porcelain

🩸 Vampire: The Masquerade 🩸

✢ Wynter della Passaglia (she/her) Clan: Hecata, Camarilla Game/Chronicle: Night Road, It Runs in the Blood Concept: Giovanni courier and femme fatale with killer instincts. Her uncle Lucien returned from the past and they have been inseparable ever since. Tags: Art | Writing | Asks | Notes | Inspo

✢ Aloys Florian Engelhardt (they/them) Clan: Malkavian, Anarch Chronicle: Providence by Night, Rhode Island Concept: Religious chemist blending modern science with secrets of the Blood. Tags: Art | Writing | Asks | Notes | Inspo | Sessions

✢ Scarlet Lady (she/they) Clan: Ministry, Camarilla Chronicle: Veil of Shadows, Blackstone Concept: Transgressive photographer using art to "improve" her cult following. Tags: Art | Writing | Asks | Notes | Inspo | Sessions

🐉 Kindred of the East 🐉

✢ Yu Hailin / Helen della Passaglia (she/her) Dharma: Path of a Thousand Whispers Game/Chronicle: To be named... Concept: A Court-raised Dhampyr tasked to work with her kind, including her secret lover, Nobuo. Married off to the Giovanni and birthed Wynter. Returned as Kuei-jin. Tags: Art | Writing | Asks | Notes | Inspo

⏳ Archived OCs ⌛️

“Carlo Puttanesca…” It was measured and deliberate, like a beast of prey toying with its food.

He blinked open his eyes, frowning at the dim overhead lamp, his vision blurring in and out. The sound of his name was ringing in his ears. It smelled clinical and sterile in here, like the surfaces had been vigorously scrubbed with chlorine and acid. How long had he been out? What the fuck is this place? Why was it— Shit, was he upside down?

It was impossible to move, everything hurt, and his face felt bloated and numb. A shooting pain ran up his legs as he tried to wriggle free and all that slipped out of his mouth was a heavy, injured moan. He craned his neck upward and saw the silver gleam of metal hooks protruding out of his Achilles tendons, attached to the rails above. 

Fuck!

It was as if a sharp spike of adrenaline had cut through the brain fog and he was wide awake and alert now.

“I’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time.”

A myriad of profiles raced through Carlo’s mind as he tried to place the accent—Southern, with a subtle yet distinct drawl, like a blend of cultural influences—and narrow down its identity. Louisianan?

Then, he saw the lone figure of a man approach him purposefully, his gaze like a cold fire, calculating and measuring his worth.

“You had it coming, but you knew that already, didn’t you?” the man taunted, his lips twisting into a nasty sneer.

Carlo squinted, trying to make out his features from the angle he was hanging at. Something about him was so familiar, but it wasn’t until his eyes swept over the rest of his body, coming upon the stump of what used to be his right arm, that he remembered.

“No, no, it can’t be!” he croaked. “We burned you to the fucking ground!”

“Naw, your men did, while you stood by and watched,” the figure hissed.

“You weren’t supposed to return, Lucey boy! You were nothing! We couldn’t find nothing!” Carlo blabbered on frantically.

“Well, Merry fuckin’ Christmas. Guess it’s your lucky night, huh?” A hideous laugh echoed across the four walls of the empty space as Lucien closed the distance, tapping Carlo’s cheek with the palm of his hand condescendingly.

At this, Carlo hurled a wad of red-coated spittle at him, jeering, “Oh, you gotta lotta learn, kiddo. The Family has a hand in everything. If you believe there ain’t some bigger fish up there involved in this, you must be kiddin’ yourself. And what makes you so sure they won’t come looking for you after you’re done with me? You think they’ll let this slide?”

Lucien eyed him dispassionately, biding his time as he circled the dangling Kindred like a shark. “’Course they will.” He smirked. “’Cause you’re just low-life scum. A fuckin’ Puttanesca.”

A frenzied rage boiled within Carlo as he seethed in fury. Before he could lash out, a woman emerged from the elongated shadows, their tendrils swirling like smoke in the air. Like greased lightning, she was over by him, driving a machete into his shoulder, the muzzle of her Nighthawk Custom cocked against the base of his skull. She carried herself with a feline grace, her expression hard as steel.

A ghastly howl pealed into the room. No matter how many times he had been stabbed in more places than he could count in the past, no matter how tough he had made his body to be with the power of the Blood, that shit always hurt like a bitch. 

It was enough to stun him briefly as Lucien continued without missing a beat, “My niece is a little shy, but try her patience and you might just get the show you were looking for.”

Niece? What the fuck was this, a family reunion? How had he not noticed her in the first place, hiding within the darkness? It was a mistake to assume that Lucien had been alone. And now, he would pay its price.

As if Lucien had read his mind, he nodded. “You see, my lovely Wynter here managed to dig up quite the dirt on you, Carlo, with a favor from a Cousin, ’course.” The edges of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Sasha Giovanni. Name ring a bell? Oh, and don’t you worry, he wanted to send his greetings.”

“Sasha? Why, that little brat! I swear—” He was interrupted by another scream that tore from his chest as Wynter swiveled the blade in deeper. 

The crimson bloom on his shirt thickened as more blood seeped through. Sweet Jesus! What a fucking waste of Blush, Carlo cursed internally. Then again, he had no idea that the night would have resulted in such a turn of events.

Satisfied, Lucien fished out a file of what appeared to be incriminating documents from the interior of a briefcase by his side. He flipped through the pages with mock interest. “There’s more of these, but I saved the best for the occasion. Hmm, so it turns out you’ve been selling off our secrets to outsiders,” he tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly. “But what makes it a real newsworthy piece is that you’re not even one of us…”

For the first time, Carlo’s eyes darted toward Lucien’s in complete and utter fear. If he could piss in his pants right now, he would.

“Thought so, Caitiff,” Lucien spat, his gaze consumed with a fiery hatred.

With a sinking realization, Carlo had to admit that he underestimated Sasha, that cunt, writing him off as yet another Giovanni failure who wasn’t man enough to take over his father’s business. I mean, what with their Valentino—another Puttanesca, sure, but a homo at that—siring him? It was just a pity Embrace, for Christ’s sake!

Dropping the file back into the bag, Lucien undid the top buttons of his shirt as he gestured toward Wynter, “Bring him down. Let’s bleed this pig dry.”

She smirked, a hint of wistfulness laced her voice. “Just like old times.”

“Just like old times,” he repeated the words back to her and matched her smile, as though sharing in a fond memory.

Then, the hooks were released and Carlo came tumbling down, landing on the floor of what he now identified as an abattoir with a loud thud. At warp speed, Wynter bound his arms and legs together in chains, preventing his escape. The flash of her fangs peeked out as she licked her lips, leering at him with a plain hunger that was yet unsated.

With the idea of Final Death beginning to turn into reality, Carlo resorted to a mixture of bargains and threats. “Hey, hey, look! This is all just a big misunderstanding. You want your arm back, I’ll give it to ya, easy peasy! And everything I have. Money, intel, whatever’s your poison, eh?”

In desperation, he continued shouting, “You don’t know who you’re messin’ with Lucey boy! I’m gonna hurt you so bad you’ll wish you never existed!”

But it fell on deaf ears as Lucien unsheathed his trusty Morakniv from a utility pouch along his belt and squatted down beside the Kindred. One glance at its razor sharpness was enough to silence his ramblings as they puttered to a stop.

Carlo trembled as the knife drew closer to his face. There was a shift in Lucien’s mood. It was pensive, introspective, almost as if he were in the eye of the storm. He spoke coolly, peering at his reflection in the mirror of the blade.

“You think you know death? You think you know pain? I’ve walked for acres across the bodies of foul corpses. Felt their bones crush under my feet. I was lacerated and flayed, then stitched back together like a ragdoll only for it to repeat over and over again. My ribs pulled back and exposed, like an inverted cage to house the vultures that pecked at my chest. A fistful of razor blades I was forced to swallow sliced through my gut. All for an eternal cycle, while the burning flames of hell singed my skin and flesh. So, don’t talk to me about pain as if you have lived it, you pathetic excuse of an unlife.”

As he went on, he felt an unearthly energy flow through his veins and the searing sting that accompanied it as his eyes and mouth were set ablaze in a shade of livid blue. The fire that leaped from Lucien’s orifices made Carlo’s skin crawl, having never witnessed anything like it before. Even Wynter took a step back, tightening her fingers around the grip of her handgun, swallowing the lump in her throat out of habit.

Cowering in front of Lucien, Carlo stuttered uncontrollably, “W-what the hell are you?”

A wolfish, maniacal grin crept along Lucien’s face. His immaculate set of teeth, unnaturally phosphorescent and glowing, whetted itself into fangs.

“After this, you’ll understand the true meaning of pain.”

Without further ado, Wynter shoved Carlo’s body roughly to lay flat on his back, pressing the sole of her boot against his neck. Wielding his knife, Lucien made a neat incision from the base of Carlo’s sternum to his pelvis in one stroke, carefully avoiding puncturing his innards. It was done so swiftly that Carlo didn’t feel a thing until a couple of seconds later where he let out an ear-splitting shriek.

Despite having only a single arm, Lucien worked fast, cutting deeply around the rectum before separating the rest of his skin away from wet tissue and flesh. Sprays of warm, virile blood splattered across his face and clothes, but he made no effort to wipe it off. The handle of his knife became slippery like fish.

For the entire duration, Carlo’s shrill cries and wails filled the air as he pleaded for them to “Stop! Please, please! I beg of you! Oh god, no! Please, no!”

Yet there wasn’t a flicker of mercy in either perpetrator’s glare. Instead, Wynter stamped down on his neck with even more pressure, causing him to gurgle in return. Bending over, she dipped two fingers into the open slit near his breastbone, coating them with his sanguine fluids before licking it up with her tongue.

It was only then that Lucien paused, pointing the knife in her direction as he admonished, “Uh-uh, what did I tell you about playing with your food?”

Feigning annoyance, she huffed and rolled her eyes in response. But still, she obeyed him, straightening herself up as she watched him carry on.

“Gotta keep the organs intact is all,” Lucien muttered. “I’ll finish this up soon and let you drink every last drop, babydoll, you know I would.”

The flaps of Carlo’s skin shedded off like a jacket. His voice had grown hoarse and there was no will left in him to fight. From his pouch, Lucien alternated between his knife and saw, cutting open the bone of the Kindred’s chest cavity before slicing away his diaphragm from the ribs.

Carlo was entering into torpor, evident from the fact that his corpse was withering, and the once fresh blood had started to darken and coagulate. Wynter released her hold on the man as Lucien reached into his chest, feeling around for the esophagus and windpipe. There, he severed them and nodded to Wynter. In perfect sync, they turned Carlo onto his side and pulled the entirety of his insides out. Like blackened, toxic sludge, it spilled across the floor.

Unable to resist any longer, Wynter descended upon what remained of the carcass and lapped at the curdled vitae oozing from its ravaged vessels. Lucien rummaged through the mushy pile, picking out each shriveled part as he scarfed them down whole. His jagged teeth ferociously tearing through sinewy tissues and muscles that had hardened in the process, the taste of it defiled and rancid.

He was debasing himself, feasting off the life force of Carlo through his vitae-rich flesh, like a monstrosity he should have surpassed at his level. What would his kind think of him if they witnessed him in such a state? A mindless zombie. A good-for-nothing dog. A chih-mei. And perhaps worse, a cannibal who ate shen akin to their own. Even so, he persisted, stuffing the organs into his mouth, forcing himself to chew and swallow them like a bitter pill, to remind himself of all the suffering it took to get him here.

Viscous juices drizzled from his chin, staining his shirt in the color of bile. The stomach, the liver, the kidney, the lungs—he had consumed them all, and in turn, the very essence that formed Carlo. At the end of it, he would scalp the bastard, collecting his head like a trophy hunter to mount in a room he kept for such curiosities. In the meantime, he just had the heart left. That rotten, throbbing thing. Lucien scrambled toward it on his good hand and knees like a rabid animal, but stopped short when he saw Wynter, having had her fill, standing before him.

By now, Carlo was no more than a lump of desiccated meat. First, field dressed like a deer, then mutilated beyond recognition. The flames that burned wildly in Lucien’s visage had dissipated, as if the brutality and savagery that ensued had worn him out, and all that lingered was the tender presence of his niece. It calmed him.

Gathering the heart in her hands, Wynter sank down to the ground and offered it to him. Hesitantly, he leaned forward, allowing her to feed him as he soaked his face in the tainted blood of the man responsible for his fate. She scooped up the pieces when they fell, gently pushing them past his lips, letting him nip and suck the flesh off her delicate fingers. The slick muscle of his tongue darted between them, swirling around the grooves of her skin. His head bobbed up and down, greedily taking in more and more, wanting to polish her hand clean. He felt so flushed and alive, if she’d been none the wiser, she might have mistaken him as human.

Wynter observed as her uncle lost control. The walls that he had put up, broken down, only to replace again, were finally crumbling. Ever since they were reunited in their second life, as he had so promised, they had been uncertain where they stood with each other. Reluctant as she was to admit, it secretly delighted her to see him like this—groveling and eating out of her hand, quite literally, and deep down, she knew she wanted more than she could have. She wanted the walls to collapse further until they were nothing but ruins in a wasteland.

Curiously, she tilted her head, probing him, “It isn’t enough, is it?”

Lucien paused, unlatching his mouth from her, leaving a pearly string of saliva in its wake. He adjusted himself rigidly, drawing back onto his haunches. She didn’t blame him for his discomfort, even though she could smell his fecund want, his need from a mile away. 

Throughout their lives, their desire had been sullied with shame. Something that should be hidden away, buried into the dirt, and never spoken of again. But they had never been natural to begin with. This body she possessed, this skin bag that was hers and yet not. The mask he wore, the layers upon layers that covered him until it was difficult to find the man he had been underneath. She, Embraced into The Family. He, a cursed outcast returning from the dead. Two sides of the same coin, and still so far apart.

“I can give you more,” she reiterated.

The whole time, his eyes never left hers as he held her long gaze. At a languid pace, Wynter’s fingers trailed from button to button of her blouse, letting it fall past her shoulders before shrugging the rest of it off. With nothing else to hide, she kneeled half naked before him, her deathly pallor striking under the light.

Lucien inhaled sharply, his breath catching at his throat, yet he made no move to retreat or look away. She brought herself closer, until her upper body was a hair’s breadth away from his face, and he could only drink in the sight of her, mesmerized by her devotion.

“Baby—” His voice cracked beneath the strain, as a sea of conflicting emotions pooled in his stone blue eyes.

“Shh… eat,” she coaxed, cupping his head toward her chest. “Devour me.”

The last frays of his restraint snapped and he clamped his jaw around the soft mound of her breast, gorging on a chunk of it voraciously. Wynter’s fangs pierced her lip as she attempted to suppress a strangled cry. Hot, fat tears welled up, blurring her vision as a steady stream of blood trickled onto her uncle’s cheek.

He lapped at it before tonguing the gaping pockets of her flesh, nibbling around for scraps. Her squeals only served to arouse him as his eyes grew bloodshot and feral. In an effort to prevent her from thrashing about, he grabbed her wrists in his hand and held them down behind her back. Then, he perforated her with more bites, the marks angry and swollen.

“Tell me—” she gasped, quivering violently. “Tell me how I taste.”

“Like the fruit of Eden,” he growled.

His canines raked the side of her belly, earning him another whimper as he dug up flakes of plump tissue and skin. He savored her fullness and the spurts of sweet blood that soothed the ache in his core. “Like the heart of a rabbit trapped in a cage.”

“My lil’ rabbit,” he murmured, as his stump traced the outline of her tattoo on her ribs. He lifted his gaze, smearing rust-stained kisses all along her clavicle.

Eventually, he released his grip on her. Licking the shell of her ear, he grazed it with his teeth and whispered, “Like everything I could ever want, but not have.”

Wynter let out a breathy moan, contemplating the difference between his maiming and that of her sire’s. Where Chiara brought her a blunt, sadistic pain, Lucien delivered something more intricate, like a teacher inducting her into its many facets. It was unbearable, maybe even worse than Chiara’s Kiss, yet at the same time the most exquisite. Intimate to the point of being invasive, in the way he truly knew her. He had crawled under her skin, nesting within her flesh and bones, and deeper still. By devouring her, he had reminded them how much she was a part of him as he was of her.

She felt his caresses against her cheek, heard his troubled speech as he came to his senses. “Did I go too far, doll?” His sentiment would get the better of him, he thought, calling to mind the disapproval in his mentor’s expression.

In her weakened state, she shook her head, barely able to speak, her lips twitching into a haunting smile. In exhaustion, her eyelids drooped and she slumped onto his shoulder in a half embrace. Stroking her back, he cooed gentle praises as though he were lulling her to sleep, just like he had done so many years ago.

For a while, they sat like this in a cradle, until he uttered those two simple words, “Take me.” 

Take all of me.

The hazel of her irises glimmered and she wondered for a fleeting moment if his kind could lose their soul, if they even practiced what the Kindred reviled as diablerie. Aila, the elder she had consumed, remained quiet and unmoved within her. She was on her own now.

Wynter weighed her heart out on a set of scales and knew that there was only one answer. Plunging her fangs into the meat of Lucien’s neck, she granted him the agony and torment of the Hecata Kiss in equal measure. He groaned and snarled as she drank from his pulsating wound, the blinding white pain so pure in its form he could finally see with staggering clarity.

He’d been under the shower for ages. The dark tendrils of his hair were saturated and dripping wet, and his skin was reddened by the steam, which had enveloped the bathroom in a dense haze. It had puckered up and wrinkled, absorbing the moisture, as if it were real. As if it were his own. Yet ever since he had returned from the dead, from that abhorrent place, a hell a thousand times worse than he had ever imagined, he felt like a parasite inhabiting a body that didn’t belong to him. His limbs were foreign parts, stitched up like patchwork, and they moved because he commanded them to.

His body was riddled with bullets he had taken for himself and Wynter. An assortment of calibers: 9mm, .45 ACP, 7.62x39, 12 gauge… he could count them all. Those motherfuckers had done a number on him, trigger-happy with their shiny new toys, but they still couldn’t get it right. What a waste of ammunition, he grimaced.

He didn’t expect anything less, considering the callousness with which he and his niece had conducted their murder spree. Barging in, kicking the hornet’s nest, and doling out revenge on whoever was responsible for his demise. Another bunch of names crossed off his list. A bunch of nobodies, lackeys who were just following orders from top brass.

Hot streams splashed across his back and a scarlet-black ichor oozed from his wounds, coloring the water that swirled into the drain a runny maroon. Wynter was fast, very fast, and she worked from the shadows, relying on the element of surprise. He, on the other hand, was a tunneling brute force, messy, up close and personal. Somebody had to take the hit, and he didn’t mind that it was him. If she was his light, then he was her shield.

“Lucien?” There was a sharp rap on the door.

He paused, noticing that once again, she had dropped the honorific before his name. These nights, she never called him ‘uncle’ anymore. And he didn’t know whether he liked that or not.

“Just finishing up,” he answered before turning off the tap. “I’ll be out soon, doll.”

Most of what he had suffered were exit wounds, but some of the projectiles had remained, lodged like debris within his cavities. He was aware of them, and could feel the metal fragments of these unwelcome objects, but even so, there was no reason to remove them. They would be expelled anyway to the surface of his skin when he healed. But then, Wynter had offered to tend to him, and Christ, he’ll be damned if he could ever say no to her.

Emerging from the shower area, he grabbed a towel, ruffling it through his hair and drying his body as best as he could, watching the fabric stain in dark crimson blotches. Wrapping it around his waist, he slicked his fringe back before heading out into the living room.

Wynter was perched over by the chair next to the dining table that she had converted into a makeshift medical station, complete with surgical utensils and a first aid kit. She waited nonchalantly, legs crossed, swaying her top ankle side to side as she eyed him grabbing a bottle of whiskey and glass in one hand, before shuffling across the room to have a seat at the empty stool in front of her.

Water droplets beaded from the nape of his neck, trickling down, and yet when Lucien stared at her, his mouth was desert dry. Old emotions were stirring up inside of him like a storm, but he chose to ignore them. Tucking the bottle under his stump, he unscrewed its cap with his good hand, before pouring the smooth, amber liquor into his tumbler.

“You know that I’d offer you a glass, sweetheart, but I heard that your kind can’t exactly drink,” he muttered, smiling at her wryly.

She straightened herself, and with a hint of haughtiness, replied, “We can.” She ran a finger along the rim of his tumbler, toying with him. “Just that not all of us are able to enjoy it.”

He smirked, the corners of his eyes creasing as he bowed dramatically. “Well then, be my guest.”

“I’ll have a whiff,” she countered, her impudent little nose pointing in the air, elegant and proud.

Although he would never admit it, he cherished that about her. Her refusal to bend the knee, her obstinacy, the need to push back, like he had to fight to win her over. And boy, did he fight. It was getting harder and harder to put a lid on how deep his feelings ran for her.

Lucien looked at the way her face lit up when Wynter sniffed the drink, sighing as she closed her eyes and wet her lips, reminiscing on the taste of alcohol and spice. Then, she handed the glass to him, watching in envy as he gulped it down, twisting his mouth at its acrid bite and the corresponding burn in his throat.

“Lucky for some,” she quipped, retrieving a scalpel as she scooted her chair closer to him. 

In that instant, he regretted the insensitivity of his actions. Reaching for her, he said, “We’ll find a fix for it, I promise…” But she swatted his hand away in mild irritation. 

“I’m trying to work here,” she huffed, bringing the scalpel near an entry wound, and making an incision to widen it.

He stayed silent as she held the cut open with retractors, pulling out a bullet with a pair of forceps. It hit the bottom of the emesis basin with a loud clank. Closing the wound temporarily, she went on to the next. Depending on how far in the bullets were, sometimes she would use curved scissors to separate tissue. At one point, there had even been shrapnel, which she patiently removed, bit by bit, chucking them onto the growing pile in the basin.

In between, he knocked back shots of whiskey, not that it had any real effect on him. It was more of a way to pass the time and distract himself from the closeness of her face to his, the meticulous and tender manner in which she observed his perforated body, and the touch of her hands on his skin. The pain was nothing he hadn’t felt before, like a dull and constant annoyance, but still purposeful in its instruction. As he’d been taught, every experience of pain was a form of purification.

“So how didja learn all of this? Don’t recall you going to med school,” Lucien teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Wynter pursed her lips, giving a noncommittal hum. “You’d be surprised with what you can pick up in Cairo. It’s a literal warzone.”

“Cairo, huh?” Pride made him curt and avoid her gaze. He’d gathered scraps of hearsay about her time with the Gangrel Prince, Let-tow? And it wasn’t exactly a topic he was dying to broach. Clearing his throat, he tried to change the subject. “And, uh, where didja get the equipment?”

“Elena.”

“Right.” His face soured in disdain. “The girl you have a ‘thing’ with.”

She let out a groan in exasperation, dropping the scissors onto the table. It wasn’t just Lucien getting on her case, Elena had been too, already sensing the weird vibes that emanated between her and her uncle. Just the other night, her ghoul had mentioned, “Don’t tell me you’ve fucked him. Just don’t—”

So, what could she say, really?

“Well, if you wanna keep doing that and exploring— Ahh, shit!” He was interrupted by Wynter roughly twisting the forceps into his wound before wrenching it out. The shock and sting of it caused him to jolt backward.

“For the last time, Lucien,” she seethed. “Elena and I may be in an open ‘thing’, but she means a great deal to me. So, if you dare to disrespect that, I swear…”

“Fine, I apologize, alright?” He surrendered in embarrassment, his expression laced with guilt. “I’m sorry, doll.”

For a while, they were quiet again, only glancing at each other from time to time as Wynter continued to work. When she had finished with the extractions, she got to her feet, towering over him as she inspected the wounds that she had treated. Her hand trailed along them, one after the other, her caresses feverish against his chest. Was his heart pounding? Could it even be in his state?

His eyes darted to hers, though he didn’t articulate a single word. Why would he not make a move? she brooded. His yearning for her was obvious. What was stopping him? Why was he so stubborn? 

Landing upon a bullet hole just below the left of his rib cage, Wynter traced the border of it with her fingertips. Struck by the sudden impulse to bury her fingers into him, she casually stated the first thought that came to her mind, “Just gonna check if it’s all clear.”

Lucien swallowed hard, but kept up the pretense, mumbling a faint, “Uh-huh.”

Cautiously at first, Wynter placed three fingers in her mouth, coating them with pearly saliva, before sliding them deep into the hole all at once, leaving him breathless, as if he’d been punched in the gut. She liked to see him struggle to take it, tilting his head back and wincing as she fingered into the layers of raw fat and exposed flesh, his fibrous nerves and vessels, letting more blood seep through. It was moist and snug like a glove, sucking her digits in, and the aching grunts he made when she thrusted into him captivated her.

“Seems good to me,” she murmured.

But he stopped her as she was about to pull out. Grasping her hand, he slammed it back in and cried out. “I-I think you should be a bit more thorough,” he suggested, his voice shaky, as he guided her, pumping her fingers in and out of his wound.

Her heart-shaped lips quirked into a smile, and she obliged him as her face drew nearer, until their foreheads were almost touching. He could smell the floral scent of her hair, triggering a wistful longing for when things were simpler and more carefree. Lucien’s thumb grazed the family heirloom he had given to her many decades ago. A ring with an obsidian gem encased by a set of diamonds, that Wynter wore over her fourth finger. It moved him that she had treasured his gift all these years. The distant memory of his vow returned, etching itself into his mind, and he breathed, “That ring, babydoll…” 

I meant it, and I still do.

She didn’t respond, but he felt its cool silver edges press up against the entrance of his wound again and again, as she fucked him more vigorously. He rocked forward into her, keeping a steady rhythm as squelching sounds filled the air. Curling her fingers, she dragged them along his walls, stretching him out as he whined. The torture was agonizingly sweet.

Tightening his grip around her, he forced her fingers to plunge further in, choking out a scream as she hit against bone and the spongy tissue of his spleen. If he had it his way, he’d choose her every time to be the one to make him suffer. To glean the truth from every lash and blow. 

They stayed like that for a moment, until Lucien finally let go, allowing her to slip out. However, Wynter wasn’t done yet. Before he realized it, she was kneeling between his spread legs, gently rolling up the towel that was covering his lower body.

He hissed, brushing the tip of his stump against her cheek. “What do you think you’re doing?” In his bewilderment, it came out harsher than he intended, but she wasn’t daunted.

She peered up at him innocuously, explaining, “I need to clean it well.” To illustrate her point, she gestured at the exit wound on his thigh, showing a neat, gaping hole that he’d missed.

“Umm…” There were so many reasons why this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t formulate his thoughts into words. It was as if he had forgotten how to speak.

Growing impatient, Wynter didn’t wait for him to continue. Bending her head, her warm, damp tongue circled the outer crust of the wound, before dipping into it. She lapped at the glistening red matter, stroking its soft tissue and muscle, as Lucien clenched his jaw and fist, biting back the arousal that was building up.

He could have put an end to her little game, but found himself entirely submitted to her control, moaning shamelessly as he felt every flick and swirl of her tongue in his hole. His erection was visible under the thin cotton now, and he prayed she hadn’t noticed, even though he knew otherwise.

Dark cherry blood pooled into her mouth, and the sour tang of his musk and sweat intermingled with its earthy taste. She had grieved and craved for it, and now, she couldn’t get enough of it. His vitality flowed through her as she playfully nursed and suckled his wound. It wasn’t long before he came undone, gritting out a string of curses as his hips stuttered violently. Viscous white semen soaked the cloth and trickled down his leg.

It was perverse, seeing Wynter so close to the incriminating evidence, while she licked the remains of his blood from her fingers. Lucien imagined painting her face with his fluids and hated himself even more for it. He wanted to scour that image from his mind, shred it into oblivion, so that it never existed in the first place. What had they done? And why the fuck had he allowed it?

Before he had the chance to wallow in further self-loathing and contempt, Wynter stood up, packing her tools away, as if nothing had happened at all.

“You want me to dress them for you?” she drawled, glancing idly in his direction. 

“Naw,” he coughed, shaking his head. He was already mending his wounds, focusing his energy on willing the flesh to close shut.

When Lucien was sure that she had completely left the room, he slumped his back against the wall with a loud thud, and his head lolled to the side, wondering if it had all been a fever dream. He huffed, chuckling privately to himself.

“Sweet Jesus, doll, you’ll be the death of me.”

It was time again. She could feel it in her Blood. That strange calling, that lustful yearning for something more than satiating her thirst. She wondered if part of this was Aila’s doing, and that her body which housed the elder’s soul was infested. Was her Blood thickening quicker, so that soon she would no longer be able to stomach bagged blood and blood let? Yet she knew that this hunger had always been within her, tamed by her uncle, then let loose again into the wild when she had turned. My god, if only he could see her now, what would he think?

Wynter stirred from her dreamless sleep, making out the various silhouettes in the dark that she had grown accustomed to. Elena’s arms wrapped and legs locked around hers. She turned to her side, pressing her cold, inanimate lips against her ghoul’s, stealing her warmth, the slickness of her saliva, and feeling the buck of her hips as she squeezed her nipple between her fingers.

“Fuck, babe,” Elena sighed. “Any plans for tonight, or could we lay in?”

She hissed as Wynter stroked her sensitive spot through the damp fabric of her panties, her touch chilled as ice.

“Hunting season,” she murmured between kisses, hearing Elena groan with disappointment at her reply. 

“Ugh, come on, girl…” her ghoul whined. “Quit being a fucking clam jam!”

By now, the gusset of Elena’s underwear was soaked. A pity, really, but it had to be done. Tonguing Elena’s lip piercing, Wynter gave her bud a light pinch, causing her to jolt in response. Then, she sat up on her bed and tugged her clothes on.

“Fucking tease,” Elena grumbled, languorously following suit.

Still, Wynter never apologized. 

Was it fair? No. 

Did she like her? Maybe. 

Was she using her? Yes.

Shrugging, she stated, “There'll be plenty of time for that later. Tonight, I need you to clean up for me.”

Elena huffed, but nodded, ruffling the wispy, platinum blonde strands of her pixie cut before she stretched her arms out and yawned.

Cruising along the streets in her ghoul’s Datsun, they parked at the start of a predefined route that Wynter had mapped out previously like a fairground. A route that she knew like the back of her hand. She had memorized the layout with its entrances and exits, the choke points and open areas that gave the illusion of breathing space. 

What was the point of hunting if she did not prepare for it? People often blamed bad weather, bad timing, bad setups, bad aim, when really, all of it could have been prevented by rolling up their sleeves and putting in the ground work. Work that she knew all too well when she had cut her teeth as a courier, including her much-illustrious stint in Tucson. To leave it to fate was to watch every golden opportunity fade into the wind.

With a little more color and vigor to her now, Wynter stepped out of the car, allowing her body to acclimatize itself to the imitation of being human. As she swung the door shut, Elena saluted her before circling around the block, keeping an eye out until she would be needed again.

Tuning into her keen senses, she assessed her surroundings. It was a little far out from the center of town, which meant that the neighborhood was not too lively, but not entirely desolate either. Surrounded by oak and maple trees, there was a gas station built in the ’50s with a late night diner attached, serving dishwater coffee and greasy fast food. Beside it was a dingy bar that had seen better days, but its cheap drinks and pool tables made it a relatively popular haunt for students. Outside of this were a bunch of small buildings, both owned and empty, that scattered across the main road. Further up was a dirt road with a secluded graveyard and long, flat plains.

It was still early in the evening that she could see vehicles passing by, unloading then driving off, guests trickling in and out of the establishments, loitering around to smoke and enjoy the cool breeze, or heading onward to other destinations. So many places to be, so many sights to see. There was plenty of time to take her pick of the litter. Wynter hummed, smelling the corn sweat and sour decay of the season’s leaves in the air. Then, overlapping it, the distinct aromas of those standing closest to her. They were malleable, shaping and shifting as she drew nearer.

It was always a gamble with what would set her off. The scent of cologne, the smoke from a cigarette, a lock of lustrous hair, toughened, wizened hands, the pout of a Cupid’s bow. The list went on. There was an unpredictability and randomness to it. Something she couldn’t exactly plan for. It kept her on her toes—she liked that.

This time, it’s the color of his eyes. Electric blue, like a flash of lightning in a tornadic storm. A look that could pierce her whole. He’s young, even younger than when she had been Embraced. Someone with the rest of his life ahead of him. Arriving on his own, he stumbled over his feet like a newborn duckling as he shuffled into the bar. She trailed behind him, keeping her distance and avoiding the uneasy stares of the patrons around her.

Shy and awkward in his mannerisms, he couldn’t even look the bartender in the eye when he ordered a drink. He glanced around the room as if he were waiting for a date, but recognized nobody. There wasn’t a reason to check his phone, Wynter knew, because he didn’t have anyone. He exuded a quiet sensitivity that made her debate whether he sketched portraits or scribbled poems under the covers when everyone had gone to sleep. She tracked his patterns, how long it took him to finish his drink, whether he would order another, and the intervals when he used the restroom.

Just as he was fidgeting with a restlessness that indicated he might leave, she swanned over, casually brushing against his shoulder as if it were an accident. It was enough to catch his startled gaze as she burrowed under, branching into all of his senses, his extremities, feeling the nakedness of his conscience merge into her own. In a split second, his eyes darted away, the fear of intimacy making him blush.

Wynter gave him a smirk as she continued past nonchalantly, letting the sensations he experienced wash over hers in a shared bond. There was the taste of bitter hops on her tongue, and a sudden lurch in her gut, as if she were free falling. She had marked him, and now he was hers.

It didn’t take long for him to wrap it up for the night, paying for his tab before walking out the front door. She followed his tracks, but went off in the opposite direction, and waited at a point further along the road. When she saw him reach into his pocket for his phone, possibly to get a ride, she whistled softly, like a call she had learned for hunting game.

When he peered up in her direction, she had gone, causing him to frown and scratch his head, as if he had imagined it. Only then did she reappear, like a ghost flicking under the street lamp. Coyly, she placed one foot directly in front of the other, heel-to-toe, and then again, repeating the process before shifting her weight and twisting her body with the sway of her hips. He heard the sliver of a giggle as she beckoned him, and he swallowed hard, intrigued by this strange apparition.

As he moved toward her, Wynter pivoted on her heel and strode off briskly. Each time he picked up the pace, she matched it, and soon, he gave chase, yelling after her, “Hey, wait!”

He was so absorbed in catching up that he didn’t realize she had vanished. When he came to halt, crouching over with his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath, he found himself completely alone on a narrow and unknown footpath. Sweat poured down his brow and he could feel the burn in his legs. He fished out his phone again, the screen light illuminating his anxious face, but before he could find his bearings, a petrifying growl erupted from behind him.

He caught sight of Wynter, harrowing and grotesque in her true monstrosity. Her jaw was extended into an uncanny position, as if the slit of her mouth had ripped at the sides, and froth dribbled down her elongated fangs. Without a second thought, he screamed and bolted forward, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.

She pursued him, gaining in speed, but held back to a nominal degree, just to grant him the false hope that he might escape. Like this, she toyed with her victim, enclosing in upon him, driving him to the spot where he needed to be. At last, she saw it nearing, the metal gates of the cemetery that had been serendipitously left open, inviting them into its arms.

A cry rang out as the man tripped over the slab of a gravestone, and he tumbled face flat onto the ground. As he tried to scramble to his feet, she spun him around and pounced on top of him, before winding a wire rope around his neck. He struggled against her grasp, and although she was of a smaller physique, his exhaustion coupled with the element of surprise put him at a disadvantage.

With all her strength, Wynter tightened the garrote, causing him to sputter and choke. She watched in fascination as his eyes bulged, and his face changed shades like fall leaves. First red, then purple, then blue. Tears streaked down his puffy cheeks and saliva drooled from his swollen lips. She lived through his fear, his anger, his sadness, his confusion, as a series of questions arose. Of—Why? Why? Why? 

Why me? What do you want with me? Why did it have to be me? 

I didn’t do anything wrong. So, why? 

Oh god, I don’t want to die. Please, why?

There was a certain melancholy and thrill with taking away the life of someone so young. She didn’t even know his name, yet what she experienced through their uncanny connection was precious to her. Everything he felt while he was strangled to the point of death. The moment of asphyxiation. The way the light left his eyes. The ebb of violence ushering in the sublime. It filled her with such an immense joy, her cup was abundant and overflowing. And soon, her own crimson tears started to fall as she laughed through her sordid weeping, the sounds she made almost indistinguishable from an animal in distress to one in heat.  

Wynter rubbed herself against him, the bittersweet arousal coming in thick and heady. Panting and moaning as she felt his muscles convulse before relaxing, the skin along his jaw sagging, making his cheekbones more pronounced. His mud-caked fingers had stopped their clawing and he lay on the tufts of grass beside the headstones, muted and serene, like a sleeping angel.

She wiped away the scarlet droplets that had spilled down her cheeks with the back of her hand, their cloyingly sweet fragrance lingering afoot. Caressing the waxen pallor of his neck, she traced the outline of the garrote which had dug in deep. Her body was moving on its own accord, still grinding against his hips as she leaned over, kissing his frigid gray lips with fervor and devotion.

It only made her hungrier, as she suckled his plump flesh, parting them before licking along his limp and bloated tongue. The bulge in his soiled pants gave her pause, until she vaguely recalled such a phenomenon that occurred after death. Ripping his clothes open, she found his hardened erection, wet with stink and fluids, and gasped wantonly into his mouth. 

Lithely, Wynter shed off her undergarments and took him all the way in, hissing at the fullness of his girth. Wrapping her hands around his abused neck, she rocked her hips, riding him viciously and savagely, grunting and yowling as if she were in a frenzy. Within her crushing grip, she felt the spine of his neck crack, and a wave of euphoria flooded every fiber of her being, as she let out a broken wail into the stillborn night.

Shuddering, she lifted herself off him, drawing in rapid, shallow breaths like a remnant of a memory while she redressed. The sweat that oozed from her pores disgusted her, along with the moist patch on her back. The nefarious craving and desire that plagued her had dissipated and she was lucid again. Kindred she met often claimed that no other feeling could compare to the act of drinking, but secretly, she differed. An anomaly among anomalies. Even her diablerie of Aila hadn’t come close to what she felt in her brief incursions.

Kneeling by the corpse, she retrieved her set of syringes from her leg pouch and got to work, extracting it for what it’s worth, not wanting a good source of blood to go to waste. Up until today, she didn’t quite understand what made her so adverse to drinking straight from the tap. What was different from plunging her teeth into a vessel compared to her kind, which she could tolerate? Did she find it unclean? Uncouth? A reminder of a life she no longer had? It had confounded her sire, Chiara, who regarded her habit with disdain, but never once bothered to correct it.

As Wynter fed herself from the tools of her trade, allowing the tepid blood to splash past her throat, an ominous, dark shadow loomed over her. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end as she stiffened and bristled, readying herself for an attack. Where the hell was Elena? Wasn’t she meant to be keeping watch?

Her ears pricked up as a voice spoke. A voice she knew through and through.

“Tsk tsk, you’re a fussy drinker, ain’t you, princess? You know… if I have to wean you off again, I will. And this time, you can bet your ass it's a promise, doll.”

It was husky, tired, and worn. It was intimate and familiar. It was home.

She spun around, calling into the dark, “Lucien?”

“Told you I’d make it worth your while.” Sasha grinned, the headlights from Wynter’s car illuminating his yellow, nicotine-stained teeth as he chewed lazily on his toothpick.

He watched Wynter flip through the bundle of documents that he had acquired for her. She seemed impressed with his work, taking her time to scan through the paragraphs as a subtle smile crept across her lips.

Spitting the toothpick to the side, he tapped the trunk of his vehicle that he leaned on. “Got more of that in here, and a real juicy tip-off I’ll throw in for free, but you know how it is. Fifty up front and the rest on delivery.”

They had met in the middle of a desolate dirt road, as Cousins exchanging favors. Coming in recommended from a friend of a friend, yada yada. Two young neonate upstarts, one looking to take over his father’s empire, the other seeking revenge for her uncle’s death.

“’Course,” Wynter simpered. “Business is business.”

She chucked the bundle through her open car window onto the passenger’s seat. Slipping a card out from her pocket, she handed it to Sasha just as he lit a cigarette. “Ricardo’s hosting an exclusive event tomorrow night. In case you wanna have a little chat.”

Sasha handed his pack to Wynter and as she pulled out a cigarette, he flicked open his lighter, readying the flame. After drawing in a long inhale, she continued, letting the smoke seep from her mouth, “Turns out he likes a very specific type of vessel. Coloratura sopranos.”

“The fuck?” Sasha snapped, fumes rushing out of his nose as he frowned, trying to make sense of it.

“All the better to hit the high notes for the screams.” Wynter shrugged. Sure, it was a little pretentious, but hey, you had to give the guy points for creativity.

“What a fucking piece of work.” Not only was Ricardo Giovanni a fellow rival who could oust him as his father’s successor, he also had a particular artefact that Matheo coveted. So, he needed to go.

“You got a plan?” she drawled, a faint expression of boredom spreading across her face.

Sasha tossed the burned-out stub of his cigarette onto the road, crushing it with the sole of his sneaker. “Yeah, wear something nice to the event, will ya?”

And that was how they ended up in front of a fancy members’ club the next night.

“You cleaned up good,” Wynter remarked, cocking an eyebrow as she regarded the Giovanni before her.

His bright ginger mane was slicked down with not a single flyaway out of place, and he donned a custom-fit shirt and waistcoat set made of luxurious velvet. Its rose and skull patterns against a wash of burgundy and deep violet complemented each other. Along with his slim-cut trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes, he looked right at home rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.

In return, Sasha gave her a low whistle while blatantly checking her out. “I could say the same about you.”

She had opted for the vintage, chic look that was all the rage these days. With her hair coiffed into a bouffant bob, the elegant lavallière blouse under her cream skirt suit, and a pair of red bottom stilettos, she resembled a bella donna from the ’60s. Yet the latest designer bag she carried housed a Beretta 92 with a detachable suppressor, just like how Sasha had an engraved Colt 1911 tucked away within his waistcoat, including an arsenal of smaller weaponry. 

“Guess your sugar daddy’s treating—”

Sasha was interrupted with a reproachful flick to his forehead, as Wynter glowered at him. 

“Ow!” He raised his hands in mock surrender, biting back his anger. “Okay, okay. Take it easy, lady!”

“Uh-huh? Let’s just focus on the task ahead,” she deadpanned. “What’re we doing about the invites?”

“What about them?” he asked nonchalantly. Upon meeting her blank expression, he offered his arm to her. “Come on, watch and learn from the pro.”

She scoffed at him, but linked her arm around his, allowing him to lead the way.

At the door, he just strode in, ignoring the queue and the attendants at the door, until a bouncer stood in front of him, physically blocking his way. Sasha remained apathetic, exclaiming, “Is this how Ricky treats his esteemed guests?”

“What? You know Mr. G personally?” the bouncer questioned, already scrolling through his tablet. “If I could just get your—”

Sasha snorted arrogantly at the man, countering with, “And you are?”

Instead of waiting for the bouncer to respond, he brushed past him, muttering loudly for those in the surrounding vicinity to hear, “I should really talk to Ricky about these new hires. Seems like they’re not cut out for the job.”

With a dumbfounded look on his face, the bouncer mumbled out a hurried apology and let them go. Once they were at a safe distance from the entrance, Sasha turned to Wynter. The diamond-shaped tattoo under his eye twinkled under the lights as he scrunched his face up into a smug grin. “What did I tell ya? I’d say it was an Oscar-winning performance.”

Wynter waved him off dismissively. “Hmm, it was so-so.”

Sasha shook his head in mild disgruntlement. “Tough crowd.” At the same time, he brought her close to him, pretending to give her an embrace, only to slip a vial discreetly into the pocket of her blazer. “Just a little concoction I prepared for the vessel,” he whispered into her ear.

Wynter didn’t need any further directions. Immediately, she set to work, surveying the hall they had stepped into. She understood setups like these from previous hit jobs. People were rarely imaginative when it came to how they organized logistics, preferring to rely on the same old tired methods.

It wasn’t difficult to spot Ricardo. He was a brash and extravagant man who appeared to be in his early thirties, slim build, blessed with a thick curly mop of dark raven hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Easy on the eyes, but akin to marmite the moment he opened his mouth. He was over by the roulette table in the middle of the room, soaking up the spotlight from his peers. It checked out with what Sasha had mentioned to her the other night, that the Giovanni rival was vainglorious and had a weakness for excess and women.

At the side, there was a raised platform cordoned off with a velvet rope, leading to a private area with its own lush booths and bar. The VIP section, Wynter presumed, and where her target was likely to be. If she had a penny for every Kindred who jealously guarded their prized vessels under the guise of plying them with freebies like this makeshift cage, she’d be swimming in even more cash by now.  

Casually, she fished out a cigarette, sauntering over to Ricardo, who had now moved over to the poker tables. Sighing breathily, she played the damsel in distress, “Don’t suppose you have a light?”

Spinning around, Ricardo’s surprise morphed into a leering smile as he ogled at Wynter. “For a bella ragazza like you? Anything!”

He sparked up his lighter as she leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette seductively, making sure he could catch a good glimpse of her coy, lowered lashes, and the tantalizing way she licked her parted lips.

“Are you alone, signorina?” he pried expectantly.

The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile, deciding there was nothing more entertaining than letting him indulge in a contest of egos. “No, I’m accompanied by my Cousin.”

She noticed his olive green eyes widen as he clocked the title she used as one of his own, and then, the drop in his smile when she beckoned Sasha over.

“Cousin Sasha…” Ricardo greeted stiffly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I.” Sasha smirked. “I couldn’t help but indulge the lady.”

Ricardo huffed out a scathing laugh. “Didn’t think she was your type, ragazzino.”

In any other circumstance, Sasha would have lost his temper, demanding that Ricardo explain the diminutive way he addressed him, and most importantly, what he was getting at with that backhanded slight. Yet the furtive glance that Wynter threw him made him realize the game she was playing. It was better for Ricardo to underestimate the two of them, and strike once he had let his guard down.

“Oh, you boys!” she teased, playfully patting the lapel of Ricardo’s suit. “Why don’t we gamble a little?”

She acquired a hefty stack of chips from the dealer at the table and the others followed suit. The mood eased up as they engaged in the poker game that was about to commence. To the men’s bemusement, no matter whether Wynter was winning or losing, she placed riskier and riskier bets with each round, as if she were living life on the fast lane, driving straight into a car crash without fear. Ricardo seemed to take a liking to her aggressive, flashy style of playing, experiencing a sense of exhilaration vicariously through her.

He touched her shoulder before sneaking his hand under her blazer to toy with her bow. “Say, why don’t you join me in the VIP lounge? I have something special to show you. Something I think you might enjoy…” he remarked suggestively.

Peering up at him, she batted her eyelashes and pouted. “Can Cousin come?”

Gingerly, he glanced between Sasha and Wynter, hesitating for a moment, but not wanting to lose out to the other Giovanni, he relented. “Sì, certo! He can watch, but not touch.” He laughed contemptuously, unable to resist shoehorning in another insult.

Sasha gritted his teeth, chainsmoking as he prayed that it wouldn’t be long until Ricardo met his well-deserved fate.

As they settled into a VIP booth, Ricardo called over a lady who appeared rather awkward and like a fish out of water, as if she were not used to the grandeur of such parties. “Don’t be shy! We won’t bite… yet,” he jested before introducing her to the two. “This is Emily.”

She nodded timidly, taking a seat beside him as she placed the cocktail she had been nursing on the table.

“Emily’s pretty talented. Aren’t you, piccola?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t—”

Ricardo cut her off, feigning ignorance. “She’s an understudy for an opera singer. Whatchamacallit again? Color— Colatu?”

“Coloratura soprano,” she corrected him nervously.

“Ahh, that’s it!” He gave a resounding clap before flagging down an assistant to arrange something for him.

Taking advantage of this opportune moment, Wynter focused on her Blood. Time seemed to stand still and in a fraction of a second, she dumped the contents of the vial into Emily’s drink, with both parties being none the wiser to her antics.

Emily grew flustered as Wynter gave her a cheeky wink, and she gulped down the remains from her glass for liquid courage. Satisfied, Wynter gazed at Sasha, blinking twice like a secret code they shared, and he mouthed the words “twenty minutes” in return.

Just then, Ricardo wrapped up his conversation with the assistant. Turning back to Wynter, he gestured toward Emily, as if displaying a piece of meat. “What do you think? Isn’t she so nice and refreshing?”

Wynter tilted her head coquettishly, agreeing with him. “Yes, she is. Couldn’t we go somewhere more private?” she asked, flirtatiously running the vamp of her heel up the length of his trouser leg. He bit his lip and took in a sharp breath. “I’d like to get to know each other better.”

Running a hand through his black tresses, he stood up, signaling to the staff to clear the table as he brought the group through the back stairs of the building, leading up to where his personal study was. As they walked in, Sasha and Wynter noticed that the room was soundproofed. A bunch of odd objects that didn’t quite fit into its aesthetic were lying around in a deliberate order. Their eyes darted toward the rope, a camera on a tripod stand, a scalpel, and a plastic sheet spread out on the ground.

Ricardo shut and locked the door behind him covertly before welcoming them into his private space. “Now, why don’t you stand in front of the camera, Emily? Entertain us with one of your concerto pieces, my little songbird,” he cooed, directing her to the spot.

By this point, she was moving fairly unsteadily, but still managed to get into position as the plastic crinkled under her feet. 

“My, my, aren’t you a lightweight,” Ricardo taunted, then turned his attention to Wynter. “Signorina— Ahh, my apologies. I believe I haven’t even asked for your name.”

She slinked over, pressing her finger to his lips, shushing him. “Perhaps I’ll reward you with it after we’ve had some fun.”

He kissed her finger and stroked her neck with a hint of menace behind his words. After all, he wasn’t the kind of man to be denied. “Oh, you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Over his dead body, Sasha growled internally, as hatred for his rival and a feeling of protectiveness toward Wynter surged in his chest.

“As for you, Cousin Sasha. Stay right there and watch,” Ricardo ordered, as he pressed the record button on his camera. “You do anything stupid and I’ll have your legs broken, you hear me?”

Sasha clenched his fists, but nodded subserviently. It wasn’t long now until the real party would start. In fact, he was this close to getting what he was looking for.

“Emily!” Ricardo roared, as she let out a startled squeak in reply. “Haven’t I asked you to start singing?”

Instantly, she trilled the opening notes of the concerto. It wasn’t her best work, as her voice warbled, seemingly unfocused and unable to hit the right notes. Dismayed, Ricardo castigated, “What’s wrong with you? Here, I’ll give you some encouragement.”

Storming over, he grabbed her roughly by her hair, exposing her neck as he sank his fangs into it. However, as he drank from her, he felt something was amiss. Where were the bloodcurdling screams he so loved? Surely, he still suffered from the bane of his clan’s painful Kiss? Why was she slumping in his arms, in a catatonic state? What was—

He dropped her body to the floor, as sanguine fluids pumped out of the carotid arteries along her neck, splattering shades of red across the sheet like a work of art. “What the hell… W-what have you done?” he croaked, as he stumbled over Emily’s legs, trying to catch himself, but failing and tumbling into a heap.

Ricardo was unfamiliar with such a form of intoxication. Even when he’d gotten high off the blood of others, it was a fraction of what he was experiencing now. How could this be?

As if he’d read his mind, Sasha ambled over, snickering as he drew out his switchblade, flicking it open intimidatingly. “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky… Jeez, man, you never learn, do you? Who knew the Duskborn could be that ingenious, huh? Wow, I still can’t believe this shit actually worked! I mean, look at you. Pathetic!” he spat.

The whole time, Ricardo tried to scramble to his feet, but it felt as if his limbs were not cooperating, as if his body were no longer his, and he could only roll around from side to side. His spatial awareness was messed up, and he saw things as nearer or further away than they actually were.

Sasha rained blows on his face and gave him a couple of kicks to his stomach, taking out the pent-up frustration he had been holding back for ages onto his rival. Beaten and bruised, he lay there, quiet and unmoving.

“Cat got your tongue?” Sasha sneered, squatting down beside him. He aimed the switchblade at his face. “So, I’ll cut to the chase. You’ve got something my father wants real bad. Any idea where I could get my hands on it?”

“Fuck you, son of a bitch!” Ricardo yelled, though his speech was slurred.

“Wrong answer.”

The blade sliced his clothes like a hot knife through butter and Sasha quickly ripped off the rest of the fabric, chucking them and his shoes to the side, leaving Ricardo stark naked. Wynter had collected the rope, handing it to Sasha as he clutched his knife between his teeth, binding Ricardo’s wrists to a solid fixture.

“You see that thing there?” Sasha pointed to the tripod stand. “Thanks to you, the camera’s rolling. So, remember that you asked for it.” Gazing deeply into Ricardo’s eyes, he grounded himself, compelling him firmly. “Bark like a dog!” 

Suddenly, Ricardo stuck his tongue out, panting as saliva drooled down his chin. In abject obedience, he woofed and bellowed frantically like a hound. This went on for a few minutes, causing Sasha to howl with laughter, until he finally had enough and commanded him to stop. Wynter just sat on the desk, watching the proceedings dispassionately.

“Boy, am I going to have a field day with this footage,” Sasha remarked with glee. “Anyway, let’s try this again. Where the fuck is the item?”

Still, Ricardo would not budge. “Go fuck yourself! You, of all people, would never understand the true value of it, filthy peasant!”

In response, Sasha smacked him hard across the jaw and flew into rage, wrecking the entire room apart. He swiped everything he could find off the surfaces, smashing Ricardo’s possessions against the walls, yanking open and slamming shut drawers.

It was only when he came upon a particular cabinet that he discovered something of interest. He did a double take and chuckled in disbelief. The suction cup hissed as he removed the object from its upright position. The room had grown silent again as Ricardo looked away in embarrassment.

“You know, Ricky, I gotta wonder. Do you keep this thing here for yourself or others?” Sasha twirled the space blue dildo in his hand. It was enlarged, fleshy, and veiny, and the silicone wobbled as it moved in the air. “Tell you what, why don’t we take it for a little spin, shall we?”

He tossed the dildo up and down, letting it land square each time on his open palm, as he strolled toward Ricardo who had closed his eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. As Sasha grazed the tip of the dildo along his chest, Ricardo whimpered and tried to break free of his binds, but his actions were groggy and sluggish.

“Shh, shh, shhh…” The dildo circled around his nipples before dragging along his navel and happy trail. “I’m beginning to think I’m going too easy on you,” Sasha jeered as he placed the tip at the base of Ricardo’s ass.

Out of reflex, Ricardo moaned, shifting his hips as he pressed down against the dildo, wanting to take more of it in. Then, upon realizing what he had done, he jerked away in horror, attempting to curl up into a ball. But Sasha gripped his thighs, splaying his legs apart. Ricardo’s hardened erection, weeping with precum was bared on screen for the video recording.

“For all your self-proclaimed maschismo, this is what you really enjoy, huh? Priceless.” Sasha cackled, as he headed toward the camera. “Just gonna zoom in and send it—”

“No! No! Please!” Ricardo interjected. “I’ll give you what you want, just don’t…” His voice died as he choked out dry sobs, utterly humiliated by the turn of events.

Through his muffled instructions, they found his hidden safe, warded and sealed, where the item was held. To Sasha’s disappointment, all that he retrieved was an empty, plain bronze box.

“This is what my father wants?” he stated incredulously.

Ricardo could only scoff in response.

Wynter peered at it closely, humming as things clicked into place. “It’s not about what’s inside…”

Spurred on by her suggestion, Sasha followed her train of thought and finished her sentence. “... but about what it can contain.”

“Hmm, interesting.” He thumbed the edges of it before putting it into his pocket for safekeeping. Taking the camera off the stand, he switched it off, slinging the strap flagrantly around his neck. “Suits me, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your little secret if you back off from what is rightfully mine.”

With that, the party was over and Sasha and Wynter strode out into the early hours of twilight. Dawn was approaching, but as Sasha had promised, he gave her the rest of the documents she required along with the valuable tip-off.

“So, you’re gonna win your old man over?” She gestured to the box.

“Eh, I dunno!” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. Sometimes, he wished Matheo would see in him a worthy heir, but that dream seemed to be slipping further and further away.

She thought back on a piece of advice that had been offered to her long ago, and paraphrased it with her own. “If he won’t give it to you, you grab it with both hands. Capisci?”

Sasha smiled fondly before breaking out into a warm laugh. “Sì, amica. Next time we meet, I’ll be the boss.”

Just as she was about to hit the road, he called out, “Hey, Wynter! In bocca al lupo. For that shit with Carlo.”

“Crepi.” She nodded. “You got any special requests?”

He grinned like a fox. “Tell the motherfucker, ‘Sasha sends his greetings.’”