“I—I won’t let you hurt her,” the boy stammered back, shaking but determined.

Such a brave soul.

A shame it would be for naught.

Shadow Milk cast a glance past the boy toward the other shape lying motionless on the pitiful bed.

The second person he’d smelled.

Another child.

Even younger. Sicker. Fully unconscious.

Her breathing was so faint he could barely hear it—her body radiating sickly heat, yet shivering relentlessly in the cold room.

She wouldn’t make it to dawn.

“A noble cause,” he said to the boy, not unkindly. “But ultimately futile. She won’t survive the night either way.”

He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

It had been a long time since he’d last spoken this… gently.

The boy turned toward the girl almost on instinct, stupidly taking his eyes off the vampire standing right in front of him.

But Shadow Milk didn’t pounce.

It had never really mattered in the first place.

The child didn’t even carry a weapon that could harm him—let alone the strength to wield one.

“That doesn’t change anything,” the boy insisted when he turned back, though his voice was breathless and shaky, his balance swaying with the movement.

The fever would take him less than a day after the girl.

Shadow Milk chuckled again, though this time it was touched more by fondness than amusement.

“Do you know who I am, boy?”

The other didn’t flinch.

His expression only hardened, clearly unwilling to back down while he still had the strength to stand.

“No. But I know what you are. And I’m not gonna let you kill my sister.”

The vampire grinned.

Oh, this one had fire.

“Well then! Come on, brave one,” he said, turning his back on the shaking child and spreading his arms wide. “Get me.”

The boy hesitated for a long moment.

Long enough for Shadow Milk to think perhaps he wasn’t quite as determined as he’d pretended after all.

“What’s the matter, little—”

He was interrupted when the boy suddenly lunged forward with a speed born of desperation and adrenaline alike, aiming straight for his back.

He was stopped by a strand of Shadow Milk’s inky black-and-blue hair wrapping around his wrist, halting him just before he struck. The eyes within it locked onto the boy’s shocked expression as Shadow Milk glanced over his shoulder without turning around.

“Impressive.”

There was a wooden stake in the boy’s hand.

One he had wisely kept hidden from the vampire until the exact moment he intended to use it.

And even now that he’d been caught, the defiance in his eyes burned bright, though exhaustion and fever were already beginning to dim it.

“You’re more clever than you let on, aren’t you, little gem?”

The child pulled back, and Shadow Milk let him go—but not before using his hair to pluck the stake from the boy’s grasp.

The boy stumbled in his haze, balance ruined by sickness, and fell onto the bed with a quiet gasp.

Dizzy and in pain, he couldn’t immediately sit back up again.

But the vampire merely turned to face him and kept talking.

“I’ll admit, it has been a while since someone managed to surprise me like that.”

It was meant as a compliment.

But apparently, he’d pushed the child too far now.

Tears prickled in the boy’s eyes even as he continued to glare at him from where he’d managed to sit back up—completely disarmed now, having dropped the metal pipe during his failed attempt.

“What do you want from us?!” he cried, desperation mingling with venomous defiance. “Do you always play with your food?”

Shadow Milk really couldn’t help himself.

He burst into amused laughter.

Oh, it was always like a fresh breeze to meet someone who didn’t recognize him.

Because yes…

He was in fact rather well known for playing with his food.

The boy seemed to come to the conclusion that continuing this conversation was pointless, because he turned back to the girl behind him, took her hand in his own, and whispered a quiet:

“I’m sorry.”

Shadow Milk’s laughter died in his throat.

He decided he hated the pang those words caused in his chest.

Quiet. Soft. Heavy.

Like he had failed her.

Like he hadn’t done everything he could and more.

He hated how the sight dragged up memories. How he found himself thinking it a tragedy for their story to end like this.

Both children were sickly thin, pale, dirty, and wounded.

It was clear neither of them had been cared for by anyone but themselves in a long while.

He also knew that said care for each other did not stem from any familial obligation. Despite the boy calling her his sister, he could smell they were not actually related by blood.

Family by choice.

It was somewhat intriguing.

The boy had potential. Magical potential, yes—but he also clearly had a sharp mind and a strong spirit.

The girl he could not gauge in the same way, obviously.

But her magical potential, at least, seemed passable too.

…

He really shouldn’t.

But—

Shadow Milk sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face in annoyed resignation.

He was going to regret this.

Still, he crouched where he stood, not wanting to tower over them, and softly offered:

“I could save her, you know. Both of you.”

The boy stiffened where he sat, gaze still fixed on his sister as though he wanted her to be the last thing he ever saw.

Shadow Milk had expected him to jump at the chance—if not for himself, then for her.

So once again, the child surprised him.

“For what price?” he asked quietly, a grave weight to his voice.

As though he knew there were fates far worse than death.

Shadow Milk was curious, but he had the feeling asking that sort of question now would give the wrong impression.

The child was still afraid, after all.

The scent of fear remained strong, though it had lessened somewhat since the boy had seemingly given up on fighting.

It was something Shadow Milk had never quite understood.

How some people found this strange kind of… peace in the inevitability of death.

“Mhm… the price?” he mused aloud. “Well, as far as I’m concerned: loyalty. That is really all I require.”

A pause.

“But the curse demands a price of its own.”

The boy seemed to consider that for a moment, still not looking at him.

“A cursed life is still life,” he said at last. “But life can be a hell of its own.”

Then he glanced back at the vampire.

There was a look in his eyes that made Shadow Milk question whether he might have guessed his age wrong after all.

Or whether the child had simply seen too much in his far too short life.

“Loyalty is giving everything, but gaining just as much in return. Do you require loyalty…”

A slight pause.

“Or obedience?”

Shadow Milk regarded the boy with renewed interest at that.

Which was quite a feat, considering he had never lost interest in the first place.

Quite an interesting definition of loyalty.

Not a new one—but an unusually philosophical one for a lost orphan.

Interesting enough that the vampire answered truthfully.

Really, he was being more truthful in this conversation than he had been in almost a century now.

How curious.

“I uphold the same loyalty to my followers that they hold to me. I demand and support alike. I will make sure you do not go hungry, but expect you to pull your own weight as well. I will teach you whatever you need to know, but demand that you learn what you can.”

The boy only continued to watch him suspiciously, clearly weighing whether to believe him.

Smart boy.

“And if we can’t? What if we don’t meet your expectations? What happens when we fail?”

And that was really the most important question, wasn’t it?

Because children failed all the time.

That was how they learned. By falling and getting back up, over and over again, until they got it right.

He knew that suspicion in the other’s eyes. He had seen it more times than he could count.

One of the downsides of having been a teacher for centuries.

He had seen parents and guardians fail their children far too often.

He felt his expression soften without his consent.

“Then you’ll try again. And again. And again. Until you get it right. I’m a patient person.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

“I’ve got nothing but time, after all.”

The suspicion in the boy’s eyes did not quite vanish, but it wavered.

“As long as you don’t give up, I won’t either. Promise.”

He added it with a smile he had not worn in centuries.

One that hid his teeth.

One meant to soothe children who had learned not to trust adults.

It was almost uncanny, how easy it was to slip back into that role.

One he had sworn never to play again, yet somehow could not forget the lines of.

The boy gave a quick nod, then averted his gaze and looked back to his sister before asking another clever—and important—question.

“And who do you serve?”

Shadow Milk chuckled again.

“Oh, you’re a smart cookie, aren’t you?” he asked, half teasing, half fond.

“I serve no one, though.”

At the child’s disbelieving, distinctly judgmental look, he grinned again—showing off his fangs—and, with a snap of his fingers, lit a magical fire in the empty chimney.

The boy flinched slightly, but then simply stared at him.

Really seeing him for the first time.

Shadow Milk drifted back a little so as not to startle him further, then straightened, hovering a few inches above the floor, dramatically illuminated by the fire behind him.

With a sweeping bow, he introduced himself properly.

“But of course—allow me to do this correctly. I have been called many names, but the ones I am most known by today would be Master of the Spire, Beast of Deceit, Lord of Darkness…”

He lifted his gaze to the child and smiled.

“Shadow Milk.”

Still bent in his bow, he spread one hand theatrically.

“Such a pleasure to meet you.”

The boy looked as though he’d fried his brain.

Oopsy.

Then he swallowed hard, and the scent of fear sharpened in the air once more.

“I… I don’t—why?”

Shadow Milk chuckled sympathetically as he rose from the bow and idly smoothed down his coat.

“Despite what my reputation might imply, I have not lied to you.”

He tilted his head.

“You are quite interesting. I haven’t been surprised in a very long time, and you managed it twice within the span of a single conversation.”

A small grin returned.

“You have potential. I would like to see it unfold.”

Now the boy actually blushed a little, ducking his head as though embarrassed by what had barely even been a compliment.

“Now that we are on the subject of introductions,” Shadow Milk continued, “you have not told me your name yet either.”

It was as though a switch had been thrown.

The other’s expression closed off again at once.

“I don’t have a name,” he said simply, refusing to meet the vampire’s eyes. “My sister doesn’t either.”

Now then. This was becoming more fascinating by the minute.

“Well…” Shadow Milk mused. “Then you will have to choose one.”

The child’s gaze snapped back to him.

“What?”

Disbelief rang clear in his voice.

“Well, everyone needs a name, do they not?” Shadow Milk replied lightly. “I have more than I can count at this point, but I have always preferred the ones I chose for myself.”

He gave the boy an assessing look.

“Your life is about to change dramatically either way. Why not choose a new name to go with it?”

He paused, watching the thoughtful expression cross the child’s face.

“But that can wait,” he said, interrupting the boy’s thoughts before they could take root. “Names are important. You should take time to consider one.”

His tone softened slightly.

“For now, you must make another—arguably more important—decision, little gem.”

Shadow Milk stepped back toward the bed and slowly crouched down to the child’s level once more.

“The process of turning is agonizing,” he said plainly. “And the existence as a vampire has broken more people than I can count.”

Normally, he would have wanted the boy to have more time to think. Normally, he would not have considered turning children at all.

“But your time is running out,” he continued quietly. “So I must ask you to decide now—for both of you.”

He held the boy’s gaze.

“Do you want me to turn you?”

The boy blinked and turned his gaze toward his sister in thought, clearly forcing himself to consider the offer despite the fever clouding his eyes more and more.

“I promised her we’d live,” he whispered as if to himself. “That it wouldn’t end like this. That we’ll show them all.”

He looked back at Shadow Milk, his gaze remarkably clear now.

“M-my answer is yes. Save our lives, and I swear to serve you until the end of my life.”

The former teacher once again couldn’t help the soft smile stealing its way onto his face.

“Alright. Lie beside your sister.”

“Won’t… won’t you turn her first? I—”

“No,” Shadow Milk interrupted before the protest could fully form. “I meant it when I said the process is painful.”

His expression turned serious and firm.

“And frightening.”

He glanced toward the unconscious girl.

“Your sister likely won’t notice much of it with that fever. She probably won’t remember anything at all.”

His eyes returned to the boy.

“But you would never get that picture out of your head. Vampires are undead, little gem. That requires dying first.”

His tone softened almost imperceptibly.

“Trust me when I say it is for the best if you only have to live with the memory of your own death.”

The scent of fear sharpened immediately.

The boy’s eyes cleared with fresh suspicion.

Shadow Milk sighed inwardly.

“I swear on my honor that I will save her as well,” he said firmly. “She will be there when you wake. I promise.”

Then, quieter:

“You will have to learn to trust me eventually, little gem. And I’m afraid you’ll need to start right now.”

The boy still looked as though he wanted to argue.

But after a moment, he only closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and lay down beside his sister, forcing his breathing into something steady.

“Good,” Shadow Milk said, not moving closer just yet. “Try to keep breathing. And try not to fight it.”

He tilted his head.

“The panic is nearly unavoidable. But fighting the venom will only make it worse.”

The boy gave a jerking nod and squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

“Alright,” the vampire said simply.

Then approached the bed, deliberately letting his footsteps sound against the old wooden floor.

When he sat down on the mattress, the child flinched but did not pull away, instead focusing entirely on keeping his breathing even.

“I’m going to touch your arms,” Shadow Milk warned softly.

He gently placed his hands on the boy’s forearms—not restraining him yet, though he knew he soon would have to.

The child did not flinch this time.

Shadow Milk was not entirely sure whether that made him proud or concerned.

(He would grow quite familiar with that combination soon enough.)

Then he leaned down without further delay, knowing anticipation was often worse than what came after.

“Keep breathing,” he whispered into the boy’s ear.

And bit down.

Straight into the artery of his neck.

The boy gasped in pain, but he did not stop breathing.

Nor did he struggle.

He was likely too weak for that anyway.

When a vampire fed on a human, a small dose of venom could act as a sedative—dulling the pain, and reducing the struggle, while the enzymes in their saliva prevented the blood from clotting.

To turn a human, however, far more venom was required. Otherwise draining them would only result in a more permanent death.

But even venom with sedative properties burned like fire when too much of it flooded the veins.

Just like now.

The body beneath him began to twitch not long after the initial shock passed, and a strangled sob tore from the boy’s throat.

Shadow Milk had never forgotten why he didn’t feed on children.

He therefore did not appreciate the reminder when more sobs followed—small, broken things that tore at something in him he preferred to pretend no longer existed.

But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

This was saving the boy’s life.

Even if it did not feel like it.

His blood was good.

Sweet.

But Shadow Milk forced himself not to dwell on it. Not to lose himself in the taste the way he normally might when draining someone completely.

The boy did not deserve that.

Within minutes, he could feel the blood flow slowing. The small, frail body simply not holding much to begin with.

With most of his blood gone and venom now coursing through his veins, the boy gradually quieted, his mind slipping away.

They always lost consciousness. And stayed that way for hours while their bodies adjusted to the changes.

The fangs. The strength and speed. The sharpened senses. All of it took time.

And they were lucky to have that time.

Lucky to remain unconscious through it.

Rather than feeling every change rush through their bodies in seconds—tearing them apart, only to forge them anew in a single moment of pure, unending agony.

He forcibly pulled himself away from those thoughts. No use dwelling on the past.

When the blood flow from the wound slowed to almost nothing, Shadow Milk finally pulled away.

Contrary to what many believed, vampires were not bloodless. It was not even truly possible to drain a body completely in that manner.

No, vampires had blood of their own.

Black blood—a viscous mixture of what remained of their mortal blood, mingled with the venom of their sire.

Which meant Shadow Milk could always tell which vampires were of his line.

Even if several sires stood between them.

He could smell where the venom running through their veins had first come from.

With that idle thought, he licked the last traces of human blood from the boy’s neck, then sealed the wound with a small healing spell, and looked down at the cold, lifeless body beneath him.

It felt wrong to see a child like this.

But he would wake again.

And Shadow Milk still had an even younger child to kill save.

So he moved to hover above the little girl next.

Her breathing was faint, but present. Her small body trembled with fever, white hair damp and clinging to her skin with sweat.

She would likely die from the shock of the bite alone.

But that didn’t matter.

He could use magic to keep her heart beating long enough to take most of her blood and replace it with his venom.

Technically, he could even turn those already dead this way—as long as the brain had not yet gone still.

Most mortals believed the heart decided life and death. Mostly because of the whole stake-through-the-heart affair.

But so far no vampire had survived decapitation either.

That was simply more difficult to accomplish, since their skin was unusually resistant to everything except wood.

But enough musing on their nature.

He had work to do.

Somehow, this was both easier and harder than the first time.

As predicted, the girl died far sooner, her body already brought close to its end by sickness.

Technically, that made things easier.

But somehow the way her small frame lacked even the strength to struggle made it so much worse.

He didn’t know why.

This was not his first time feeding on a child, despite how strongly he disliked doing so.

Hell, he had killed more people than he could count by now.

Warriors in the height of their strength, usually.

He did not care for easy meals unless necessity demanded it, leaving those for the weakest among his followers.

But he had drained the old and the sick before.

When there had been no other food. Or when he had wanted to make an example of someone.

His thralls occasionally needed reminding of what happened to those who stepped out of line.

But somehow this was different.

Somehow these children he had decided to save were different.

Who would have thought.

With an irritated eye roll at himself, he pulled away and healed the wound at the girl’s neck as well.

Then he drew back and looked at them both.

At the two dead children.

…

Why had he done this again?

The vampire lord scoffed and shook himself from the thought.

What’s done, is done.

Then he bent down to pick them both up, doing his best to hold them in a way he hoped would be comfortable.

They were small enough, but for all his strength, Shadow Milk had never been particularly tall either.

He gave the miserable shack one last glance, searching for anything the children might wish to keep.

But there was nothing.

Only rotting floorboards and a few pieces of furniture already halfway collapsed.

The door to the study was at the end of a long hallway lined with doors leading placing Bruce could really only guess about. When he was young and had spent time here, it had been mostly outside with Sophia, Falcone's eldest daughter, and they'd run around the gardens and the woods even though they weren't supposed to. He thought fondly back on those memories, now, wondering what had happened to make her so angry and jaded.

As the door to the study opened Bruce stepped inside, dipping his head in polite thanks to the member of the staff before turning and allowing his eyes to sweep the room before landing on Falcone sitting comfortably in the leather chair behind his desk.

"Bruce," Falcone's tone was calm, a smile of equal measure tugging at his lips, "good of you to come, my apologies it had to be so late." He spoke as he turned in his chair and rose to his feet, walking slowly around the desk and motioning Bruce over before he came to a stop in front of it. At the request, Bruce was still a moment, but soon walked over and slowed to a stop in front of Falcone.

"It's no trouble, really. As I'm sure you know, I am usually awake into the night anyways," Bruce made an attempt at humor, but he could feel his own heart beating quickly, gears turning in his mind as he tried to figure something out. He recalled John's words about vampires as he examined the man's face.

"Of course." Falcone reached up and took a moment to lightly adjust the broach pinning the collar of Bruce's shirt closed, straightening it lightly out as he continued to speak, "your father was a great man, saved my life when I was only a bit older than you. You know that?" He watched Bruce nod his head before continuing, "I always told him I would repay that debt of life, but of course he died before I was given the opportunity. I would like to repay it now, to you, his only blood. That is why I have summoned you."

"I appreciate the gesture, my lord, but your debt was with my father, not me. The repayment isn't nece- what are you doing?" Bruce cut himself off as Falcone folded the collar of his shirt down to expose his neck. The action sent a sinking pit feeling into the bottom of Bruce's stomach and he took an instinctive step back, hands coming up to push Falcone's away but it was too late. Falcone grabbed Bruce's wrists as they raised and he used the leverage to turn him around and pin his wrists against his chest to hold the younger man against him.

Bruce barely registered the feeling as the teeth sunk into his neck, struggling against the iron-grip on his wrists and he was quickly falling into a panic, mouth opening to let out a scream he didn't even really hear. Falcone didn't care. No one would hear Bruce scream, and if they did they most certainly wouldn't come to help him. Deep down Bruce knew that, and the thought terrified him.

By the time Falcone had finished draining his body he felt weak, head tipped helplessly to the side and his eyes were distant and glossy. He could feel his body slowly lowered to the ground somewhat, still held in Falcone's arms but now, through his splotchy, darkening vision, he could see as Falcone bit his own wrist and moved it close to Bruce's mouth, ignoring the muffled noise of protest and forcing the blood past his lips. Falcone was going to turn him one way or another, willing or not.