#vtm cony

It was nothing short of a miracle how he got there before a certain Ms. Valerie Duval did, especially when it concerned you. You were fresh out of the bag, a youngling, new as they come. He had pulled your lips back to reveal your baby teeth, like a miniature doll. Fragile as porcelain, he could break you in two with his bare hands in an instant. But Valerie was a Scourge who desired to wipe out the Duskborn of New York City like the Second Coming. She had a flair for sniffing out the likes of you from miles away, and she was relentless.

Not tonight, however. Strange. Perhaps it was fate? he repeated this to the point of believing in it.

You were crouched over in the corner like a frightened animal while he gave the same boring speech prepared for every unsanctioned Embrace since the night he had stepped into the New World. Something about a mortal hobby he followed akin to the Penal Code. Baseball. The Mets. A three-strike system, honed to merciless perfection. He noticed how you listened, your eyes lost in his as you hung on his every word.

“Three strikes and you’re out, whelp,” he warned—or was it a murmur?—approaching you, eyes flashing, dangerous as they were seductive. He wedged you between his body and the plastered wall, palms pressed flat on either side of your head. “Do you understand?”

Tapping his foot impatiently, he saw your gaze drop to his lips and your breath quicken, matching the pace of his heartbeat if he had one. No, that wasn’t right. You were merely one of the many thousands he came across most nights in all his years of service, just a trifling and insignificant variation of the previous encounter. You weren’t—

“Yes, sir.”

A prey that submitted willingly. You didn’t even need to be told. His mouth lit up in a cruel smirk. “Very good, young one.”

He could have killed you on the spot, played God and passed swift judgment like any other fool parading around as the so-called Sheriff, but he did not. Prince Panhard always favored formalities, especially when there was a Thin-blood Primogen she could rub it in the face of. At least that was what he told himself as he ferried you back to the Art Hole.

On the way, you had asked for his name and he divulged it to you like a sworn secret through the rearview mirror. “Qadir,” he replied, his voice monotone. “That’s all you need to know.”

The rest of the ride took place in silence.

At your hearing, he observed you intently while you were met with disgust and disinterest by the other Kindred. It seemed as if you didn’t care what the Prince had to say as you stared back at him, hands twitching and biting your lip. He recognized the signs for what they were, after all, it wasn’t the first time a captive had taken a fancy to him. Regardless of his severity, he was as stereotypical as the Clan of the Rose brought forth. He plied himself with fashionable suits and expensive Swiss watches, groomed his locks and beard religiously each night, disguised like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It was a sham. He was a sham. It mesmerized him how alive you felt, your blushing heat. If not for the tip-off, he believed he would never have known you were one of them—almost. When the verdict of “Final Death” was raised, something innate possessed him to fabricate the story he narrated before the Prince to delay your sentencing for just a bit longer. Was it the remaining scraps of what he so desperately tried to salvage as human? 

Mercy. 

The Prince raised an eyebrow. 

Mercy.

Although he would never admit it, he could not bear to see you perish that night. You were a miracle. You were his miracle. His salvation and hope. You reminded him of Qadir al-Asmai of Lucknow, not Qadir the Sheriff of New York. He brought you to the cell where you would spend the night, and the next, and the next, as long as you didn’t outlive your usefulness. A usefulness which he had invented and even the Council had fallen for. 

He remembered how you had cried upon hearing what he had done. Such is the wonder of human emotion, he thought. Soon, he will learn to cry too. The scene replayed itself like a continuous loop in his mind and he wished it would never end.

And so it began. When he checked on you the next evening, he found you on all fours, before lying prostrate on the dirt ground, as if praying to some unknown god.

“What is the meaning of this?” he questioned, more curious than irritated.

You glanced up at him with those pitiful, naive eyes, like a dog waiting for its owner and he felt something he had not felt for a very long time—a sense of joy. He provided you with fresh blood, which you lapped from his hands hungrily, and wiped the tears away from your grimy face.

“Thank you, sir.”

You were so polite, so precious; he promised to take care of you, on condition that you would do as you were told. Naturally, you agreed, eager as a pup to please. He pretended to coax information out of you on a recent case he was investigating in exchange for blood. It was all for show, a stunt to appease his superiors. Just the way the Camarilla liked it, and just the way his colonizers liked it back then too. But this thing you had with him… it was real, wasn’t it? You were teaching him to love again, beyond the blood-splattered tiles and mangled bones. He was falling for you just as you were falling for him.

Then, one night, you refused. He couldn’t fathom why, what caused the sudden change of heart. You stopped drinking the blood he offered, spat it in his face when he tried to feed you, starving yourself on purpose. 

“Don’t test my patience, whelp,” he growled, holding the base of your neck between his hands as he stroked a pointed nail along its length. You shivered and went limp. He gave a ghastly smile. “Good girl.”

However, it was only a temporary respite. He knew what was best for you—why wouldn’t you listen? You left him no choice, but to do what he had to do next. He plunged his teeth into you, his bite lingering as he tasted the sickness of your saccharine blood. Your eyes shut placidly like a serene angel, arms folding around him as he led you in a slow dance around the derelict room. When you came to, he was sure that you would love him even more than you did before.

“Drink,” he ordered. “Or you will never receive my Kiss again.”

Despite your withdrawal, you staunchly held your ground. His jaw tensed. Had he not been kind and merciful to your plight? Wasn’t this how one should love? But love was a distant memory; he had forgotten whether he had ever felt it at all. There were still hours to go before the break of dawn, but he left in a hurry, as if something had finally unnerved him, and did not return until several nights after.

By then, you were nearly catatonic. A thin film of milky white cast over your eyes. As you lay in his arms, he asked you quietly, “Tell me, what is it you want?”

He wanted you to pick him. To stop time and make him human again. But that answer never came. Just two simple words uttered from your dry, cracked lips, “Final Death.”

In a moment of clarity, he saw through the lies he told to everyone and to himself. The tears in your eyes had never been about gratitude for prolonging your life, they were pleading with him to extinguish it. He had treated you like an enslaved animal, attempting to bind you to his blood and will. Instead of the soft caresses he imagined, he had wrung your neck and forced your hand unto obedience, into submission. There was no love, only suffering and pain.

The grip on his sword tightened. Perhaps he was condemned to live out the rest of his undead days in a state of limbo, waiting for the inevitable, spectacular end, where his humanity would be so whittled down that he becomes a mindless wight. To grant your wish and lose you would be to damn his soul, but perhaps this was his greatest act of mercy yet. And that was a miracle in itself.

With a single swift stroke, his sword was unsheathed—elegant, ruthless, and compassionate. Your head slid off your body onto the floor. He took it gently in his hands, kissed your still warm lips for the very last time, etching every sensation to memory. Then, he let go, leaving your decomposing corpse in his wake.