Archive of Our Own

Morning crept over Oakhurst, a blanket slowly drawn back across cold sheets. Despite the overcast sky, there was a tangible sense of relief amongst the villagers at another night survived. 

Only the relief wasn’t quite as sweet that morning as it had been before. 

There was a distinct tension in the air as the townsfolk gathered, huddled around the campfire in front of Pearl’s house. 

“Well. This is miserable,” remarked Pearl, perched on a nearby upturned log. Her legs were crossed primly and she brushed out her skirts as she spoke. All eyes turned towards her; she bristled under their attention. “What? Nobody else was going to say anything. And we’re all thinking it.” 

“This do be pretty miserable indeed,” murmured Renhardt. He had been anxiously fiddling with his ponytail since the moment he emerged from his house—and hadn’t made any attempt to sit down. “It is difficult to lose more of our own.”

“This is so bad!” Avid suddenly wailed, as though the sentiment—long restrained—had finally forced itself free. He curled in on himself where he sat on rubble, clutching fistfuls of his hair. “This is bad. There’s going to be more of them now! That’s at least three vampires!” 

“Cleo isn’t a vampire,” Apo interrupted stonily, quieting the group in an instant. “And when I saw them, Martyn was dead.” 

“Well Martyn is definitely a vampire now!” Avid leapt to his feet, gesturing wildly with his hands. “And he’ll turn Cleo! So that’s three!” 

“This is all my fault.” The sniffle came from M, cross-legged on the ground beside the fire. He had been a mess since Apo returned with the news of her meeting with Cleo. Even Shelby’s constant hovering presence and her current arm wrapped comfortingly around the writer’s shoulder failed to stop his quiet crying. “I feel so guilty. Cleo was right! I should never have let him leave.”

There was an awkward silence, a few shared glances. Shelby shot them all a quick, unhappy glare that melted into sympathy as she consoled M. “It isn’t your fault,” she assured, “You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

“...it’s all our faults,” said Apo. “That’s what Cleo told me. He was the youngest of us. But it is my fault, most of all.” 

There was a flurry of confused protests. Apo took a deep breath, raising her hand to quiet them. 

“It is my fault,” she asserted. “You are all civilians. I am the military presence here and as much as it is my job to secure Oakhurst, it is also my duty to protect innocents. I have failed you all. I failed Martyn, and I—” For a second, Apo’s stoic voice cracked, “—I am deeply sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” said Avid, somber now. He stepped up to Apo’s side. “I am the one who is supposed to be protecting us from vampires. I should have been there between Martyn and Scott. I should be between any of you and Scott. And I wasn’t. The one time it actually mattered, I failed us all.” He looked away, pained, hands balled into tight fists at his side. 

“...this pity party is wonderful and all, but does it really matter?” For the first time all morning, Owen spoke up from his position opposite Shelby’s house, leaning against a crumbling pillar. His dry, dull tone rang out across the town, a juxtaposition to everyone else’s anxiety and guilt. From where he stood beside Owen, Pyro jumped at the sound of his voice, startled. “This won’t bring Martyn back. We’re too late. Agonizing over it won’t make anything better. Cleo chose of her own free will to leave and die, and that isn’t our responsibility. And now we’re burning daylight feeling guilty.” 

“I actually agree,” snipped Pearl. “We spent all night being sad and scared. Let’s not spend the day doing that too.” 

“Someone has died.” Avid sounded appalled. “And you just want to carry on like normal?” 

“That’s horrible,” Shelby agreed. 

Pyro cleared his throat. “I-I think what Owen means is that we don’t have time to spare.” His eyes darted momentarily to the man beside him. “We’re burning daylight. We have to venture out and act while we can, while it’s safe.” 

There was begrudging agreement across the villagers, some more reluctant than others. 

“We can build a memorial for our fallen townsman,” Ren suggested grimly. “To honor when he once stood amongst us. And to honor the bravery of our Lady Cleo as well. Let it remind us to act both with our hearts and with our minds, lest leaning too much on one lead us astray.” 

“That’s nice,” sniffled M, wiping at his eyes. “I can help with that. It’s the least I can do.” 

“Alright,” Owen sighed. “Yes, that’s…wonderful.”

“Then we have a plan.” Apo raised her chin, offering Ren a small nod. “We need wood and more food. There are vegetable patches near the forest’s edge that Martyn expanded on our first day, and we can hunt game.”

“We need more silver too, and coal,” said Avid. “To protect ourselves. I’ve already used all the silver we have, but I want everyone to have some on them at all times.” 

“Perhaps flowers for the memorial,” Abolish murmured. “Something nice.” Ren nodded his agreement. 

“I would like to search for medicinal herbs,” Dr. Legundo admitted. “I was quick to dismiss them at first, but I had long talks with Cleo that have swayed me. She has opened my eyes to the importance of natural medicine, when there is no means to acquire more sophisticated care. And I don’t want infection, injury, or sickness to be the death of any of us.”

“Well then.” Apo glanced around at them all. “Let’s split up and get to work.”

---

The forest beyond Oakhurst came alive with the sun. Animals ventured out of their hidden dens, birds sang in the treetops, and cold stone ruins were warmed by the light. 

Cleo watched the blood moon set and the daytime come through a root-choked gap between dirt and rock. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, her hands faintly trembling from hours of exertion and a lack of rest. But they were pretty sure that even if they tried to lay down and sleep, they would find themself unable. 

The cave they had tucked themself into was shallow and small—but well disguised against the hillside it occupied. Dirt, grass, and a few shrubs disguised the low opening and the space inside was stone lined, carved out by years of slow erosion and animal disturbance. Now, it was dry, dark, and cool. And, perhaps most fortunate of all, the cave was within a stone throws distance of the river. 

Cleo scrubbed at her eyes, sighing deeply as she glanced at her companion. 

Martyn had yet to wake from his…sleep, Cleo had taken to calling it. It was objectively an inaccurate phrase. Martyn was dead. No heartbeat, no warmth, no life. But for better or for worse, Cleo knew he would wake up again. The puncture marks in the young man’s throat sealed that fate. 

Cleo found themself in an odd situation where they simply didn’t know what to do. They had cared for people who were sick and ill before; they had cared for themself in that situation. They knew basic medicine, how to cook and provide, even how to hunt. 

But Martyn didn’t need food, warmth, or medicine. So Cleo had settled on shelter for them both—hidden, where neither vampire lords nor village mobs would find them—and food for herself. She was too wary to make a fire, thus settling on foraged berries and roots that didn’t need to be cooked. The rest of her time she spent unpacking, organizing, and repacking her bag. She hadn’t left Oakhurst prepared to abandon her small home there. She’d prepared in a rush, with maybe a day's worth of supplies. 

Not for the first time, Cleo considered the possibility of sneaking back into Oakhurst and taking what she and Martyn had left in their respective houses. Was that even possible, with the others on such high alert? If they were prepared to keep vampires at bay, then she had no chance of sneaking in as an ordinary person. 

Maybe Cleo could hover on the outskirts, and persuade a person sympathetic enough to steal her supplies. Pearl might, since they shared a house. Shubble was empathetic enough to be easily convinced. Or maybe she could blackmail the Doc on having a duty to care, to do no harm. 

With a frustrated groan, Cleo buried her head in her hands, not for the first time questioning the sanity of her actions. 

“You’re an impulsive fool,” she scolded herself. “Just look at the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Unfortunately, neither the cave nor Martyn’s corpse offered any reassurance in return. 

The sun rose high in the sky. Despite the perpetual grey tinge that swamped the area, the air continued to warm as it reached midday. 

Cleo stayed close to the cave, not daring to venture out of eye sight of its entrance, fleeing back to its safety at anything that even remotely seemed like evidence of another person. They knew they were being overly paranoid—but the threat of fangs in their throat or a sword in their ribs was far less appealing than the shame of hiding like a prey animal. 

It wasn’t long later that Cleo heard a voice, while they were getting water from the river. 

In a flash, she scooped up her water skin and darted soundlessly back towards the hill. She slipped into the crevice that led to the cave, casting an immediate look in Martyn’s direction. He still lay there, unmoving, and Cleo let out a small sigh. 

She moved to crouch near the cave’s entrance, sword in hand and at the ready, listening. Prepared to strike if anything or anyone tried to force their way in—but hoping that instead, the person would simply move on. 

One voice became two. 

“Shouldn’t we be worried about overhunting the animals?” Cleo frowned, trying to place the voice. Pyro, she was pretty sure. 

“Why? We won’t be around here for very long.” That was Owen, his voice an annoyed growl. 

“I just feel like we’re burning through the forest life very quickly,” came the anxious reply. “And we can’t return empty handed, people are already giving you strange looks—”

“Let them,” Owen snapped. “I don’t care what they think. You need to stop defending me. And you shouldn’t be following me like a lost puppy either, I’m not your keeper.” 

“What am I supposed to do?!” Pyro protested. “I don’t know anything! I-I don’t know how to be on my own, and Scott is gone!” 

“Not my problem.” 

“Owen, please!” 

The approaching voices finally grew close enough that Cleo could see the figures in question between the rooted cracks in the cave. Pyro had reached out, catching Owen’s arm, stopping him short. 

“Please,” Pyro repeated, quieter. “You can’t afford to alienate yourself from everyone. Isn’t this why we went back to Oakhurst? To try and blend in?”

“That was always temporary. I won’t be there for much longer, Pyro. You need to learn to handle yourself, or be ready to leave too.” 

“I didn’t ask for this! You did this to me, you can’t just abandon me!”

“You sure didn’t put up much of a fight,” Owen snorted.

“Put up a fight?!” For the first time, Pyro’s voice sounded furious. He shoved Owen’s shoulder, making the other stumble back a half step. “I’m sorry I didn’t consider I was standing amongst murderers! I ran, I screamed! You both chased me down. And what was I supposed to do? Cry and beg for mercy? I asked if there was a cure, and you made it very clear there wasn’t. I didn’t ask for this, I’m just doing the best I can!” 

Cleo was frozen, breath caught in her throat. The conversation she was listening to had turned her blood to ice. 

“Welcome to the club.” Owen’s voice was toneless, uncaring, and dull. “You’re a monster. I’m a monster, and I’m not going to hold your hand and tell you you’re doing a good job.” 

“I’m not asking for that,” Pyro pleaded. “I’m just asking to not be alone, Owen! I don’t know what’s happening to me. Every night there’s something new, something I don’t understand. I don’t know how to hunt. I don’t know how to lie. I don’t even know what I’m capable of anymore, and Scott ran off to live in his castle! And if you do that too, then I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

“You’re a vampire. You’ll always be alone. Best get used to it now.” 

Silence rang out. Pyro took a step back, looking for all the world like he had been slapped. 

“I hate you both,” breathed Pyro, voice tight. “I hate that you and Scott both think we’re nothing. That we’re cattle, or—or stupid. None of us did anything to either of you. I’m trying to help you not get killed, and all you do is make my job harder.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t ask you to care. You’re not my spawn, you’re not my responsibility, and if I had my way, you would’ve been dead on that riverbank, not turned!” Owen finally exploded. “Go cry to Scott, he’s your sire!”

Pyro turned away abruptly, fists clenched at his sides. 

“I’m going back,” said the scholar stiffly. “Maybe it’s actually better if you don’t, Owen. You clearly don’t want to. You don’t have any humanity left.” 

Lowly, Owen scoffed. 

“I’m not Scott.”

Pyro laughed. There was no humor in his voice. “...right.”

Pyro’s body dissolved into a flurry of dark wings as he took the form of a bat, swooping away into the treetops. For a long moment, Owen simply stood there, arms limp at his sides, staring at seemingly nothing. 

Cleo had to remind herself to breathe as her brain spun at hurricane speeds. Owen and Pyro, both vampires. Scott had turned Pyro, bitten him like he had bitten Martyn. 

Owen and Pyro were vampires, and no one in Oakhurst knew. 

There was a sharp, shallow gasp to Cleo’s left, causing them to whirl around. 

Martyn. He twitched where he lay prone on the ground, eyes still tightly shut. But his chest strained, lips parted—like he was trying to breathe in and couldn’t quite figure out how. He wheezed, fingers twitching, clutching at his shirt. 

Cleo darted a terrified look out the window at Owen, then flung themself at Martyn. Quickly, they clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling any noises. Martyn immediately flinched, head trying to twist away. His eyelashes fluttered. 

Bending so her lips were right beside Martyn’s ear, Cleo hissed—”I’m sorry. I’m sorry Martyn, but you have to be quiet. Please.”

She couldn’t see out of the cave from this angle. She couldn’t see what Owen was doing. 

Martyn’s lips were dry and cracked against Cleo’s dirt-smudged palm. 

There was noise outside. Cleo wasn’t sure, but they thought perhaps Owen was talking to himself, ranting aloud to the empty forest. Footsteps distantly kicked at grass and shrubs. 

Frigid fingers curled around Cleo’s wrist, tugging. Quickly, they glanced down—Martyn stared back at them, eyes half-lidded and foggy, flicking around wildly. His hand tried futilely to push her away as he whimpered, muffled. 

Cursing internally, Cleo leaned as far away as she could, trying to peer outside. She caught a glimpse of Owen, slowly walking deeper into the forest, arms curled around himself. Cleo waited until he was out of sight, then waited a little bit longer, just to be safe. 

Fingernails dug into their wrist suddenly, painfully sharp. Cleo drew back with a gasp, stunned to see that Martyn had drawn blood. But the moment her hand was gone, Martyn spasmed, twitching against the ground. 

He let out a gurgling, strangled noise of pain, clawing at the stone and dirt beneath him. 

“Martyn,” Cleo tried saying, but they went unheard. “Martyn!” 

“Stop,” Martyn whimpered. He rolled onto his side, knees curled up to his chest and clawed nails moving to grip at his hair. “Please, please stop!” 

Cleo hesitated, trying to figure out if he was talking to her or not. Had she hurt him? 

Martyn gasped once more, raw and strangled. From the daylight outside, Cleo could make out the tears suddenly rolling down his face, the way his body shuddered with hiccups. 

“You’re okay,” they tried, tentatively moving closer. “Martyn, can you hear me?” 

“Please, please…” he begged deliriously. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry—”

Cleo let out a slow breath, setting their sword aside. Then, steeling their resolve, they reached out and took Martyn into their arms. 

Martyn flailed, arms and legs kicking out. Cleo held him close, pressing his cold body into a tight hug, and after several long seconds Martyn finally went still. 

He sobbed into her dress, occasionally mumbling something half-intelligible as she clumsily stroked his hair, trying to soothe him out of his panic. 

“...are you alright?” Cleo asked, once the tears had run dry and Martyn fell silent. His head tilted slightly to peer up at her, and they half expected his irises to have turned blood red. Instead, Martyn’s eyes were as blue as ever.  

“I don’t know,” he rasped hoarsely. “I don’t—I can’t—” Martyn shuddered and suddenly gagged.

Quickly, Cleo released him and Martyn jolted away, fumbling on his knees. He retched dryly, clutching his stomach. 

“Do you need water?” Cleo asked, eyeing him with concern. Weakly, Martyn nodded. Cleo reached for the water skin as he retched again, coughing up a thin stream of sick. 

Martyn was trembling like a leaf when he finally sat up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He took the water skin, drinking greedily. Cleo took it from him once he stopped, setting it aside as Martyn slumped against the cave wall. 

Seconds of silence ticked by; Cleo found herself at a loss for words. She sat cross-legged, eyeing the young man before her. What did you say to the recently undead? What could you say that actually mattered?” 

In the end it was Martyn who spoke up first. 

“...I’m alive,” he whispered. Cleo realized that his hand was over his chest, pressed above his heart. “...sort of.”

“Yeah.” Cleo huffed a laugh. Martyn’s gaze darted to meet her own, then skittered away. His hand drifted to his throat, skimming across the semi-healed puncture wounds Scott had left. 

“I’m a—” Martyn swallowed. “I’m a vampire…?”

Cleo could only nod. “...how do you feel?”

“Weird,” whispered Martyn. His hands fell into his lap, awkwardly clasped, and his voice turned somewhat distant as he spoke. “Better than I should, after—after dying. I’m cold. I feel weak, and I’m…”

He trailed off, and when his gaze darted up to Cleo, he looked terrified. She gave him an encouraging nod. 

“I’m hungry,” Martyn rasped. With a sound too close to a wail for comfort, he buried his head in his hands once more. “I’m so hungry…I’m—God, oh God, I’m a monster. I’ve become a monster!”

“I don’t think so,” Cleo interrupted, forcing their voice into something as calm and as certain as they could manage. “You just have…different dietary needs now.” If she said it optimistically enough for the both of them, maybe they could each pretend to be comforted. 

Martyn’s answering laugh sounded like it had been ripped from his throat. 

“Can you stay here?” Cleo asked. “I can go hunt something down for you.” 

“Hunt something down for me…” Martyn echoed. His eyes slowly widened, and Cleo watched as the realization of the full implications of his diet hit him. “Oh God.”

“You’re okay—Martyn, it’s okay.” Cleo kneeled down in front of him as the young man began to hyperventilate. She honestly wasn’t even sure he needed to breathe; Cleo swore that once or twice since he had awoken, his chest had stopped moving. But that further reminder of his inhumanity would likely make things worse. 

“I have to drink blood!” Martyn gasped. Cleo reached out for him, and abruptly, Martyn flinched back. “No! Don’t, don’t get close to me!”

“Okay.” Cleo leaned back, eyeing him with concern. “...you’re not going to hurt me, Martyn.” 

“You don’t know that!” He protested, pressing himself into the furthest back corner of the cave. “I could bite you, Cleo, and then you’d—and I’d—I need blood, what the hell kind of creature does that make me?!” 

“A person, still,” Cleo insisted. “Martyn, look at me. Look at me.” 

Hesitantly, he did, holding himself as taut as a bowstring. 

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” They quietly asked. Martyn slowly shook his head. “I see someone who is trying not to let the world know he’s hurting. I see someone hardworking and resilient, even in the midst of a crisis. I see someone curious about the world and brave enough to explore it. But most of all, I see someone who really, really doesn’t want to hurt me.” 

This time, when Cleo slowly crept closer, Martyn didn’t ward them away. Instead, he stared, eyes watery, until Cleo had taken his pale hands in their own. 

“You’re scared. I’m scared,” they admitted. “And I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But you’re still trying to protect me. You don’t want to hurt me, Martyn—you’ve proven to me that I made the right choice. Let me help you. We can figure this out.” 

“Why?” Martyn sniffled. He squeezed her hands back tightly. “I-I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I thought nobody in Oakhurst even liked me. I don’t know why you care. Even…even my own father left me to d-die. You don’t know me.” 

Somberly, Cleo’s lips turned down. 

“I’d like to,” she murmured. “I think you’re a nice kid, under all that stuffy noble behavior that got shoved into your brain.”

“No one has ever called me nice.”

“Well no, I don’t imagine so,” Cleo laughed. “You are a bit insufferable.” 

Martyn wetly giggled too.

“But still,” Cleo continued, more genuinely, “I’m helping because it’s the right thing to do, Martyn. Because no matter what you or the others might think, I think you deserve a life. You aren’t a monster. You never were one.” 

Martyn’s eyes shone, and with a small sniffle, he quickly ducked his head away. Cleo let him draw back his hands to tuck them back into his lap. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I…really. Thank you.” 

“Stay here,” Cleo gently commanded. “I’ll be back with food for you.” 

The kid nodded.

---

Owen hesitated before the expansive, neglected bridge that stretched out before him.

He hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to cross it earlier that week. Even now he stalled, for reasons he couldn’t articulate even to himself. 

Despite being in ruins, the castle on the other side of the ravine still towered impressively. Foundations of decorated stone brick and toppled pillars criss-crossed almost organically, coated in creeping ivy. 

Owen knew who dwelled there and unfortunately, they needed to talk. 

The sun shone high overhead. Without the cover of trees, it pricked uncomfortably on the back of his neck. Logically, Owen knew the sunlight wouldn’t hurt him yet—but the instinct to hide was still present, like a buzzing in his veins. Frustrated, Owen blew out a deep sigh, as though that might wash away his nerves. 

When he finally advanced forward, he found crossing the bridge to the castle to be painfully anticlimactic. The air was still and pleasant, the river far below softly sloshing against the large support beams that kept most of the bridge standing. Owen threw a quick glance over his shoulder, just to make sure no one was watching him.

The forest was empty. 

It was a long bridge; Owen hated every second he was exposed, in plain sight and under the unrelenting light of day. Despite his reservations, it was a relief to set foot on solid ground once more as stone morphed into tightly packed dirt. 

Even in its dilapidated state, the castle was beautiful. Remnants of rotted carpet, somewhat protected by rubble, peaked out of the grey in streaks of faded scarlet. Stone bricks were enhanced with careful carvings—some obliterated with time, others holding strong like capsules of the past. 

The main hall of the castle, roof caved in and open to the sky, was arranged like a cathedral. Perhaps, once upon a time, that was what it was. 

Owen suspected it would be more accurate to call the space a throne room. 

He looked around, searching for any sign of life—or more accurately, any sign of occupation. But the castle was deceptively silent. 

“Right,” Owen murmured to himself. “Down I go, I suppose.” 

It took a bit of wandering to find the crypt entrance. Owen eyed the narrow, winding staircase dubiously, considering the merits of simply becoming a bat and flying down. 

In the end, he decided not to. Hunger gnawed at the inside of his stomach and had for days now. It wasn’t…fully intentional, the starvation. Eating raw meat was difficult with the villagers on such high alert and getting a chance to hunt was even harder. 

…and maybe Owen hadn’t been putting in enough effort.

Either way, he didn’t want to risk transforming. He was weak enough that a part of Owen feared he might turn back halfway through his descent, and then plummet to a very embarrassing and painful demise. 

He turned the thought over in his mind as he continued downwards. It wasn’t all that unappealing—if not for the fact that Scott would surely come across him and laugh his ass off at Owen’s expense. 

“What a bastard,” Owen grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

When he finally set foot on the floor of the crypt, the sound of his footsteps echoed down the long hall, ringing in the stillness. Owen walked slowly, glancing at the occasional tomb to either side, set into recesses of the walls. Water damage left cracks and moss in the stone—but the further Owen advanced, the dryer the air became. 

The hall unfurled into a large chamber, all curled around the sunken floor. At the center of it was a stone sarcophagus, placed with honor on a raised dais. 

Scott sat perched on the edge of his place of rest, waiting. 

“Hello, Owen,” he greeted, tipping his head back and leaning his weight on his hands, peering up at the balcony where Owen stood. “Have you finally come to join me?” 

Owen ignored him, biting back a sneer as he moved towards the staircase. It curved around, depositing him on the same level as Scott. Or rather, it would have, if Scott wasn’t lounging on his tomb like it was a throne, putting him several heads above Owen. 

“Your spawn is out of line,” Owen spit, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Scott raised an amused eyebrow. 

“Already? I’m surprised the brat is even up and about yet.”

“Not Martyn.” Owen rolled his eyes. “Although I want to have words with you about that. I’m talking about Pyro.” 

“Oh. That’s surprising.” Scott frowned, crossing one leg over the other and bracing his elbow on his knee. He leaned forward, chin delicately placed over his knuckles. “He seemed quite obedient.”

“He’s clingy, anxious, and still sympathetic to the humans. And you know why that is? Because his sire ran off to gallivant in the woods.”

“You are the one insistent on blending in with them.” Scott’s voice abruptly soured, his red eyes narrowing. “I have no interest in this charade. It’s a waste of time and frankly, it’s beneath me. 

“You turned him!” Owen stormed forward, closing the distance between them. He stepped up onto the dais and jabbed a finger towards Scott’s chest. “I didn’t know you were going to convert him, or I would have put up more of a fight! I thought you were going to drain him dead. He’s your spawn and yet I’m stuck babysitting him.”

“It’s funny how you think that you could’ve changed my mind.”

“He’s your responsibility now,” declared Owen hotly. “I’m done. You can go to Oakhurst and drag Pyro out here, or give him some orders, or whatever. But he’s following me around like an imprinted puppy and I can’t take it anymore.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘misery loves company’?” Scott drawled. “Is the frightened desperation of a newly turned spawn not suffering enough for your cold dead heart?” 

“And another thing!” Owen plowed on. “Let’s talk about Martyn now. What the hell was that, Scott?”

“What was what? I saw an opportunity and I seized it. The poor man was in the woods, all alone…he knew the risks he was taking. I just took it upon myself to teach the lesson.” 

“You promised me the next one was mine.”

“I gave you plenty of time.” Scott yawned. He reached out, nudging Owen back a few steps with a finger and gracefully rose to his feet. “Eventually, I got bored. I’m not going to do the hard work for you.” 

“I’m starving!”

“That’s hardly my fault,” Scott scoffed. “Have some initiative, Owen.” 

“Oakhurst is on red alert. And because of your actions, Cleo—the farmer girl—has taken your other spawn and vanished with him. If you’re trying to make an army, you’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“Who ever said that was what I’m doing?” Scott laughed. “Cleo sounds like easy prey. Why are you whining to me instead of hunting for her? Does the fledgling need help? Or if you’re struggling, Owen, just wait long enough. Martyn will do the job for you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Careful.” Scott smiled coldly, stepping closer. Owen leaned away—but not before Scott caught the younger vampire by the chin, brushing his thumb up his jaw. “Is that any way to talk to your elders?”

Owen sank his teeth into his tongue to hold back his fury, uncaring for the sharp pain left by his own fangs. As Owen took a second of silence to keep himself from saying anything he’d truly regret, Scott’s expression morphed into amusement. It was all Owen could do not to punch him in his smug face. 

“You’re so angry,” Scott mused. His thumb caught the corner of Owen’s lips and for a split second, his claw pressed against flesh. Then as suddenly as he had reached out, Scott drew back, clasping his hands idly behind his back. 

“...of course I’m angry,” Owen grumbled, reeling slightly. Abruptly, he felt exhausted. The combination of hunger, stress, and dealing with the infuriating vampire in front of him was giving him a pounding headache. “I just want to go back to sleep. I’m not interested in this game you’re trying to play. I want to get rid of Oakhurst again and be done with this.” 

“Are you sure about that? The only one of us who seems to be playing a game is you,” Scott remarked. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not pretending to be anything I’m not. I’m not playing nice with the humans, befriending them, acting like I belong. I know exactly what I am—and the villagers know what I am too. I like it that way. You, Owen, are the one continuing to playact. Isn’t it easier to just…give it up?”

Owen stared at Scott’s saccharine smile. 

“I mean really,” the vampire continued, “What do you honestly hope to accomplish?”

Owen didn’t have an answer to that. The difficult truth to swallow was that he had no idea what he was doing. His only two goals were to see Oakhurst razed to rubble once more and to die. His journey to either of those ends seemed foggy and uncertain. 

The silence stretched on between them, taut. Scott’s red eyes crinkled with pity; Owen quickly looked away, unable to bear it. 

“Let me give you direction,” murmured Scott, stepping closer. His hand settled on Owen’s shoulder. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I know exactly what to do. You just listen to me.” 

“I don’t take orders from you.” Owen’s voice came out as a whisper, his gaze fixated on the floor beneath his feet. 

“Of course not.” Scott brushed a lock of Owen’s messy hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. “Just…suggestions. You don’t have anything against accepting suggestions, do you?” 

Owen swallowed. 

“...fine.” It tasted like defeat on his tongue—something thick and shameful, some speck of life left in him that corroded away with his agreement. But then Owen looked up to see Scott peering back at him, smiling something faint and self-satisfied. 

And despite everything, despite Owen’s grief and turmoil and anger—God, was there a sense of relief. To no longer wander aimlessly. To no longer have to think when doing so just hurt. Even if only for a moment. 

Maybe—for a little while—this was okay. 

Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling Owen against his side as he began to stride across the room. Clumsily, Owen let the vampire drag him along. 

“Perfect,” Scott hummed. “Don’t worry. Don’t you worry. Here’s what you’re going to do, Owen. Go play nice with Pyro and bring him here. I’ll have a talk with him. And then we can all chat about what to do with Oakhurst and the runaway farmer. Nice and simple.”

“I can hear you patronizing me,” mumbled Owen. His voice came out petulant and small, lacking any real bite. Scott’s answering chuckle was warm, reverberating between them. 

“Run along,” he purred. “Come back with Pyro.”

Scott’s hand pushed lightly on the small of Owen’s back, urging him towards the stairs. Obediently, Owen stepped away, awkwardly adjusting his sleeves. For a moment, Scott merely watched him, expectant. 

Owen didn’t know what to say. And so after a moment's hesitation, without saying anything at all, he turned and rushed up the stairs, back towards the hallways of the crypt. 

Scott’s pleased laugh followed him out, long after Owen had left the tunnels behind and was advancing once more into the light of the day. 

Something in Owen’s stomach twisted, nauseous with shame. But for the first time since he awoke, his next move was clear. There was no doubt, no fog, no questioning. 

Following orders should not have made him feel so dizzy with relief. Certainly not orders from the likes of Scott. 

But it did.

---

Cleo gathered up the necessary supplies in her bag, leaving the rest on the cave floor beside Martyn. She was cautious as she ventured out, listening closely for any signs of life. 

Owen was long gone, but the conversation Cleo had overheard returned in a jolt when she looked at the spot he and Pyro had argued. The weight of that revelation was crushing, settling on her shoulders like lead. 

She should warn Oakhurst. Warn Apo. No matter her differences with the other townsfolk, they should be aware of the vampires in their midst—especially if those vampires were aligned with Scott. 

Unfortunately, Cleo suspected it was more complicated than that. Pyro certainly hadn’t seemed happy with either of the other two—he was in the same situation as Martyn, turned against his will. Cleo had the sinking suspicion that if she hadn’t decided to rescue Martyn, he would have caved easily to Scott’s sway if the vampire lord was the one to greet him upon awakening. 

It wasn’t as simple as good versus evil here, and Cleo hated that. Things would have been so much easier. 

But Martyn was her priority right now. He was the one under her care, not Oakhurst; not anymore. 

It took venturing out further than Cleo was comfortable with to find a sheep grazing on the underbrush. She lured it back to the cave (anxiously looking around all the while), uncertain if Martyn needed live prey or not—but unwilling to risk killing it too early. 

It took some nudging, but eventually the sheep crept inside their makeshift home, bleating in confusion. 

Martyn looked at the animal in fear as Cleo followed it inside. 

“...have at it,” Cleo offered, awkwardly gesturing to the oblivious creature. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Martyn whispered. He tiptoed around the perimeter of the cave, giving the sheep a large gap, wringing his hands all the while.

Cleo hesitated, a bit uncertain herself. 

“Do you feel anything?” they asked, watching Martyn closely. 

He frowned, staring intently at the sheep. 

“I’m hungry,” he admitted, taking a seemingly unconscious step forward. “I’m hungry, but I don’t…I don’t know. It’s weird, I—I’m a little scared.” 

Cleo’s gaze darted down to Martyn’s mouth. His lips were slightly parted and for the first time, she noticed his fangs. She was almost certain they were more prominent than before, extended—which made sense, since she felt certain she would have noticed if Scott, Owen, or Pyro had full on vampire fangs. 

“Just do what feels natural,” she suggested, trying to hide her uncertainty. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this was encouraging something dangerous. “Don’t think.” 

“Easy for you to say,” Martyn grumbled, taking another tiny step forward. Then another. He inched across the cave floor until he could kneel beside the sheep; Cleo in turn stepped back, closer to the cave entrance, giving them space. 

They watched as Martyn reached out, stroking a hand gently over the creature’s wool. His eyes had narrowed to pinpricks, entirely focused, as though there was nothing on Earth besides the sheep in front of him. Tenderly, Martyn drew a hand down its head, over its ears, until his palm settled at the nape of its neck. 

When the vampire struck, it was so fast that Cleo didn’t even have time to gasp. 

Gone was any ounce of hesitation or doubt. In an instant, Martyn’s fangs were buried in the sheep’s throat, his arms holding down the flailing, shrieking creature with a strength his slight frame shouldn’t have possessed. 

The sheep’s struggles grew weaker and weaker as he drank, until finally it went still—helpless under the vampire’s grip, offering only the occasional twitch. 

Martyn drank like he was starved, blood staining the sheep’s pale wool and re-staining his collar. 

It could have been an eternity or nothing more than seconds; either way, Cleo was spellbound, unable to look away despite the uncomfortable twisting sensation in their stomach. 

At long last, Martyn finally drew back with a soft gasp. The corpse of the sheep lay lifeless on the floor as he straightened. 

Cleo flinched when he turned towards her. Blood coated Martyn’s teeth, staining his lips and dripping down his chin. His fangs were even longer than before, razor sharp as his tongue darted over them, collecting the remnants of his meal—and his expression looked dazed, the faintest edge of a smile catching the corners of his mouth. 

The part Cleo couldn’t look away from, however, were his eyes. While before they were blue—even after Martyn had turned—now they shone a deep crimson red. 

“That’s better,” Martyn sighed, an almost dreamy quality to his voice. He swayed slightly, unaware or uncaring of the blood on his face and hands. “That’s…so much better.” 

He stepped away from the sheep, advancing towards her. 

“Martyn,” said Cleo warily, shuffling a step back. 

“Cleo!” replied the vampire lightly, breaking into a bright smile. “You’re so nice.”

Martyn suddenly lunged—startling a bitten back shriek from Cleo as she impacted the cave’s stone wall. His arms slipped around her waist, hugging her tightly, and he was so close that all she could smell was the thick, iron-drenched scent of blood. 

Her heart pounded rapidfire in her chest. Martyn’s was silent. 

“You scared me, before,” Martyn murmured, slow and languid. “In Oakhurst…you were so…intimidating. You don’t scare me so much anymore.” 

“That’s—that’s good,” said Cleo weakly. Tentatively, they reached down, placing their hands on Martyn’s forearms. “Martyn, let go of me.” 

“I can smell you,” Martyn admitted, peering up at her. Cleo gaped at him. “Even with the sheep and all the blood—I can still smell you. Like you’re bleeding everywhere. It won’t go away.”

“That’s creepy,” Cleo deadpanned. It was an effort to keep their voice from shaking. Instead, they forced themself to take a deep breath, to not panic. This was fine. This was normal. They were not in danger—probably. 

Martyn frowned. 

“’s not my fault,” he petulantly said, words slurring slightly. “I can’t help it. It jus’ happens. Everything is so loud too. The birds. The wind. It’s all so loud.”

“Your senses are different,” Cleo realized. The implications of that temporarily overpowered her fear. 

“I don’t like it.” 

The sudden derision in Martyn’s voice—so opposite his previous joy—prompted Cleo to take a chance. 

“Let go of me, Martyn,” she said firmly. “I mean it. You’re scaring me.” 

He looked up at her, for a moment seeming nothing but confused. Cleo pushed on his arms again, nudging him back. 

Like reality came crashing down, Martyn suddenly released her like he had been burned. He stumbled back out of their embrace, nearly tripping over the dead sheep in his haste to reach the opposite side of the room. 

“Oh my God,” he choked, pressing his back to the cave wall. He stared at her—then at the sheep. Then at his hands. 

Martyn’s legs buckled as he sank to the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he was already saying, before Cleo could even get a word out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t—oh fuck.” 

“Well,” said Cleo shakily, a bit hysterically, “This has been quite the learning experience. Drinking a whole sheep’s worth of blood makes you drunk. And…clingy.”

“I’m sorry. That was so out of line. That was—I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean to frighten you, Cleo.”

Martyn’s voice grew very, very small as he spoke. Cleo deeply sighed, turning away. They took a moment to collect themself. 

“I need to clean this up,” they said distantly, gesturing towards the exsanguinated sheep. Martyn offered a tiny nod, not meeting their eyes. 

It was a struggle to maneuver the sheep’s dead weight. In the end, Cleo decided they were already blood soaked enough due to the last twenty four hours, and slung the animal over their shoulder to haul it outside. 

For a moment, they considered butchering it, before ultimately deciding Martyn’s efforts had likely made the creature inedible. To leave the corpse nearby would bring unnecessary attention to their hideout—dangerous attention. So Cleo hurled the sheep into the river and watched the waters wash it away. 

She reentered the cave to find Martyn standing, waiting for her. He stood at attention in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, clearly having made a clumsy effort to wipe away the blood from his hands and face. 

Cleo raised a questioning eyebrow. Softly, Martyn cleared his throat. 

“I deeply apologize,” he murmured, stiff and formal. His tone was almost delicate. “I-I am so sorry. I lost myself for a moment. It doesn’t atone for any of my actions, but I never meant to scare you. I don’t want to hurt you, I—” Martyn cut himself off with a shudder and a quick swallow, ducking his head. “That’s all.” 

Cleo watched him quietly, a sudden exhaustion overtaking them. With a sigh, they lifted their hand to rub the bridge of their nose. 

Martyn flinched. 

Cleo froze. Very slowly, she lowered her arm back to her side. The silence between them hung tangibly, thick with tension. 

“Martyn…” they said, very softly. “You scared me. But ultimately, there was no harm done. Neither of us know what to expect in this situation.”

Martyn nodded, head still turned away. He was trembling, almost imperceptibly. 

Cleo hesitated. 

“...I’m not going to hit you,” she said. 

A few too many beats of silence passed before Martyn nodded again, more jerky this time. 

“I know,” he said, flashing her a faint, terribly fake smile. “I didn’t think you would.” 

For a moment, Cleo wanted to push the issue further. She was far from blind of the implications of what had just occurred. But in her moment of hesitation, Martyn’s face turned pleading, and Cleo closed her mouth. 

The vampirism took priority right then. 

“I should explain to you what is going on,” they said. Martyn nodded gratefully. Cleo sat down, gesturing for Martyn to do the same—both of them ignoring the fresh blood on the floor and the dried blood crusted on their clothes. 

“...where are we?” Martyn asked, as Cleo struggled to decide where to start. 

“In a little cave in the side of a hill.” She gratefully accepted the jumping off point. “Pretty deep in the woods, next to the river. I didn’t want to be near Oakhurst, the castle, or the dead forest. I didn’t want to be near any structures people might explore either.”

“I don’t remember much. I…remember you singing.” 

“You died,” said Cleo gently. “No pulse. No breathing.”

“Right.” Martyn shakily nodded. “Because I’m undead now.” 

“I carried you out of the crypt and back to Oakhurst,” Cleo explained. Martyn looked startled for a moment—only for his eyes to suddenly grow misty. He blinked a few times quickly; Cleo watched him closely as she continued. “I had a standoff with Apo. The village doesn’t want a vampire in their walls.” 

“I don’t blame them,” Martyn murmured. 

“I decided to leave with you, then. I wasn’t going to kill you and I wasn’t going to abandon you either. So I walked into the forest until I found this place, and waited for you to wake up.” 

There was something painful about the degree of admiration in Martyn’s expression as he gazed up at her. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered, awed. “Cleo, I…I don’t know what to say. You risked so much for me, and I was never anything but rude to you.” 

“Please,” Cleo scoffed, “You are hardly the most entitled person I’ve met. I did it because it was the right thing to do. And I don’t regret it.” 

“Thank you.” Martyn’s voice went shy. 

“You’re welcome,” said Cleo sincerely. “Now. Onto other issues.” 

They straightened, biting back a quick flash of amusement when Martyn unconsciously mimicked them. 

“Owen and Pyro are vampires,” Cleo began. Martyn’s jaw dropped. 

“What?!”

“I overheard them talking earlier today. At some point, Pyro was turned by Scott. I don’t know Owen’s situation, but he’s one too. Pyro seems more conflicted, but…Owen seems to be in league with Scott. And the villagers of Oakhurst don’t know.”

“That’s bad.” Martyn’s voice was muffled by a worried hand clamped over his mouth. “That’s really bad. They could kill them. Or turn people! Cleo—no one deserves to be turned. We can’t let that happen to them.” 

Cleo agreed wholeheartedly. She had already been turning over ideas in her mind of how to communicate their knowledge with the residents of Oakhurst. 

But instead of voicing those thoughts, she instead carefully said, “Martyn…are you sure? They left you to fend for yourself against Scott. And when they found out you were bitten, they wanted to stake you. I wouldn’t blame you if you want nothing to do with them.” 

Martyn hesitated, flickers of fear and confliction flashing across his face until finally, he looked away. 

“I don’t blame them,” he said quietly. “I think I would have been the same way about one of them. I’m not brave. I’m not…kind. And now I’m not even human. But I don’t want this happening to anyone else. I don’t want anyone to die.”

“Alright.” Cleo smiled faintly. “That sounds good, then.”

Hesitantly, Martyn smiled back. 

Energized, Cleo clapped their hands together once. “Time to plan, then. We have a lot we need to do—for ourselves and for Oakhurst.”

“Okay.” Martyn leaned forward excitedly. It was then that Cleo noticed that at some point in their discussion, his crimson eyes had returned to their natural blue and his fangs had retracted to small points. He looked the most alive Cleo had seen him since before the crypt. 

Cleo’s chest went warm. No matter what happened next, no matter what had happened—this was a victory. 

She made the right choice, sparing Martyn.

They began to plan.