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The blood washed over Olrox’s tongue as he pulled mouthful after mouthful from the body in front of him. It was more sour than he preferred, filled with the toughness of a life spent doing a peasant’s labour, but it was blood nonetheless, and it would do him fine for the moment.
He heard the footsteps behind him stop suddenly, only a few feet away. It was obvious he’d been spotted, but whatever human was behind him wasn’t fleeing in terror like most would. Instead, the mortal just stood there, watching him.
“Let her go.”
Ah, Mizrak.
He pulled his fangs from the neck of the peasant woman, though he still held his grip on her arms, keeping her firmly in place. It wouldn’t do to have his food run off. “Mizrak,” he said, not turning around. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Let her go, Olrox.” He spat the name like it was poison, his voice firm, holding a kind of self-certainty that was rare in humans; especially when they were dealing with vampires. It was almost funny, how he thought he could demand things of him. But fine. If Mizrak wanted to play games, Olrox could play games.
He licked the last few drops of blood from the woman’s neck before releasing her arms, taking a small step back. She took off running, stumbling slightly from the little blood she had lost, though it hadn’t been nearly enough to fill him. Olrox watched her run until she disappeared around a corner, letting a sigh escape him at the loss of prey before turning around. “Was there a reason you interrupted my meal, or were you just that happy to see me?”
Mizrak looked anything but happy, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed in front of him, a storm swirling in his eyes. He didn’t speak, just glaring at Olrox for a long moment in silence. Olrox just met his gaze, raising an eyebrow but not saying anything, waiting for Mizrak to break the quiet.
Eventually, Mizrak sighed, taking a step closer to him, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. They both knew he wouldn’t use it, but it was almost cute seeing the threat. “She was innocent. You had no cause to hurt her.”
So it was this conversation then. Olrox sighed, looking at Mizrak for a moment as he mulled over the words. True, the woman hadn’t done anything to him. She hadn’t done anything at all, save for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Olrox needed to feed from someone, and the next peasant would be just as innocent. Olrox was a lion, and that woman was a lamb. It was the natural order of things.
“Do you expect me to starve?” he countered, giving Mizrak an unimpressed look. “Drolta says I’m not to feed on the aristocracy, and now I’m not to feed from the peasantry either? What would you have me do, Mizrak?”
“Prey upon the guilty,” was Mizrak’s immediate response, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword.
Now there was an idea. Feeding only on the guilty. It was nice, in theory. An idealist’s dream for a better future. But in practice, it all fell apart. By whose metric would guilt be determined? Mizrak’s, presumably, which would likely leave Olrox to starve. The man of God believed everyone could be redeemed, and therefore wouldn’t allow him to feed on anyone. It was a cute theory, but a poor reality.
“A noble thought,” Olrox said, licking a drop of blood from his lips. “But too many variables. I assume you wouldn’t want a monster like me determining the guilt of my prey?”
Mizrak frowned, as if he hadn’t thought through the particulars of his plan, looking up at Olrox. “Could I trust you to only feed from the truly guilty?”
“You could,” he said quietly, taking a step towards Mizrak. “Though I feel my definition of guilt may be different than yours. I believe all the peasantry to be guilty.”
The man took a step back at that, his frown only deepening. “How can you believe them all to be guilty? Guilty of what crime?”
Olrox chuckled slightly, stopping where he was and looking down at Mizrak, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Guilty of being colonizers. Of being human. Maybe just of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You’re a monster,” Mizrak muttered, apparently more to himself than to Olrox. Olrox just laughed, a soft, incredulous sound that carried across the empty street.
“Did you just put that together?” He smiled down at him, his fangs glinting softly in the moonlight. Mizrak truly was an unusual man, still having faith in him despite it all. Every move the man made just intrigued him more. “Of course I’m a monster, Mizrak. I’ve been one for centuries.”
The other man frowned at his declaration, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. For a moment, it looked as if he might draw it, as if he was truly considering trying to fight Olrox. As if that was a fight he could win. But the moment passed as soon as it had come, and Mizrak was left standing there, searching for words that obviously weren’t coming.
“Now, if that was all you had to say, I should be going.” He flashed a smile towards Mizrak, all fangs glinting in the moonlight, before turning his back to the man and beginning to walk down the dim street. “I wonder if I could still catch that peasant woman, if I’m quick.”
“So that’s it then?”
Olrox sighed, stopping mid step. He bowed his head for a moment, looking down at the cobblestones beneath his feet, before speaking in a quiet, even tone. “Well I do need blood, Mizrak. Baser instincts and the like.”
He turned, looking at Mizrak in the shadowed moonlight, searching for the disgust or anger he knew would be there. And it was there, of course it was, but stronger than either was a powerful nervousness seeping into every crevice of the man’s expression. It wasn’t fear – he wasn’t afraid of Olrox, not frightened of the fangs or the magic or any number of things he should fear. He was simply… anxious. Like he was anticipating something that he couldn’t quite fathom.
“I’ll ask again,” he said quietly, taking a step closer, and then another, until he was inches away from the monk in front of him. He drops his voice to a low whisper, ducking his head slightly to murmur in the man’s ear. “What would you have me do?”
Mizrak’s breath hitches in the quiet night, and his hand tightens momentarily on his sword, but he doesn’t pull away. For a moment, he doesn’t do anything, before he slowly releases his grip on his sword and lets his arms hang loosely at his sides.
“Take me.”
His voice was low, tinged with nerves, but sure nonetheless. Olrox let out a soft hum, his lips inches away from Mizrak’s neck. He smiled, trailing clawed fingers up Mizrak’s arm, ever gentle to ensure he didn’t draw a drop of blood he didn’t intend to. It was an interesting offer, to be sure. Blood from the willing always did taste so much sweeter, headier in a way that was hard to describe.
“Fascinating,” he murmured, breathing even though he didn’t need to, just so Mizrak could feel it against his neck. “And what makes you think I want you?”
That gave the man pause, tensing ever so slightly under Olrox’s touch. He let out a slow, even breath, like he was trying to calm himself. For a moment it seemed like he wouldn’t respond, before his voice came out in a low, frustrated hiss. “You said you needed blood. I’m stronger than whatever peasant you might find. So take it.”
Olrox hummed, trailing his nails up Mizrak’s arm and along his neck, until his hand found the crook of his jaw. “And I suppose that’s the only reason for your noble sacrifice? Practicality? Mathematics?”
“What other reason could there be?” The words came quick, almost too quick. He was hiding something, and he was very, very bad at it.
“There’s no shame in it, you know. Desire is a powerful thing.” Olrox’s voice was quiet, murmured in Mizrak’s ear like a secret, something to stay hidden away. The man swallowed thickly and tried to pull away, but Olrox’s grip on his jaw tightened, holding him in place. He hummed low, tilting Mizrak’s face to the side and looking at him for a long moment before speaking.
“What do you desire, Mizrak?”
“There’s nothing I desire that you could give me, vampire,” Mizrak responded, the word spat like a curse, as if it were venom on his tongue. Olrox was anything but put off, a leering smile dancing across his face as he looked into the monk’s eyes. The brown of them was hardened with annoyance now, though underneath it ran a current of shame, clinging to the corners like cobwebs.
Mizrak met his eyes for a few moments before glancing away, turning his face towards the sliver of moon that hung in the sky. “Either get on with it or don’t. The offer won’t last forever.”
Olrox smiled, his hand still tight on the man’s jaw. “If that’s what you desire.”
He tilted Mizrak’s head to the side, exposing the soft expanse of his neck. He leaned close, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard brush against his cheek, scratching against his skin. This close, he could bite without any resistance, could drain the man dry in a second if he wanted to.
Instead, he pressed his lips gently to the side of Mizrak’s neck in a feather light kiss, grinning at the way the monk tensed under his touch. He pressed another soft kiss into his skin, and another, trailing his way along his neck. His hand snaked around to Mizrak’s back, pulling him in closer, until their bodies were flush together.
He opened his mouth just a touch, sucking lightly where he kissed along his neck, enough to bring the blood to the surface. He could hear Mizrak’s heart beating faster now, and just caught the aborted sound he made in the back of his throat before he quashed it, not allowing it past his lips. “Get on with it, vampire. I don’t have all night.”
“Be patient in tribulation,” Olrox murmured, before pressing another open mouthed kiss to the man’s skin. Mizrak drew in a quick breath, his hand clenching around the fabric of Olrox’s waistcoat.
“Don’t quote the scripture to me, bastard,” he hissed, his voice tense. He didn’t move his head however, keeping it lax in Olrox’s grip, staying where the vampire had put him.
Olrox decided he’d had enough of teasing him – besides, he truly was thirsty – and gave a soft hum. He opened his mouth a little wider, darting his tongue out to lick along his skin before sinking his fangs into Mizrak’s pulse.
All blood tasted of iron. It was a fact vampires knew well, the common thread between their many hunts. But no two humans tasted exactly alike, either. Mizrak tasted warm, strong, like a drink to be savoured on a cold night. He tasted of maguey and xocolatl, of a night by the fire and a laugh with a friend.
Mizrak tasted of home.
Sentimentality was a dangerous trait for a vampire to possess, but it was also a hard one to ignore. The years had made Olrox cold to a great many things, and far too many things had become unremarkable. So when something stuck out, especially as beautifully as this, it was nearly impossible to just pass it over.
Olrox let a low groan escape the back of his throat as he drank, letting the intoxicating flavour wash over his tongue. His grip on Mizrak’s jaw tightened just a touch, his hand on the small of his back digging into the fabric there, holding him close. It was difficult, to pull away, but he had drunk his fill. Furthermore, he could feel Mizrak beginning to sag in his arms, struggling to keep upright. Taking much more blood would kill him, and that would hardly be a proper thanks for such a generous donation.
He pulled his fangs from Mizrak’s neck, licking the skin to catch the few drops of blood that wept out, not wanting to waste any of it. He kept his hands firmly wound around Mizrak’s body, fully knowing he was the only thing keeping the man upright. The monk had lost far too much blood to remain standing – he would need help getting back to his abbey.
“God…” he murmured, his voice thick with dizziness, slumping ever so slightly into Olrox’s arms. He tried to keep himself standing, and it was truly a noble effort, but Olrox’s hand around his waist was the only reason he wasn’t on the ground already.
“I thought monks weren’t meant to take the Lord’s name in vain,” Olrox smiled, releasing his grip on Mizrak’s jaw. His head immediately lolled forwards, resting in the crook of Olrox’s neck, his breath hot against the vampire’s skin.
“Shut up. Bastard.”
Olrox just chuckled, bending down slightly and hooking an arm under Mizrak’s knees, picking him up with the ease that only a vampire could. The man grumbled slightly, but rested his head against Olrox’s chest all the same.
He smiled, beginning to walk down the moonlight street, though noticeably he wasn’t walking towards the abbey. “Where are you taking me,” Mizrak muttered, his eyes half lidded with exhaustion.
Olrox just continued walking, turning a corner and smiling once his little inn came into view. “You need to rest,” he said quietly, walking up to the door and turning the knob. “And while I could leave you at the abbey and let you explain your state to your abbot, I thought this the kinder option.”
Mizrak scoffed, his head bobbing slightly with every step Olrox took up the creaky old stairs. “And when have you ever been known to be kind, vampire?”
“Oh, never,” he confirmed, swinging open the door to his room and stepping inside. “I suppose I was inspired by your noble sacrifice.”
He laid Mizrak down on the bed, gently setting his head on the pillow. The monk didn’t put up any resistance, going where he was put, sinking into the sheets beneath him. “Rest,” Olrox told him, pulling the blanket up over his body. “I’ll go fetch you something to eat. You may not feel it now, but you’ll be ravenous in a few hours.”
Before he could leave, Mizrak reached a hand up and grabbed his wrist. The grip was weak even for a human, and he could break it easily, but he turned anyway, facing Mizrak with a raised brow.
“You won’t stop for a drink of your own?”
Olrox chuckled slightly, the thinly veiled concern in Mizrak’s eyes being more amusing than anything else. Even now, he was still as self-sacrificing as ever. “No, Mizrak, I find I’m quite satisfied tonight.”
The grip on his wrist released, Mizrak’s arm falling limply back onto the bed. Olrox smiled, turning away from the man laying in his bed and making his way towards the door. He left the room quietly, slipping out into the night, and as he stepped back into the moonlight, he could still taste xocolatl on his tongue.