Black Angus – Chapter 13

This is a working draft and not a final product.

Content Warnings: You know what I think this one is actually just fine. I mean, the circumstances are very much not fine, and spooky things happen. But, ah, yep, nothing to report here specifically. 👍

In which Angus gets into mischief.

Gryllcrosse

A brown rat crawled up the cording stone siding of a house in Gryllcrosse and dashed across the nearly touching rooftops of its neighbors, taking care not to slip in the lightly falling rain. Her thin pink nails clicked against slats of clay, patched with coarse spots of gray lichen and the occasional splatter of bird shit. Lanterns glowed across the streets along the inner parts of town, where she stuck to the shadows in alleyways to avoid the sight of people, all of them so sure of their animal superiority. At one point, a terrier rushed her, but she knew the streets well and wove into a crack in the wall of an aging building to her right. She dragged her belly through dirt and rotting wood until she emerged through a corner. Her tiny, precise hands grasped a web of vines that traced up a window, which illuminated the dreary, blue-gray streets outside with warm, inviting light. The vibrations of music hummed past the glass, jostling her wet fur. The rat climbed higher, where she found a familiar hole worn through one of the shingles. She descended to the rafters, where plenty of drizzle had already started to gather.

Below, many loathsome people convened. They sang along a the talentless minstrel, drank pitchers of swill, and competed for the attentions of too-friendly women. Edwina was amongst them. Esther had been talking with the spiders recently, who had told her someone had been around the night before, inquiring the girl’s whereabouts. Her bulging black eyes skittered from patron to patron, looking for anyone who looked out of place, but none jumped out at her.

There were three men talking to Edwina and another working girl, one of them still practically a boy. The other two were mature; one with a shaved head and the other a shaved face. All three looked like bastards. Every single man in the building looked like a bastard.

At one table, two young couples were hunched over in an intense conversation —notable, but the person asking about Edwina had been alone. Solo patrons included a woman asleep at the bar, a drunk dancing with a pantomime of an adoring partner, a crying man holding a one-sided conversation with a bored working girl, and a vibrant fellow at the bar exchanging crude jokes with one of the two bartenders —all of the usual scum. Noxious perfumes, sour body odor, and spilled whiskey drifted up towards her, unpleasant but still better than the stale mildew that saturated the roof from the elements outdoors. She waddled across a thick beam in the rafters to the center for a different perspective.

Edwina slid her umber hand down the arm of the young man before her, smiling and nodding at the clean-faced man with him. She led the boy towards the stairs next to the bar. The man speaking to the bartender glanced up at two as they walked closer, drawing a pipe from a trifold and a box of matches.

A horrible compulsion seized Esther’s psyche as the box slid open wrong, feeling the blunder happen before she’d registered what exactly she had witnessed. The man’s hand had slipped, scattering at least two dozen matchsticks across the carpeted floor. She dropped from the rafters down to the ground where the matchsticks were, and Edwina fell to her hands and knees as well. Several folks screeched at the sight of the rat. Esther picked up one matchstick and dodged a boot as she leapt to grab another, Edwina’s wide eyes darting to her over and over between reaches, helpless from stopping.

“Two . . . ?” the man murmured under his breath, placing the pipe on the bar as he rose from the bench. He reached down to pluck Esther up by the scruff. She struggled but could not turn her neck far enough to bite the man’s hand, holding three of the matchsticks close to her belly. On the ground below, Edwina kept losing count, unable to focus in Esther’s unexpected presence.

“My apologies sir,” the bartender interjected, “Allow me to clear your tab. We do our best to keep the vermin out.”

Anatoliy turned the squirming rat around at eye level. “Never you worry. This is not an ordinary rat, I think. She seems to be contagious,” he said, his eyes connecting with Esther’s glassy black orbs for a moment before turning his head to the bartender, “—Do you have an empty jar I can use? I doubt you want her condition to spread.”

“Thirty-five,” Edwina muttered softly, rising to her feet with the matches in her hand, a frantic look still captive in her eyes. She saw Esther with the three matches still in her tiny paws. “No. Thirty-eight.”

Edwina placed the matches down in a pile on the bar, watching Anatoliy with seething but contained hatred as he handled Esther. The bartender returned from the back with a gallon-size glass jar that still lingered with the scent of vinegar. Esther hissed as she was plopped inside, dropping her matches.

“Excuse the girl. She suffers from arithmomania; it afflicts her with a hysteria when it comes to small, untidy objects. Perfectly sane besides the one harmless quirk,” the bartender explained with a polite nod and a forced smile.

Anatoliy glanced Edwina up and down. “It is I who should be apologizing, then. Excuse me for disrupting your business, and let me disturb you no further. I promise the little creature will come to no harm.” He stepped to the side, clearing a path to the stairs beside the bar.

Edwina shifted her eyes from Esther to Anatoliy. She gave a curt nod and continued escorting the young man upstairs. Taking his seat back at the bar, Anatoliy slid a short stack of coins to the man behind the bar.

“Thank you for your patronage,” the bartender said, slipping the coins into his purse before excusing himself.

Anatoliy examined the clasp that held the lid to the jar down tight. Unsatisfied with the seal, he took a candle from his bag and lit it on one of the nearby lanterns. He dribbled wax along the seam of the jar’s lid so that not even a wisp of smoke could pass through. Esther paced back and forth with displeasure, stopping to stand with her front paws planted against the interior of the jar when it was placed back on the bar. She stared intensely in Anatoliy’s direction.

Anatoliy met her eyes just briefly, wincing and turning his face away. “Stop that!” he shooed, smacking the side of the jar, knocking her back on all fours. Esther continued to stare at him.

“I said I will not hurt you, and I intend to keep my promise. You do not know it yet, but I am your friend,” Anatoliy addressed her sideways.

Esther held her stance, waiting for him to slip up. There was something sloppy about the man’s method. If he was hunting them, then he must not have been active in the trade for very long, despite his mature appearance. He wouldn’t be able to watch her for the whole night, and he’d have to be alone at some point once the bar closed and the other patrons turned in. After that, he was a dead man.

Anatoliy nursed the pitcher before him. Two vampires; one of them a rat. Perhaps, a pet, but the more cautious assumption was to rely on the folktales that claimed vampires could transform their shape into those of wild beasts. Though, Angus had never done such a thing while they were together, as far as he was aware.

Ten minutes passed, and the young man whom Edwina had escorted awkwardly came down the stairs. After another seven or so, Edwina followed, heading directly toward Anatoliy once she’d descended.

“Upstairs?” she asked coyly.

“Right here is fine,” Anatoliy answered with a warm smile. He waved his hand over an empty seat. Edwina sourly obliged.

“Tell me, is my friend still alive?” she asked in a hushed tone, a slight snarl hitching one of her nostrils. Her hand braced the edge of the bar.

Anatoliy creased his brow and slid the jar over the waxed wooden surface into her possession. “Yes, of course. She’s right here, as I said she would be.” Esther beat her little pink palms in Edwina’s direction.

“Not her,” Edwina corrected, snatching the jar to cradle in her lap, “Angus. —Did you kill him?” Her voice caught on the question.

Anatoliy’s expression dropped and he adjusted his posture. “Kill? What do you mean? Has something happened to him?”

“So you know him, then. You talk first. What do you know? His last letter sounded urgent and I haven’t heard from him in the past three days since. He’d written me every day before that.”

Relief settled into Anatoliy’s fluttering eyelids. “I’m trying to contact him too. I believe he was abducted by, um . . . another —you know,” Anatoliy stalled, waving his hand towards Edwina and checking their surroundings.

Edwina rolled her eyes. “Whatever for? I mean, if he’s with one of the family, that means he’s safe, right?”

Anatoliy scoffed. “You and I have very different definitions of ‘safe’. —Surely, he has told you how it is he came to join your ‘family’?”

Edwina reeled at the thought that the man before her could know more about her cousin’s history than she did. Yet, when she searched her mind for details, she found very few.

“He . . . was Friedolf’s lover. It’s a common practice. Esther and I were in a relationship before she turned me,” Edwina reasoned as panic wavered under the surface. She stroked the side of the glass jar she held in her lap. Glancing down at her dear Esther, a question hung on Edwina’s lip, if only the woman who’d sired her were a in state to answer.

“Excuse me,” she said to Anatoliy. Rising from her seat with the jar in her hands, she ascended upstairs.

Anatoliy leaned forward, crossing his arms over the bar and staring into the foamy dregs of his nearly empty pitcher. His heart pattered erratically in his breast. Perhaps trailing Edwina here from the letter she’d sent to Angus had been a mistake —one that could end his life before he could even make a move on Ulvenkeep. The women were quiet upstairs. If he was lucky, maybe they were fleeing. Or, maybe they were discussing how to kill him.

He reached into his sack and withdrew the idol he’d retrieved along the ride departing Blithe-Rock. Angus had performed the ritual incorrectly, but Anatoliy had amended the error before reuniting with his god. Being a patron of the sun, fire was incredibly important to Khors-Dazhbog. Anatoliy picked up the pile of matches that Edwina had gathered earlier, struck one, and lit the remains of his pipe. The smoke numbed his mouth and calmed his nerves.

Esther was the first down the stairs. Her conservative clothes and hair outed her as divergent from their environment, and along with her familiar mouse-brown hair, Anatoliy instantly recognized who she was, though it was the first time he’d ever seen her this way. The direct eye contact he received from her confirmed this innate knowledge. Edwina appeared a few steps behind. The two women stood side by side in front of Anatoliy, terrifying with their mismatched auras.

“Let me recount the circumstances as I understand them,” Esther said, “Angus was splitting a room with a man with whom he was having an affair. I assume that was you.”

“You’re the good kisser!” Edwina interrupted with a soft gasp, raising her hand half-way over her mouth. Her eyes trailed over his sturdy shoulders as she ogled him under new found perspective.

Anatoliy raised his eyebrows as he straightened in his seat. “I, ah, suppose I must be,” he confessed. He waggled the stem of the pipe over his bottom lip in a subconscious fashion. The way Edwina looked at him left Anatoliy feeling severely exposed. He received attention from women not too infrequently, but he never knew what to do about it. Certainly, it was for the best if other men took on that responsibility, though there was no point in denying that Edwina was a stunning creature.

Esther cleared her throat. “Clearly, he has a type. —So, I imagine Angus slipped you so many sweet words about never having to grow old. Now, he’s gone back to be with Friedolf, leaving you jilted out of love and everlasting life, and you’re not so willing to let go.” She smiled insincerely at him.

Anatoliy decided that he did not like this woman very much; she had a smug face and made lots of assumptions. He was aware that if he had the chance to see Angus again, that forgiveness was too kind of a thing to hope for. Forgiveness, though, was a thing he could live without. What Anatoliy couldn’t endure was waking up everyday in the skin of the man who allowed the future to run its course. Seeing the furniture strewn about in their room, the strongbox on the table, the poster on the floor, Angus gone; it was the same feeling as being fifteen again, with earth and blood smeared through his hair —the first time he’d ever killed another person.

“I am going to find him because,” his voice cracked, “what happened to him was my fault. I am a worthless man if I do not fix my mistake.”

“In that, we more than agree. Men, by their very nature, are worthless,” Esther sniffed. “If Angus is with Friedolf, then he’s better off for it. He’s never turned anyone before; I’m sure he hadn’t meant to make an exception for you. It’d be wisest if you moved on and forgot this happened. Angus seemed fond of you, so I’ll let you walk this very moment if you promise never to show your face in Gryllcrosse again.”

“You are so critical of my sex, and yet you trust this Friedolf? For what reason?” Anatoliy’s nose wrinkled as he pulled back in his stool.

Esther flinched at Anatoily’s words. “Friedolf is my brother in blood. I’ve known him for centuries.” She straightened her posture as if it were evidence of her word. Edwina watched them both in rapt silence, her brown eyes wide and round. Once again, the man had made implications about the one who had turned Angus, but he still wasn’t being clear.

“Your brother is the worst kind of man there is,” Anatoliy snarled, forsaking diplomacy to freely speak his mind. He wished to say more, to rant about all of the wrongdoings the monster had committed against Angus, to call him cruel names, to curse him. Maybe then the vampire woman would believe him. Only, it was not his story to tell.

Esther tsked. “They all are when they have your ex-lover on their arm, aren’t they? You forget the sort of terrors men are truly capable of at their worst.”

Blood flushed to Anatoliy’s face. He knew she was deliberately provoking him, yet that knowledge did nothing to prevent the effect her words had. It did not matter that she kept cool while his emotions swept him away. His feelings were there, and they mattered, and he would not pretend they did not exist for the sheer sake of vanity.

“Fine. You want to hear me say it bothers me? It does,” Anatoliy confessed, “I just may have gotten caught up in fantasy after our first morning together as lovers. I thought foolish little things like ‘What if I put down my sword and picked up a trade? Purchased a house, kept a muzh there, and gave him all I have? Live to be fat and old, and die comfortable and happy?’ Could such a thing be possible for one like myself?

“I didn’t yet then know what he was. But, I grew up on stories whose verses were abundant with magic and fantastic creatures. After living an ordinary life as an ordinary man, how can you expect me to simply give him up?” Anatoliy moved his hands about as he spoke. “With Angus with me, my life is turned into poetry. I am part of those stories I heard as a boy. I know you must see me as a brute, but I, too, crave peace and beauty. And I know all about the terrible things men can do. I have seen them myself. I have had to fight alongside such men, and sometimes smile uncomfortably at them. They’d act as though we were friends, but I knew the things they would do to my own family were they given the opportunity.

“I have not spoken lightly. The world has no shortage of terrible men walking its soil, and your brother is one of the worst. Damn you —And you may as well damn Angus too, if you don’t believe me.”

Edwina drew a wet breath. Standing behind Esther, she shut her eyes and let out a fragile, warbling cry. Signs of mourning flowed all throughout her body, into her hands, her expression, her posture. She felt it inside her -the words Anatoliy hadn’t said, the sick and awful things too terrible to say- crawling around within her, concealed in the accursed darkness.

“Oh Hell,” she wept, “Please, it cannot be.”

Esther was not so easily convinced. “No. —No,” she said softly, her hands trembling as she shook her head.

Very casually, Anatoliy slipped his left hand into his pocket to touch the foul-smelling bundle Angus had given him, fidgeting with another match with his right, ready to strike its flame should he need to make an emergency exit.

“I am going to Ulvenkeep to kill this monster. The only reason I came here first is because her letter had me believe Angus had friends or family here who might be willing to help me,” Anatoliy said, making an aloof gesture toward Edwina, “I see I was wrong.”

Edwina finally spoke up. “You’ll surely die if you go.”

Anatoliy nodded stiffly. “It is better than living a complete life in dishonor.” He turned to look Esther in the eye, “I would not ask you to accompany me in sending your brother to Veles. My hands are already dirty. I wish only for information. And . . . one other thing.”

Esther’s eyes narrowed, “What might that be?”

“On our final night together, Angus came back to me wounded. He asked me to help heal him. The following morning, I was fatigued at first, for sure, but after that wore off . . . For the next several days, my senses —they were keener, sharper. If I face this creature, I need every advantage I can get without losing the edge of moving freely through the light of the sun.”

“He wants us to bite him,” Edwina gasped.

“You’re serious about this,” Esther said, struggling to comprehend, “Whatever it is that you believe, you’re ready to bet your life on it. —Which is what, exactly?”

“The denial of free will,” Anatoliy answered, “In sex, in love, in his own death, and much more. Angus has never had control over his own life. Everything that could be taken from him has been. The finer details, I think, you should hear about from your cousin directly.” He turned his eyes towards his shoes.

Esther smoldered. She hated how easy it was to believe the human man -a stranger- with no proof other than his word. Turning to Edwina, she said, “This is why men should never be gifted.”

She tilted her sharp chin up to Anatoliy, “We’ll finish this conversation back at home. I’ll tell you everything there is to know.”

Ulvenkeep

It was daytime. Sunlight illuminated from behind tall brocade curtains fixed to the floor by a line of steel hoops. The first thing Angus noticed was that he was not in his bed at Green Side Inn. As his consciousness drifted in, he realized he recognized the room, flushed with forest green from its damask wallpaper, suede armchairs, and slippery silk sheets that Angus’s body sank into like the burrow of an antlion. It was one of Ulvenkeep’s guest rooms. He’d slept here a handful of times before, in the arms of various ancient creatures who’d stroked his hair and bit him on his squirming waist. It was the first room in Ulvenkeep he’d ever stayed the night in when he was only seventeen. If he bothered to look, he might even find dribbles of his blood, stained into the floorboards.

He was wearing a clean linen shirt, and hair was coming in on his chin. A porcelain bowl was sitting on the bedside table, and by smell alone, without being able to look inside, Angus already knew there was a pool of room-temperature blood waiting for him in it. With not too much effort, he could lift his arms, but his head felt leaden. It hurt just to remember that his damned head was still attached to his body, sharp headaches eagerly rousing at the attention freshly given, slits of sunlight from the curtains cutting his corneas. However, it was viable for him to roll onto his side, positioning one of his shoulders so that it propped up his cheek, and this way Angus was able to reach for the bowl and tilt its contents to his lips without wasting them to the sheets. Despite the blood wanting for freshness, having sat out a number of hours and growing quite cool, there was a distinct purity to its taste, as though its host had been exceptionally healthy. Naturally, he wanted more right away, but that was always the case. The pain in his head subsided, and the stiffness in his joints, which he had not even yet registered, was soothed.

Far, far off in another part of the massive house, perhaps even off grounds, there was more blood; a lot more. Angus could smell it. He tried to lift himself once more, but still, his head too greatly weighed him down. With the sun up, now would be the best time for Angus to explore the area uninhibited, if he could only get out of bed. He rolled from his side onto his stomach and pressed up from his palms, his elbows wobbling as his spine and neck hung, but he was able to slide his knees forward, allowing him to shift his weight to his tailbone and slowly raise himself into a low kneeling position. Angus inched toward the edge of the bed where he could stick his feet out in front of him, testing gradual increments of his weight against the pads of his feet until he found that he could stand.

The faint smell of blood still lingered in the air from beyond, but there was little more of interest in the room itself. Angus walked to the door and found it was unlocked. There was no one in the tall, narrow halls. The stretch looked eerie, with its dusty corners visible and its distinct colors brightened by the white caress of natural light rather than the foggy glow of dim orange candles.

The smell led him downstairs to a barely used kitchen, its air heavy and dank. The daylight was almost unable to follow him down there, except for a few slotted embrasure windows like the one in his prison cell in Midgate, which peered above the ground, though these were fixed with glass instead of bars. In a corner, where one of the lesser trails of dust led, sat a brick oven that still radiated trace amounts of heat. Angus ran his stumpy fingers over the ashy porthole to the hearth; it seemed to have been swept clean recently. The smell was not coming from the oven, but the opening nonetheless carried the distinct odor of death upon it.

Angus stood a moment and investigated the low corners of the room. There was a light scratching sound behind him, but nothing to be seen when he turned his head; the area was likely overrun by rats. The slotted windows appeared every ten feet and continued even when they turned the corner and no longer led outside. Two of these glassless slits made their homes in the western wall, above the nook with the brick stove. Angus stood on his toes and sniffed. The scent was coming from the other side of the two openings, though they were too small in size to slip through, even for Angus.

“What are ye doin’?” a voice asked from the darkened corner over Angus’s shoulder. It sounded like a creaking door swaying in the wind, in need of oil on its hinges. Angus clenched his hands, feeling quite agitated.

“That smell, coming from those openings. Do you detect it?” he answered, flicking his head in their direction but maintained his vision on the horizontal slots in the wall.

“No. All I smell is burnt flesh an’ the odor of a nosy runt who hasn’t washed in over three days.” The voice came from directly behind Angus this time; he could feel the breath on the back of his neck.

Angus feigned a smile and turned his head towards his shoulder without looking over, “I sure missed you. How long have you been behind me?”

A single thin finger jabbed the back of Angus’s head. “Since ya’s woke up, idiot. Been crawlin’ on the ceiling a few paces back this whole time wit’out ye noticin’. I got placed on day watch while yer sorry ass was in bed. Ye finally decided t’ do somethin’ interesting fer a change and it had t’ be this.” A pair of hands grasped Angus by the ribs, digging their nails in. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t chuck ya into th’ oven and say ye ran off again.”

The vampire standing behind Angus was lanky, thin, and tall. His skin was especially fair, even for one of the undead, except for the spare dark moles that made it easy to imagine that numerous freckles had once flecked his arms and face long ago. Bright orange hair -almost the same color as Friedolf’s- framed his long vulpine face.

“I’m sure there will be no consequences for losing me while you were on watch,” Angus said, shooing Rex’s hands off of him. He sniffed the air again. “You really don’t smell that? Maybe it’s because I’m hungrier than you . . . ?”

Rex crumbled into a fit of laughter. “Fucken’ pig! Ye had quite the meal mere hours before, just last night. Did you forget? What an awful, pathetic waste.” He shook his head and shoved Angus playfully, though he was too rough. Wiping away a nonexistent tear, Rex mused on, “An’ ye still want more. That’s what brought ye here, pig. Ashes ‘n charred fat is all that’s left of her now.”

Angus pondered as his eyes slid from side to side of the floor. He didn’t remember eating at all. From the sound of it, he’d had a whole person to himself. That wasn’t the usual way in Ulvenkeep; they shared their dinners here. He wanted to ask about it more, but Rex was clearly bitter about the special treatment, and Angus didn’t wish to rub it in.

“I can smell the oven just grand, and that’s not it. There’s blood, lots of it, beyond those portholes up there. —What do you think is the point of having windows inside?” Angus gestured towards them.

Whatever intrigue Rex held, he smothered it. “Why doncha turn into a bat an’ find out?” he suggested. He grinned devilishly as he demonstrated a flying motion with his hands.

Angus arched an eyebrow and lifted a finger. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. I can’t, but maybe Toutou could get through. Surely, they’re old enough?”

About a dozen yards away, near the stairway that led down to the kitchen, there was a fleeting disturbance that might have easily gone unnoticed by a pair of young vampires who weren’t up to no good. Rex and Angus, however, were the hypervigilant sort; it was a trait inevitably adapted by even the most well-behaved residents of Ulvenkeep. Rex clasped Angus’s mouth and back-walked him into the nearest dark corner as smoothly as a silk shawl would slide off a suggestive arm. They stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, completely still.

Seconds passed, and just as Rex’s knobby fingers began to relax their grip over Angus’s jaw, they clenched back twice as tight as before. A solitary gray moth fluttered into the alcove where the brick oven sat, so small and plain that it could have been mistaken for a stray wisp of ash caught on the wind. But, of course, there were no drafts passing through the stale air of the basement kitchen. The moth flew silently past them and ascended into one of the horizontal portholes that Angus had been eyeing.

Rex did not let Angus go until at least a minute had passed. He slid his stiff hand down to the top of Angus’s shoulder, giving it a swift squeeze —‘let’s go.’ Breathless and treading lightly, the pair paced to the threshold of the stairs that led out of the kitchen, not once turning to look behind them. When they reached the top of the stairs, they began sprinting.

“You need to check if Friedolf is asleep in the master bedroom. We don’t know for sure if it was him,” Angus said, panting.

“Who else could it have been?” Rex hissed, “Anyway, yer comin’ wit’ me. I can’t trust ya t’ not sneak off again.”

Angus’s throat caught, but he nodded. Despite the company, he found he wasn’t ready to be alone just yet. Rex might have even felt the same.

They stopped running when they reached the central stairway. Rex led the way, their shoes creaking on each step. An unfathomably long weave rug was secured into shallow grooves down the center of the stairs, which paused at the turns to reveal hard wood in desperate want of polish before repeating their climb along the following set. The pile of the rugs was so worn one could hardly see the viny, stoloniferous pattern in them anymore.

Paintings lined the walls as they ascended: portraits of Friedolf, Toutou, Rex, and the three of them, all together. There were newer paintings that Angus hadn’t seen before, hung where representations of Angus had once been —including a missing family portrait of four that had been swapped out for a family of three. Angus noticed someone else was absent from the wall, even though he’d never seen a painting of him.

“What ended up happening with that boy? Fidel?” Angus asked.

“Oh ‘im? He’s dead,” Rex answered. “Forgot about that one. I thought he was gonna take yer place, but we ate ‘im up not a week after ye left. Can’t say I was disappointed. Friedolf completely lost interest in ‘im, but he wouldn’t stop goin’ on about you. Yer stunt sure won back ‘is attention, an’ now here ye are t’ bask in it. —Not that ye appreciate it. Neither you nor Toutou do.” His voice cracked in places as he spoke, sounding like a violin in need of tuning. Angus often suspected Rex had been the youngest of them when he’d been turned. He’d never dared to ask Rex’s arrested age.

They reached the top of the stairs.

Angus made a little sound with his throat. “Do you mean he died because—”

“He was gonna die either way. Not everythin’ is about you,” Rex cut him off sharply. It might have been the nicest thing Rex had ever said to Angus.

They continued down the wide upper hall without speaking. Angus strayed a few paces behind Rex, thinking about the other vampire’s eternally adolescent voice; his long, awkward limbs; and the downy white-blond hairs that flocked his cheeks, arms, and chest. Rex towered at least a good six inches over Angus, and even the walls on either side of them seemed to slope higher and higher, making Angus feel impossibly small. Angus knew that others looked upon him and saw a young man, but a man nonetheless. Friedolf had allowed him to reach manhood. And yet, it had been so long since Angus had looked upon his own face to be sure. In Rex’s boyish presence, treading that long stretch of hall, sensing that distinct mood of puerile mischief, and dreading the patriarchal presence behind that final door —Angus could not evade the helpless, shrinking feeling that he was nothing more than a pitiful child. Friedolf, in all his centuries, likely saw him the same way.

Rex paused before the double doors at the very end of the hall. He turned to look Angus in the eyes, a cold expression that read: ‘If you make even one sound, I’ll kill you myself.’ Angus stepped to the side, letting Rex get the door. Rex’s soft, pale hand grasped the curved brass handle and pressed it down, releasing a light click that made them both wince. He let the door drift open, rather than pushing it, then tucked his nose and a singular periwinkle eye to the gap.

Withdrawing, Rex breathed, not even daring to whisper, “He’s asleep. Toutou’s with ‘im.” His hand lingered on the handle uncertainly, hesitant of the noise it might make on closing.

Angus’s eyes darted from Rex’s hand to his face. “Leave it. Toutou will cover for us. I’m sure of it,” he whispered.

Rex nodded vigorously, and at once, they departed, talking long, light-footed strides to the staircase, daring not to speak until they had descended to the very last step.

“Ye scared the fucken piss outta me wit’ that window nonsense!” Rex hissed, “That moth was just a moth, that’s it. There’s no one else it could have been. I should tear ye t’ pieces for what ye just put me through.” His teeth flashed as he spoke. There was a gap between Rex’s front two, which Angus had always thought accentuated his fangs.

Angus sucked his lip, deep in thought and following Rex, who furiously paced them back to the forest-green guest room. “I visited Esther after my hanging to get my new name. She . . . mentioned there may be one other vampire staying at Ulvenkeep,” he disclosed. Discomfort welled up inside of him.

Rex halted, yards away from the guest room door. He scoffed impatiently. “Alright? Who?”

Angus shifted. He walked the few remaining paces to the door and held it open. Flicking his chin, he motioned for Rex to go inside. Rex complied, staring irritably at Angus as he stalked past. His gait felt predatory and arrogant. Angus closed the door behind them.

“Esther mentioned to me,” Angus answered cautiously, “that Friedolf came to be master of Ulvenkeep by taking on the responsibility of caring for his Sire, An Ceann-Feadhna.”

Rex rolled his eyes. “Friedolf’s Sire is retired t’ long rest. —It was a moth.”

“I bet you think that when bears hibernate, they actually spend the entire winter sleeping,” Angus taunted. It was an unusually bold thing to say to Rex, but he couldn’t stand overly simple arguments. Angus threw his hands up in an exaggerated shrug as he walked past Rex and slumped sideways onto the bed, punctuating his indifference as to whether or not Rex believed him.

There was a pause.

“What . . . do bears do durin’ th’ winter then?” Rex asked suspiciously.

A spontaneous but inoffensive laugh sputtered free from Angus. “Sleep! Mostly. But they still have to wake up regularly; to eat, or piss, or scratch their balls, or whatever. They’d die if they slept that long without eating or drinking water.”

Rex walked briskly over to the bed and sat cross-legged on its rumpled, woven duvet. Hunched over, he asked, “So by yer logic, if An Ceann-Feadhna is restin’ here at Ulvenkeep, it has t’ wake up from time t’ time, so it can drink blood?”

No longer laughing nor smiling, Angus gave a stiff nod.

Rex cringed, shaking the feeling free from his shoulders. “Damn ye. Why’d ye have t’ go sneakin’ around an’ drag me into yer bullshite?” he seethed. It was clear, even to Angus, that he did not expect an answer.

Angus stared into the moulded ceiling above him, his limbs already aching from being on his feet for too long and the glow of sunlight coming around the heavy curtains making him feel weary. It would have been foolish to expect to recover from the poison all at once. If he hoped to flee this place again he would need his rest. An Ceann-Feadhna was none of his concern.

Soon. He’d leave Ulvenkeep Manor soon.