The cost of diligently sleeping in the vampire’s darkness. Sleep was an uneasy visitor, and she offered no peace, and no empathy. But such dreams, always such terrible dreams.
This one was not unusual, though it was by far the worst. It had begun somewhat pleasantly, with a hunt, the stalking of something pure, bright and without corruption. A virgin, perhaps, who he might make lose her betrothed to a nasty bout of consumption. He had spent an entire summer pursuing those, once. He followed her down endless stretches of corridor, his fingers primed to inflict countless, unfortunate miseries. But just as he reached her, his wrists were suddenly locked together. The grey flesh between them congealed and fused, and despite his frantic attempts to unbind them, remained cuffed.
The vision wavered, and with new clarity it became apparent his wrists were not held by unseen forces, but gripped by dark, elegant fingers. Fingers that pulled and guided him away from his prize, away from the light, until he was bound against something hard with his hands high above his twitching foxen ears.
His senses were sharply invaded by the scent of wet fur, cold lips against his skin, and teeth sharp as razor blades searing across his cheek. Fingers that were no longer bound moved to sift through that fur, and press into firm muscle with some tangible familiarity, some sense of purpose. He felt his skin rupture, a sensation that was deformed into the most exquisite pleasure. And soon each wound was greeted with such affection, the arching of the neck, a mouth that strained to apply thankful kiss after kiss.
But when that kiss was returned, it was much too deep. His mouth began to fill with blood, blood which guttered down the sides of his lips, and continued to well behind his teeth until he desperately sought to swallow it. It was consuming him, choking him, drowning...
Fabien gasped himself to freedom with a small, sharp cry. His entire body jolted to the side, one arm straight, black fingernails searing across the floor. He fought to regulate his breathing, but each rattling exhale remained punctuated by a small, troubled whine. And there was something unpleasantly tight at the back of his throat, a stifled desire to retch, incited by wave upon wave of nausea. When the need to empty his cursed, useless stomach had passed, the omen lowered shakily back to the floor. Strands of curling wheaten hair were plastered to his glistening brow, forcing his shabby attire to cling ever tighter to cold, sweat bathed skin. The boy shuddered, and pulled anxiously at the collar of his striped shirt, loosening it from his scarred flesh as though it were a noose.
There had been no dreams before the bat.
At least, none that he could remember, none that held any weight and clarity like these, so painful in their intensity, their scalding realism. He blamed these walls, and being forced to rest here in the pitch dark, like some tomb, as oppressive and stifling as the moist air of the catacombs.
The youth’s trembling fingers pawed stupidly at the tangled hair about the base of his ear, working free a filthy, shabbily rolled cigarette he had likely pilfered from a dock hand. A match too had been stowed away, and was wrestled free from its hiding place like contraband. He had little idea whether the bat did not allow fire within his premises, nor did he entirely care. The weak, trembling flame cheerily penetrated the darkness, and was fondly shielded by the boy’s palm. It cast brilliant light across the walls and floor, each warm patch filled with the omen’s sharp eared silhouette.
He inhaled deeply, desperate for some relief, something to stifle the violence of his nervous convulsions.
He told himself he would ration it, just a quick draw, just a breath of fire-light quickly stolen before the bat could detect it. But the warmth of the match felt so good, and the sweetly scented smoke deliciously washed away the haunting memory of blood. The boy curled his limbs inwardly, and rolled his tongue over jagged rows of chattering teeth.
Slowly, and with fond slyness, his mangled foxen tail coiled in and against his chest like a serpent; diligently concealing the throbbing hardness between the boy’s thighs.