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“Oh, you look absolutely ravishing, sweetheart.” There’s a crazed look in the vampire’s eyes, lips pulled back to reveal fangs so sharp that Minute distantly wonders if he has ever cut himself on them.
It’s a curious sight. Most vampires have enough common sense to wait till the sun has been engulfed in shadows before they come out to hunt, but here this one was — hunger lacing his words and desperation lining his body. Whatever this creature borne from the depths of hell had gotten himself into, it was bad enough to warrant him chancing into daylight.
Minute angles his head to the side, mirroring the animalistic movement that most vampires he had previously encountered seemed so particularly fond of. Just to see what reaction it would elicit, he takes a step back, crossing the boundary that divides life from death. Rays of sunlight cascade upon raven black hair, and the vampire hisses as if scalded by the sight alone.
Minute adjusts his grip on the hilt of his bejewelled blade, letting it hang loose within his grasp. He’s deceptively relaxed as he murmurs, “Recognise this, underworlder?”
“Silver,” the vampire grounds out through his teeth, eyes darting between the weapon and Minute’s gaze. There’s some form of calculating precision behind the mania, Minute realises. He subtly angles himself to be further enveloped by the light’s warm embrace.
“Don’t be so afraid, darling. I can make you forget anything you wish.” It’s framed as an invitation, and Minute can’t help but snort, “What’s with you vampires and having the same manner of speech? At least get a little more creative with it.”
Those scarlet pupils seem to gleam within the darkness. “Cocky little vampire hunter,” he muses, resting on the title, then discarding it without a second thought. The vampire drags his tongue over the back of his teeth, deliberately drawing out the silence. It’s a power play of sorts, but Minute remains unfazed. He’s seen the same few tricks up their sleeves over and over; it’d be a disgrace for them to ever work on him.
“Done posturing?” Minute asks, absentmindedly twirling the knife between his fingers. “Don’t answer that, by the way.”
The vampire’s smile is nothing more than a flash of teeth. “Wemmbu,” he offers, completely out of the blue.
That makes Minute furrow his brows. “Right. So what’s the deal here? Any chance you’re gonna be the one to actually work that infamous hypnosis magic and make me forget my own name?”
“No,” Wemmbu answers honestly, “Though it’d no doubt be amusing.”
Minute tosses the knife upwards in a perfect arc, catching it mid-flip to angle it directly at the vampire’s throat. No signs of bobbing there; only a preternatural stillness that whispers of decay. “Get to the point.”
“I suppose you could say that I require your services, vampire hunter.” A shameless wink, as if Wemmbu has taken it upon himself to test his patience as much as possible.
Minute’s answer is gloriously bored, “I only deal in death.”
“As do I!” The vampire sounds awfully cheerful, considering it’s his life on the line. (Technically, he isn’t even alive, but semantics.)
(He exists in some amorphous state. Minute can change that. Irreversibly.)
“I need you to kill me.”
Minute’s voice is choked with barely-contained laughter when he says, “I would’ve done that anyway.”
Wemmbu breathes out a long, drawn-out sigh. “After you let me drink, dipshit.”
“Why?” Minute regards him with a practically morbid curiosity. As far as he knows, blood is about as enticing as wine to vampires — that is to say, highly addictive and not quite true sustenance. They speak of it as an unquenchable thirst, a constantly parched throat and a need so primitive it drives them feral. For this one to be…bargaining? Asking for permission? He’s not exactly sure what to make of it, if he’s being honest with himself.
“You may have nothing to erase, but I do. We’re not all so privileged to dole out justice as we see fit, y’know.” Minute thinks that Wemmbu meant for it to come out more spiteful, but there’s more wistfulness than hatred in his voice.
“What’s it to me?” he decides to ask instead.
“An easy kill. Moral righteousness. I don’t know; pick your favourite fucking reason, sweetheart.”
“I want to know why.”
The vampire stares at him, almost in utter disbelief. “You work as a therapist on the side, is that it? Can’t a man have some privacy as his dying wish?”
Minute makes a show of shrugging. “One, you’re not a man. Two, I’ve still not heard any real incentive for me to indulge you.”
“Because it’s your damned job?” Exasperation drives Wemmbu’s voice a pitch higher as he throws his hands up; it’s oddly human. Minute barely manages to suppress a smile.
Still, he says nothing. Two can play the waiting game. (Especially when he — ironically — isn’t the one on a ticking timer this time ‘round.)
The withering glare Wemmbu shoots him might’ve been intimidating under different circumstances, but as of this very moment, it looks more reminiscent of a temper tantrum than anything else. “Wouldn’t have picked you if I knew you were such a busybody, for the record.”
Minute raises an eyebrow, content to wait for as long as he needs to. He’s tantalisingly out of reach with this positioning, so it’s only a matter of time before the vampire snaps.
“I’m leaving,” Wemmbu tells him, impressively managing to muster a straight face.
“Be my guest.” A smirk tugs one corner of Minute’s lips upwards. It only grows at the sound of Wemmbu’s frustrated snarl.
“Fine. I killed my best friend. There. Happy?”
In one practised movement, Minute gracefully pushes himself off the wall he’s been leaning on. He studies Wemmbu’s expression — whatever he finds there, it’s enough. He motions for him to continue.
“It wasn’t meant to happen. I-” the vampire swallows, dropping into a hushed whisper, “I was just a changeling.” He clenches his fists so tight that Minute is certain that he’s digging into flesh, but Wemmbu doesn’t seem to feel it.
“I couldn’t control myself. And he couldn’t fight back.” Wemmbu laughs, a bitter and humourless sound. “They say getting bitten is like getting high.” His gaze turns glossy, hauntingly empty. “I still think he suffered. At my hands.”
The sincerity in Minute’s voice surprises even himself when he says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Wemmbu drags his gaze away from the memory of a distant past, to meet Minute’s once more. He shakes his head, snapping out of his momentary trance. “No, you’re not.”
“I shouldn’t be, but I am,” Minute counters. He doesn’t know why he’s arguing.
“Why?” It’s Wemmbu’s turn to ask this time.
He hesitates, eventually landing on, “Not all vampires are turned willingly.”
“You don’t think I’m a coward?” Wemmbu blurts out, unable to stop himself from rambling on, “Isn’t it laughable that I’ve acquired a taste for blood, but can’t stand to see it on my hands? Isn’t it pathetic that I’m standing inches away from incineration, yet too afraid to take that one step forward?”
Minute takes that step for him. Into the beckoning abyss, whose siren song has been feeding him sweet promises of eternity all this while.
Wemmbu’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. It’s the only sign of his surprise as Minute tugs at his collar, baring his neck to grant the vampire easier access.
“Drink.” Neither of them commented on the way his voice shook.
That crimson gaze frantically searches within his, as if asking for assurance, one final time. Minute scrunches up the fabric of the vampire’s dress shirt with one impatient fist, granting him wordless permission as he yanks him closer.
Still, nothing could have prepared him for the pure bliss that crashed through his veins as fangs snapped into place, biting down on sensitive skin. Wemmbu is holding him hesitantly at first, only to tighten his grip as Minute begins to slump in his grasp.
The lines between fantasy and reality blur together in Minute’s head. With a bursting kaleidoscope of colours and a sickly sweet scent of nectar in his nose, he thinks he could drown happily within the myriad of sensations. More, his body chants, even as someone in the back of his mind screams, there’s something horribly wrong about this.
Something brushes against his ear, tickling a soft giggle out of him. He blinks, hard, but his vision is refusing to cooperate. He can barely make out the words that are being said. “For…me?”
A flash of vermillion, and the world seems to screech to a halt. Minute winces, hands flying upwards to clutch at his head. This time, the command is distinctly clear.
“Forget me.”
The vampire draws away, leaving behind two neat puncture wounds at the base of his neck. Minute shivers against the loss of contact, a low whine involuntarily escaping his throat.
When he blinks again, his blade is already clenched tightly in his hands, being brought down in a brutal arc. Crimson blooms where silver meets flesh; the vampire slammed against the ground and coughing beneath him.
The blood on his fangs glints under the dying light. That same blood trickles down the side of Minute’s neck.
When he twists the knife deeper, the vampire does not make to fight back. Instead, his clawed hands wrap around Minute’s. Bewildered, Minute tries to shake him off. His grip remains unfaltering — stubborn even in death. His face, too, is stuck in perpetual mocking laughter, but those eyes speak of a far gentler world. Minute rubs at his temples, half-wondering if he was dreaming.
When he looks back once more, only a pile of ash remains. It’s swept up by the wind, then ferried into the underworld. His job here is done.
(So, why does that sense of something missing…)
(Why does it still linger?)