#purringvampire

…………

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.