Émile.

The boy sagged, and the hands that still sought to cling to the vampire began to tremble violently. He caught his bloodied lip between his teeth, and bit down hard enough to break the skin.

"It m-must be - like this? You can not - you can not j-just send them away?"

The vampire's lips raised in a not altogether wholesome smile at the boy's anxious questions.

"Oh," he said, his voice smoky with humour. "Is that what all this is for?"

His curled fingers slipped down the curve of the boy's throat and trailed hungrily over his chest. They hooked beneath his shirt, where he pressed his palm on the soft skin just above his pelvis. His breath was cool in his ear.

"That you are not kept close to me?" His hand stroked the taut plane of his shivering stomach with devilish pleasure. His fingers flattened and slunk low enough to brush the curls of hair beneath his navel.

"But I think," he said, each word ringing clear as a graveyard bell. His hand fell away from his face. "To send them away would be a dreadful waste." He pulled away, idly shaking the boy's grip from his undone shirt.

The vampire knelt at Émile's side once more. Their hoarse breathing had softened as they slipped into the sanctuary of unconsciousness. Their affectation of venomous disdain was dissolved, and they appeared much younger curled listlessly on the floor than they had while slinging haughty insults.

There was still something of wounded grace in the features of their broken face as Tariq delicately turned them to lay on their back. They complied with the limp bloodlessness of a corpse. Their slight chest, splattered with dark dabs of blood, rose and fell with their steady, strained breathing.

"They will recover," the vampire said softly. He trailed the knuckle of two fingers along the raw memory of Fabien's hands encircling their throat and Émile stirred with a faint mewl of pain. "With me."

Fabien was buried far too deeply in misery and desire to comprehend his host's words. His neck arched invitingly at the vampire's touch, exposing the line of delicate scars left by his teeth to the light.

The youth's pulse beat fiercely in his chest, and when his hand slunk lower, the boy's grip upon him tightened. He released a hot breath, his lean body shivering in delight.

"O-oui, I-" he whimpered breathlessly, "n-need to ...ah."

The boy could not understand his sudden loss. He appeared bereft, his hands open and grasping even after the vampire had shrugged him aside. The urchin staggered after him in a daze of longing, his bloodied fingers outstretched like a beggar seeking coin.

"Mais... j'adore-" he gasped imploringly, his eyes wide, as though this simple truth were enough.

At the vampire's words, the broken youth sunk slowly to his knees with a groan of despair

"Non, non, non, not them," he snarled like a feral dog, and buried his head in his hands.

"Mon coeur ne peut pas le supporter," the boy sobbed, pressing his body into the floor like one in prayer.

Fabien could not lift his head to watch the scene unfold further. And even in the depths of his pain, still he did not beg for Émile's death, did not recant and demand to see the vampire put his teeth to them. But he writhed like an eel, languishing in his own suffering.

The vampire did not turn his head to the boy’s anguished sobs. He was occupied with the forlorn creature that groaned at the press of his hand to angry bruises, legs trembling weak as a dying deer.

He gathered Émile’s listless limbs and collected them from the wine-sodden floor, the ease with which he lifted them betraying the thoughtless strength that must lurk in that tall frame. Their body drooped in the vampire’s arms as he straightened.

Their chest heaved as they were lifted from the floor and they jolted with a gasp.

“Ce n'est pas à toi,” they whimpered, their voice a hoarse whine in their crushed throat.

The vampire quieted them with a soft shush of tongue against teeth. They stilled with a rasping sigh, curling their shoulders to bury their broken face in his chest.

“Dors bien, Fabien,” Tariq said, his voice low. Without another word to the boy left huddled in despair on the floor he stepped into the shadowed hall. Both he and his burden tucked carefully in his arms were quickly lost to sight in the dark.