#purring vampire

Part 4

Sterling chittered at the wolf, just to see the bemused look on his face as he tilted his head. Even when he appeared human, his mannerisms were distinctly canine, and Sterling figured it was safe enough to make fun of him as long as he kept it inside his head. Truth be told, living with the werewolf wasn’t all that bad.

He… he was well-fed, and never saw the sun, despite how often the wolf would take him out beyond the stone chambers down to a walled courtyard and allowed him to climb the carefully manicured garden trees to feel even closer to the moon. He could scamper anywhere in the courtyard he liked, but he never approached the wooden gate that let out towards the woods at the back wall, too afraid of losing his freedom and the reprieve he’d unexpectedly been given.

Hunter was the werewolf’s title. So far, he hadn’t bothered asking for Sterling’s name. He called him “pup,” “cub,” “little ‘un,” and a plethora of other names that suited Sterling just fine. The names weren’t cruel or demeaning; they indicated his place in the werewolf’s world, and he found it was a rather comfortable one. He was watched, closely, but he was fawned over, too. Werewolves were pack creatures, and from what Sterling could tell, being the only one of your kind — even if it was a fate you brought upon yourself — was a lonely way of life.

Sterling had always been on his own. He knew his sire loved him, but they were not the same. Every night, when he perched in the uppermost branches of the decorative trees and stretched his neck towards the softly whispering moon, he remembered his sire’s feathered wings with nothing short of yearning.

Yet for all that he had lived long enough for languages to shift and his sire to vanish, Sterling had never been anything but alone. Haunts developed much more quickly than he had. He wasn’t certain what he was, only that his sire had crafted him, kept him, and even — however rarely — held him. Most of the time that Sterling had been alive, he had been hibernating, in stasis, slumbering without growing at all as the world beyond their roost moved on around his inert form.

He was growing too slowly, his skin was too pale to hide, his heartbeat too loud for the hunt. He was stunted and small and grounded, utterly handicapped, and he knew he would never be what his father was.

His sire’s visits had grown increasingly infrequent. Sterling was hibernating longer and longer, and he was only growing slower because of it. The roost was no longer his sire’s primary dwelling, smelling of natural cave rather than the comforting sharpness of his sire’s scent. Sterling was loved, but he was burdensome, and as his sire became more haggard with each visit, Sterling knew he was overextending his territory to keep him fed. He had other roosts, other colonies that relied on him, and the humans were smart enough to clock an occupied brooding territory. It was one reason haunts were supposed to grow to independence so fast.

Sterling had been rejected from every colony his sire attended to. He remembered the introductions with vicious clarity. Keeping him isolated in the brooding roost had saved his life.

The knowledge that he had been abandoned to his hibernation probably should have brought more bitterness, more grief, more anger and loss. At least, what happened when he was discovered should have made Sterling resent his sire for leaving him so utterly defenseless in a place that was supposed to be guarded. Sterling knew that he was likely never supposed to wake again.

But as he sat, cradled in branches and surrounded by night, he leaned back against the tree’s hold, closed his eyes, and pretended his sire held him, running thin fingers through his ash brown hair, whispering to him as they purred rhythmically together beneath the watchful eye of the lullaby moon.

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Part 5

Hunter was irritated. He’d been kept from returning to the brooding site by his pup’s injuries, but he felt the itch to hunt, and a stronger instinct urging him to protect the cub from future threats. He knew how long a haunt could hibernate, knew that in the last two generations at least from what the townsfolk that had tormented him had said, there were no people that fell to the usual haunt issues. 

What he needed to know was what happened to the adult. Haunts were notoriously protective of their broods, and they seldom had only one offspring at a time. Even a haunt so… different from the rest of the species was unlikely to be abandoned. 

He knew there was little chance he would get answers. Two hundred years was a lot of time for tracks to be buried, after all. It would settle something in him, though, to scout out the place for himself. 

The pup was healing well, much faster with nightly feedings and time to bask beneath the moon. He still hadn’t spoken a word, but his little questioning clicks and trills conveyed what he was wanting clearly enough. The last injuries that lingered on him were the awful burn scars on his face, and even those were faint traces of discoloration on his pale skin. Hunter felt comfortable leaving him for a while; he would stock up some meals for the boy, make sure he had some good cuts of raw meat to gnaw on while he teethed, and make it clear that he was allowed into the gardens after nightfall. He needed to find a babysitter. His cub never liked waking up alone, even when he knew it was coming. 

He stroked thoughtfully through the boy’s curly chestnut hair. The cub still had no name; haunts never shared their names aloud -- not in a language anyone else understood, in any case. Although this was the first time Hunter had been around a haunt he wasn’t trying to kill, so maybe that was a him thing, not a haunt thing. Regardless, the pup didn’t seem to mind his terms of endearment, so they would stick with that. Now he just needs to introduce the little biter to someone willing to look after the child while he was away. 

The cub snuffled in his sleep, seeking out Hunter’s scent. He smiled down at the boy, scratching his scalp. A sleepy chatter rose from the cub’s throat, muffled by the way his cheek was squished into Hunter’s stomach. 

He was going to miss the boy. 

“Hunter! You so rarely leave your cabin. I haven’t seen you since your last mission report. How is your little house guest doing?” Cleff’s tone was full of curiosity, scent lightening as he saw the werewolf striding through the courtyard. 

Hunter grinned toothily, fangs on full display. He clapped him on the shoulder, nearly dislodging a book from the man’s overstuffed satchel. Without looking, he caught the tome in his palm and nudged it back into place. 

“You’re one to talk. Haven’t seen you for years on end, before. Finally visiting on a more regular schedule now that your initial survey of the mountains is done?” 

Cleff’s grey eyes crinkled as he smiled, old habit keeping it from becoming the wild grin Hunter knew he wore while in the wilderness. The castle courtyard was abuzz with movement, and the sounds of a busy keep tended to remind the man of his years in armor, dealing with strict regulations and a stricter code of conduct. He fell in step beside the wolf as they walked to the servant’s entrance near the kitchens. “You wouldn’t believe the properties of some of those plants! The high altitudes have altered them in ways I hadn’t considered before, let alone the way they interact with magics, and Brianna says they speak a different dialect than the plants here in the valley forests!” 

Hunter hummed, nodding along as the man rambled on, doing his best to make witty little quips and ask questions where he could. He had been in the mountains before; had lived there for years before descending into the valley, but his mind had been on things other than botany. Besides, though Cleff’s long blond hair was now streaked with grey, his face creased and weathered by his years of study in rough conditions, something about him still reminded Hunter of the quiet, determined teen that he had met all those years ago. In some ways, he would always be his first true friend, the first human to see something in Hunter beyond his strength and capability to kill. Spending time with the man was never a hardship. 

They sat in the corner of the kitchen that Cleff favored, until the man realized he had been going into a tangent that Hunter was struggling to follow. He laughed, shoving a finger in the wolf’s face, not even flinching when Hunter snapped his teeth -- which, rude. “You should have shut me up, old man! I know you can’t tell what the hell I’m saying when your ears sag like that.” 

“Shut up,” Hunter rumbled. “I was following you perfectly. Thunderberries is a great name for a bush borne fruit that sizzles on your tongue.” 

Cleff grimaced. “It really is not. The things we do for love,” he sighed. Hunter quirked a brow. 

“You could have told your nephew to pick something else.” 

“And reneged on my promise? Broken his little heart? He was eight years old, it could have been worse. That’s not what we were talking about though.” 

Hunter smirked a little. “Not what you were talking about, maybe. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” 

Cleff snorted, waving a hand. “It’s been eighteen years, Hunter. You should see him blush when I bring it up.” He turned his cup thoughtfully, falling silent, studying the wolf with the calculating look that had first caught Hunter’s attention. The werewolf sighed. No escaping it, he supposed. 

“I need a favor.” 

Cleff’s thin eyebrows shot up. The naked astonishment on his face almost overrode the embarrassment that surged up when Hunter uttered those words. It was a point of pride to be able to do things on his own; it had taken him nearly two and a half centuries to learn to accept support, let alone ask for it. Clarissa had been the one to finally get through to him. He still missed her. “There’s something I have to do, but the cub that I brought back -- he can’t be left alone. I’m headed back to where I found him, going to take a look around, and I won’t be able to bring him with me.” 

Cleff frowned, lifting his cup. He twirled it between his palms. “I don’t know anything about haunts, Hunter.” 

“That’s fine, because he isn’t one.” He relished in the scent of shock before adding, “Not fully, anyway. Think he might be half-human, only thing that makes sense. He won’t be any trouble to you.” 

“You said he was tortured for weeks before you picked him up. What makes you think he won’t run for the hills the moment he scents me coming?” 

Hunter snorted. “I know how to keep someone in one place, Cleff.” He cut the man a dark glance, fur bristling. “Need I remind you who I was when we first met?” 

“Certainly not someone who was asking me to babysit a nearly extinct human predator,” Cleff murmured. Hunter leaned back. He knew what Cleff’s answer would be. This was far from the worst Hunter had asked him to do over the years. The man still harbored a lot of self-doubt, especially when it came to attempting something new. Hunji had been a good man, but driving Cleff so hard for perfection when he was young was one of his major failings. There had been good reason for it, but still. They always had to do this song-and-dance when Hunter brought up something Cleff had never practiced before. In the end, the man’s unfailing curiosity would always win out, and thank the gods for it, or Cleff would never leave the apothecary. 

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Cleff’s tone was resigned. Hunter smirked. 

“Not longer than a week or so. Doubt I’ll find anything, but I can’t hold off any longer. It’s riding my ass, the urge to get out there and make sure that stretch is locked down. Probably be scouting a good twenty miles or so out from the brood nest to make sure he was the only one.” 

Cleff hesitated. “What if… he isn’t?” 

Hunter’s eyes flashed gold. He fell silent. He could almost feel the silk of colorless hair slipping through his fingers, could almost see the crimson hatred in his enemy’s eyes. He lifted his lip absently, baring one silver fang in a snarl. 

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it,” he murmured. Cleff nodded. They somehow ended up on the topic of blueberries and their properties in clothing dyes. 

In the back of his mind, that biting metallic scent lingered, half-remembered. 

Previous

Hunter rested his chin in one hand, staring down at the creature curled up in his bed. The retrieval had… not gone as he had expected. The small, rumbling form nestled in his blankets was obviously a vampire, a haunt — the sounds echoing from it were enough to confirm it, even if it hadn’t been scorched by daylight and burned by iron and silver. He huffed through his nose, brow furrowing. 

It didn’t look like a haunt. The most obvious thing was its lack of wings. No raven feathers over powerful, muscled limbs, no way to take to the night sky, silent as an owl in flight. Then there was the matter of its skin. Pale and white, like the humans native to the mountain slopes where it had been found. He had never seen a haunt that bore skin so pale. The inky black that soaked up the shadows wasn’t even reflected in the slitted pupils of the creature; he’d checked. 

That was another thing. Instead of the blazing crimson he expected, this one had pale blue eyes. Its hair was not bleached of all color, but a warm russet brown, in thick curls rather than the silky smooth texture that had so often slipped through his claws like water. 

Hunter had killed many haunts in his lifetime. Upwards of a dozen, and that was a significant achievement, even for one of his strength. They were difficult to sight, impossible to track, and lethal in terms of raw strength and agility. Even his enhanced hearing was useless to find them. They were so much a part of the night that even their hearts had found a way to beat quieter than he could detect. Taking down a single haunt was a massive score. It was almost like challenging a fey. 

The small creature curled in his blankets let out a soft sigh. He watched as it nuzzled into the fabric, kneading its hands and purring contentedly. He’d only ever heard such a sound from feeding haunts, in the past. It almost looked… harmless. 

Which was precisely why he needed to keep it close, somewhere he could keep a sharp eye on it. 

Sterling clicked a questioning, sleepy call to his sire as he awoke. He’d been sleeping, but not hibernating, and he knew that meant his sire was close by. He stretched, calling out again, asking if he’d had a good hunt. 

Then the pain hit him and everything came flooding back. 

He screeched, an animal sound of pure pain, and fell onto his side. Curling up, he felt frantically for the muzzle, panting ragged breaths. Where was it? He hadn’t taken it off — he couldn’t touch it! If he’d removed it, he was sure…. he shuddered, keening softly to himself, rocking back and forth. He hadn’t understood the words but the throat had been clear enough. They’d promised to remove not just his fangs, but every tooth in his mouth. With a brittle sob, he pressed his face into the blankets and bit his lip, just because he still could. 

…Blankets?

He muttered a shy, hopeful chirp. Had his sire come for him? Had he — had he finally been found? He lifted his teary eyes and glanced around. 

A man was sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching him. Sterling could smell the animal musk beneath the soap. He froze, rigid with terror, meeting the man’s hazel eyes. 

In his human form, the werewolf had dark shaggy hair, swept back from his face. His lips thinned in a close-mouthed smile behind a neatly trimmed black beard. The eyes that would flash gold with green flecks had lost their metallic gleam but kept their burning intensity. He was dressed in simple, dark clothing, rough fabric that folded easily over his lean form, and stiff leather boots. One ankle was propped up on his knee as he leaned back in the chair. His eyes studied Sterling’s face, taking in his expression with no small amount of satisfaction. 

“So. You remember me.”

Sterling nodded, curling his limbs closer to his chest. He huddled in the center of the bed, shivering. His eyes darted about the room. They caught on the window. 

Heavy drapes pulled closed were blocking the sunlight from entering the room. He gripped his thin shoulders, whimpering. The werewolf had other ways to hurt him, he was sure. He hoped this was not the first. The burning was always so agonizing. Even silver would be better. 

He dropped his eyes and pressed himself into the blankets, hiding behind their gentle swell. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t hurting even more yet, but he would take it while he could. He wasn’t sure why he was in a bed, either, but it was so soft… maybe the softest thing he’d ever felt. Even his sire’s wings were coarse compared to this. 

It took him a moment to realize that he was purring. 

Desperate, he tried to stifle the noise. Wrapping his arms around his thin, rattling chest, he tried to cut off the vibrations. He snarled silently, hiding the expression from his captor, in an effort to shove down the sound of his fleeting relief. 

There was a gruff laugh. “S’alright, little cub. You’ve been doing that ever since I took the shackles off. No wonder, either. Nasty stuff, silver shackles.” 

The tone was sympathetic, even as it was amused. Sterling peeked over the mound of blankets he’d been cowering behind. The man was leaning forward, a playful smile showing his gleaming teeth. He winked as the little haunt made an appearance. 

“That’s right. S’okay. Take a look around. I ain’t gonna hurt ye, pup.” He laughed again, a full, jovial sound. “Not if you don’t cause me any trouble, but you don’t look like you’re gonna be a problem, are ye, pup?”

Sterling shook his head, trying to calm his racing heart. No pain? If he was no trouble? He’d never been given a way out of the torture before. He would be so, so good. 

His brow furrowed. If he could figure out what the werewolf wanted. At least he could understand what he was saying. The werewolf was speaking to him in one of the older dialects, still a little off from what he had last spoken with his sire, but not whatever gibberish the humans that had burned and beat and cut him had been speaking. He muttered a little chirp and buried his hands in the soft fabric, pushing and pulling it between his fingers just to feel its marvelous texture. Resting his sharp chin on the blanket mound, he studied the werewolf’s hands, wanting to see the blows when they came. He wasn’t sure how much pain he could avoid by behaving, especially as he didn’t know how to behave yet, but he wasn’t a fool. Even though the werewolf had spared him, he surely had some ideas of what he wanted to try out with his new toy. 

Sterling knew the stories. The werewolf wanted to be the strongest creature on earth. Maybe keeping Sterling captive, having a docile haunt — even if, in truth, Sterling was only half-blooded — would stroke his ego a bit. If Sterling kept himself looking weak, would that satisfy the wolf? He hoped so. He had nowhere else to go. 

His heart ached for his sire. Not for the first time, he uttered a mournful little click. The sound bounced off the walls and came back to him. There was no answering call. He wished he could wrap himself in his sire’s dark wings one more time, even if the bed was softer. He wanted to look into those blazing crimson eyes and be called “son.” 

He didn’t feel the tears falling down his face until the man leaned forward and gently thumbed one away. Sterling was glad that he hadn’t flinched. The man’s voice softened. 

“There, little cub. I know, it hurts, you’re in pain, you’re scared.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m sure I don’t help with that. But I promise, little pup, it’ll be alright. You’ll heal, and you’ll never have to feel the daylight scorch you again. I’ll take you out each night so you can sit beneath the moon, would you like that?”

A hopeful squeak burst out of him before Sterling could choke it back. He didn’t mean to lean into the man’s hand, but it had been so long since he had felt a touch that didn’t hurt. His sire had never been big on touching him anyway, since Sterling was innately so much warmer than a true-blooded haunt. The werewolf chuckled again, a softer and much happier sound. “I thought you’d be excited by that. S’good idea.” His skin was rough and calloused, coarsened by a lifetime longer and harder than many men ever lived to see. His thumb kept tracing small circles on Sterling’s cheek, just above the raw flesh where the muzzle had sat and burned. Sterling’s eyes drooped closed. He felt his body relax and unwind, the tension draining out of him. He sank into the gentle touch, floating amongst the blankets. Soon all he was aware of was the heat of the man’s skin cradling his cheek and the rumbling purr that eased his own pain. He drifted.

“Goodnight, little pup.” The soft, gruff voice chased him into sleep.

…………

The creature was huddled into the farthest corner of the cell, pressed against the wall until it looked like they were trying to melt into the stone. From what Hunter could see if it’s face beyond the muzzle and beneath the filthy, matted hair, it’s eyes were wide, glazed with pain and blown wide with terror.

The werewolf crossed his shaggy arms over his torso, eyeing it speculatively. “This is the basilica haunt?”

The villager at his side nodded, careful not to make eye contact with the towering soldier. “Yes, sir. We reported it as soon as we knew it was wanted, sir.”

Hunter slid him a glance, the gold of his eyes dancing with green flecks that caught the torchlight and seemed to glow. Not that the villager noticed, of course. He was too used to the whole “never look death in the face” ideology. Wise of him.

“Once you knew it was wanted — not when you first caught sight of it?” He gave the man no time to formulate a stuttered reply. With a frown, he cocked his head, taking in the story written within the cell and its occupant. He hardly needed the intimidating middling form he’d chosen for this venture to smell the full extent of what had been done here. The cell was rank. He wrinkled his muzzle in distaste, baring his silver fangs.

“Yeesh, you’ve had this thing down here for weeks, haven’t you?” The creature flinched and scrambled to lower itself to the floor, shivering. The longer he stood here, studying it, the more that Hunter felt his emotions curl up into the cold center that had once rested where most men had a heart. This was an all-too familiar sight, once. He had to remind himself that he was better than that, now, that he didn’t take joy in the blood-spattered walls and the quivering heap in the corner. Still, the smell of pain and fear was intoxicating, and he felt his lips twitching into a instinctive smile at the strength of it.

“How did you catch the blood-sucker, anyway?”

“It was hibernating, sir,” the man’s voice was trembling. Fear prickled, tangy, under his sweat. It was nothing compared to the waves of terror rolling off the creature, though. Even without a heart to beat, Hunter could hear it panting rapidly behind its muzzle. Those lungs heaved and struggled, unused to the exertion. He flicked his ears, dismissing the information. It was unnecessary, as was the man’s explanation. He was half-listening, of course, but if the creature had been hibernating it would have been child’s play to catch.

“How many of your people did it harm?” He interrupted. The man faltered for a minute. In the growing silence, Hunter felt rather than saw the sudden unease. The villager’s eyebrows drew together. Hunter felt himself relax, his muscles loosening from their rigid posture to one more suited for quick movement.

“Harm, sir?”

“How many of your people did it drain before you captured it?” He left out the torture part. That was obvious enough from the state the cell was in, and the squirming, whimpering thing on the floor. He could smell ashes, too, and it did not escape his notice that there was a skylight that could only be reached from the outside. Where the creature was huddled would be in direct sunlight if the blanket was removed. He knew that was agony for such creatures. There was a reason most of them had ebony skin, and it was not because they cherished the sun’s loving rays. No, these were creatures of the night, and he welcomed the challenge they presented when he was sent on assignment to hunt one down. Of all the things in the known world, they were the closest he had to an equal. Aside from dragons, anyway, but he wasn’t fool enough to tangle with them.

“None, sir.”

In the silence that followed, Hunter could hear the faint, latent beat of a third heart. He blinked away his surprise. The creature had a heart. That was… unnerving.

“How man of your people were attacked?”

“None, sir.”

“None at all?”

The slight hesitation in the man’s words were telling. “We captured it on sight, sir, before it had the chance to do any injury.” The man’s voice was defensive. He tried to keep his tone even, but all that Hunter could do was laugh. He tipped back his shaggy head and let his mirth bubble out of him, the sound anything but humorous. He shook his head, flicking his ears a couple times in an attempt to fling away the urge to tear the man in half just for the sake of feeling something rip apart between his bare hands.

“The capture I could excuse. The torture?” He drew his lips back, baring his teeth in a furious parody of a mocking grin. Flinging his broad hand at the cell, he allowed his claws to flex as they swung past the man’s face. “This? With revenge as a motive, I could understand.”

There was a whimper from the corner of the cell. Hunter ignored it, eyes locked in the man’s face. The human was white with fear, flabby jowls trembling, jaw hanging half-open as excuses died in his tongue. Ignoring the foul smell of the man’s breath, Hunter leaned in closer. He snarled. “How dare it exist as anything but a human. That is a crime, indeed.” He felt the emotions in his breast coil hot and tight, rushing to fill his veins with warmth. He chuckled without any humor. “What a shame. I had just gotten used to existing myself, actually. Care to have a go?”

The man turned and fled. Hunter bit back the leap that was quivering at his legs, forcing down the instinct to pounce. With a long, rattling exhalation of breath, he turned to gaze into the cell. “Fucking monsters,” he muttered. “Of course it had to be my assignment. Brianna’ll be lucky if I don’t slaughter the whole village.” He shook himself roughly, like a dog ridding itself of water. When the last tremor had run down to the tip of his tail, he dropped his weight forward and did it again, perched on all fours. He felt much calmer, some of the rampant energy pulsing through him expelled. He had more important things to do than deal with disgusting humans. He always had more important things to do.

He padded into the cell.

…..

Sterling watched the werewolf prowl closer through wide eyes. He had heard the stories. He’d been sleeping for maybe a hundred years, but he had still heard the stories. Hunter was even older than his sire, and everyone who wanted to live back then had whispered in the dark about the young werewolf who had risen up and slaughtered his own pack. He’d even destroyed the lake, determined to be the only and thus strongest of his kind. No more lake to swim across, no more way to be bound by the curse, no more werewolves who could possible challenge him.

Sterling had been awake for this hell of two and a half weeks, and now the werewolf was coming for him, and all he knew how to do was sob.

His sire was dead. He wouldn’t have slept so long if he had still been alive. Sterling depended on him for safety, to come and awaken him when it was safe for him to come out and stretch his limbs, savor the moonlight for a while. Sterling only knew how long he’d slept because he could recognize the language the humans spoke — could recognize it, but not speak or understand it. The dialect was far too strange, the grammar mangled, the pronunciation sloppy. He’d been around for enough language shifts to understand the time it took for it to change so much. His sire was gone. Sterling was alone. He had nothing left and no one to protect him. No one was coming for him. He had wallowed in pain and just wanted it to end.

At least, he thought with some hysteria through the dull ache and sharp pains that had become his body, he would know what it was like to be bitten himself. The werewolf would use his fangs, when he decided to finish him off — they were silver, part of the curse; only another werewolf could do lethal damage to one of his own kind. The werewolf would have no problem with executing him. He couldn’t resist. He was just happy that at least the werewolf was experienced enough with killing to know what he was doing. He might die relatively painlessly, if the werewolf wasn’t bored and felt like it. He hoped he wasn’t bored. He’d been entertaining the villagers for far too long.

He shut his eyes, listening and praying to whatever deities would listen that he would die quickly.

The click of claw against stone drew closer, closer… and stopped. A ruffle of warm air brushed his face, ghosting across his eyelids. He whined at the breath.

“You really do have a heart, don’t you?” The wolf’s tone was thoughtful. Sterling cringed away, breath stuttering. No. No nononono. He couldn’t be interesting, he couldn’t be intriguing — all he wanted was to be dead! “That can’t be right.”

Sterling squinted at him through his eyelashes, hot tears prickling. The werewolf was squatting over him, palms resting against the stone floor, head cocked. A frown pulled at his muzzle, drawing his lips down and converting his fangs. Sterling looked away.

“You’re rather young, aren’t you?” The tone was soft, softer even than his sire spoke to him, and he was the gentlest person Sterling had ever known. The tears gathered on his eyelashes. The werewolf huffed softly into his face, crouching down further, until he was laying in the floor of the disgusting cell. “No worries, little pup. I won’t harm such an injured cub. I am not the man I once was.”

The tears spilled onto Sterling’s cheeks, hot against his clammy skin. He was exhausted. There wasn’t enough left in him to be terrified. His sire had warned him of this, the wolf’s tendency to play with his prey. Why did he have to toy with Sterling, though? Why must he be so cruel?

Sterling hissed weakly at him, the force of expelling the sound rattling his broken ribs. He coughed behind the muzzle and whimpered around the iron bit, scorching his tongue once more. He was lucky it hadn’t burned through, honestly. The werewolf shushed him, dwindling into his man-form. He reached for the muzzle with those disturbingly human hands and Sterling finally knew the mercy of blacking out before the pain began. He hoped never to wake up again.

….

It was warm. He recognized the brush of fur against his cheek and nuzzled into it, sighing. He was floating, wrapped in something firm and soft, tucked against a radiant heat and the sound of a steady, pounding heart. He kneaded his broken hands deeper into the fur, letting himself drift. Somewhere, high above him, he could hear the gentle sound of the moon singing its lunar lullaby.

Cold air, fresh with the scent of pine, stung his lungs. He coughed weakly, drinking it in, listening for the sound of his sire’s dark wings brushing together as he came in to land. His back prickled and ached where his own wings had never grown in, but he did not hear his sire returning. He clicked and chirped weakly, sending a question into the cool night.

A hand gently tangled in his hair, scritching at his scalp. He muttered in the back of his throat, not wanting to awaken from the dream. It was broad and rough, lacking the slender sophistication of his sire’s hands, but he pushed weakly into it, chasing the sensation of being coddled, of being held. When the touch cupped his skull in its palm, cradling his head, he allowed a pleased chirp to echo out of him. The sound was interrupted by a rumbling purr, his thin chest loosening with the vibrations as he melted into the touch.

He was completely enveloped, held carefully in a way that soothed some of his hurts while irritating others, but all he knew was that he never wanted it to end. Was this the embrace of death? Why hadn’t he tried dying sooner, if that was the case?

“Poor little pup,” a gruff voice muttered, the tone obviously unused to speaking with such softness. “Little cub, I will take care of you now. You rest up, pup.” The hand holding the back of his head began to slowly massage at his scalp again. He purred louder, nuzzling into the embrace. A sigh rumbled out of him, quavering with the force of his contended purr. He clicked and muttered in the back of his throat, kneading his hands in the warm, soft fur that surrounded him.

His sire would be back soon, he was sure of it. In the meantime, this friend he must have sent was being kind and gentle. He would savor it while he could, for as long as the dream lasted.

After all, some part of him knew he was not to wake up again.