Weekly Drabble #222: Deathly Slumber (Patreon)

As we've got 'i'll sleep when I'm dead' from Stormblessed, 'wake the dead' from Pethrai D'arkos and 'haunting' from Knightress (astute readers may detect a certain theme), it should come as no surprise that this week's story is a bit on the spooky side. Just a tad. :P

Enjoy!

~

Deathly Slumber:

Vampires, it was said, slept like the dead. It was a common joke made by vampire hunters, but there was a ring of truth to it as well. Their daylight slumber was deep, almost unto death itself. Almost, but not so deep that they didn’t dream at all. The hunter knew this well. He was well acquainted with the habits and behaviours of mankind’s nocturnal foe.

Like a ghost, he moved through the halls of a stately manor, so light on his feet that a cat would have seemed clumsy and loud. The house was a fine one; large, but not ostentatious and no more sinister in aspect than that of the banker, the head of the local trade guild or any of the other wealthy members of society within the town and across the region, nothing to make any passersby look at it twice and for those that did, a high iron fence separated the grounds from the nosy and the suspicious.

The hunter ascended the heavy wooden staircase to the building’s upper levels, finding an unlocked door and letting himself in to the largest suite in the house.The tall, arched windows of the mansion’s master bedroom let a thin line of sunlight shine through the slit between the heavy curtains, the bright, warm sliver of illumination stretching towards, but not quite reaching, the stately four-poster bed in the center of the room. That was by design, not accident.

The chamber was well-kept and luxurious, but like the house itself, it was not to the point of being ostentatious or particularly gothic, though the shadows swallowed much of the detail within the room,from the pattern of the rug that the bed stood upon, to the paintings that hung on the walls. A figure lay unmoving on the bed, deep asleep and utterly unaware of the intruder in their home.

Sleeping like the dead.

The hunter approached the bed cautiously; beneath the covers, a vampire slept, her eyes closed. She appeared to be a young woman, but the undead were ageless. She could have been the age she appeared, or she could have been very, very old. Taking off his cloak, the hunter stood next to the sleeping vampiress, staring at her for several moments before sitting lightly on the bed next to her.

In his left hand, he held a cup and he dipped the fore- and middle fingers of his right hand in the warm pig’s blood that half-filled it. With a small smile, he placed his fingers just under the vampiress’s nose. In her sleep, she sniffed at it, the scent calling to her as it slithered into her dreams. The hunter’s small grin deepened as he watched the vampiress’s unconscious reaction to salty, metallic odour.

Her lips parted and fangs lengthened. She bit at nothing, her jaws working as if she had warm, struggling prey in her grasp. Her tongue licked at the air and she made soft keening whines in her sleep, unable to satisfy the sudden rush of hunger that the hunter had conjured to tease her.

Once she started to drool, the hunter took pity on her and let a few drops of blood drip from his fingers into her mouth. As soon as the liquid hit her tongue, she swallowed and her eyes snapped open, pupils wide in the darkness. She saw him and started, then relaxed. He dipped his fingers in the cup again and this time she opened her mouth, sucking them clean. She bit him gently, catching the tip of his forefinger with one of her lower fangs.

“I’m back,” he told her.

She murmured in recognition of that fact, only reluctantly letting go of his hand so that he could dip his fingers in the cup a second time, letting her lick them clean. “So you are,” she observed. “I suppose you’re the reason my dreams changed so abruptly.”

He nodded, quite amused and rather pleased with himself.

She huffed in faux irritation. “There are other ways you can wake me up,” she told him, her eyes twinkling. “And a lot more enjoyable than teasing your poor, benighted lover so childishly.”

“There are, but this was still fun.”

The vampiress grabbed her lover’s wrist, holding his hand in place. This time when she bit him, she pressed hard enough that the tip of her fang pierced his skin. Her tongue coaxed a single small droplet of human blood out before she let him go. She leaned back on the bed, looking towards the windows and the slit of sunlight that stabbed through them. “You’re back early. The hunt went well?”

He nodded. “A Feral. It left a path easy enough to find.” And the bones of the villagers who’d first followed that suspiciously obvious trail.

She shuddered in revulsion and dread. There were things even vampires feared, and their debased, degenerated cousins were one such horror. Then, more attentive, she straightened and took her companion by the shoulders, looking him over and sniffing him carefully.

“I’m not hurt,” he told her, but only when she was satisfied that there was no trace of his own blood upon him did she relax, staring into his eyes.

“I’m only making sure. You might not even feel it.”

He smiled carefully, holding up the finger she’d bitten. It was still bleeding. “I know how vampire bites work.”

She snorted, though she was visibly relieved to have him back. “That’s the third Feral you’ve encountered this year,” she pointed out. “They’ve never been this numerous.” She paused, then added. “Even the Conclave is growing concerned.”

“So is the Council.”

She took his hand again, guiding his forefinger back between her lips and gingerly nursed a few more drops of blood from him before she let him take his hand away. “Go wash up,” she told him. “You smell like sweat, dirt and a pile of old leaves. If you’re not going to take advantage of a helpless vampire damsel as she slumbers, then the least you can do is wash up before you ravish her.” Her eyes twinkled. “Or maybe the other way around.”

The hunter stood, pantomiming dipping a hat he wasn’t wearing. “Of course, my lady. I will see you anon.”

Before he could leave, she held out her hand. “Leave the cup.”

Smiling, he passed the glass of pig’s blood to her. As she took it, she stood up and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m glad you made it back in one piece,” she told him.

“So am I,” he said, returning the kiss. She grinned warmly, then scrunched her face. “Shoo. Go bathe, sweaty human.”

He chuckled and took his leave to find a warm bath and wash the day’s events from his flesh. It had been a quick hunt, but a difficult one. It was good to be home.