Chapter 16: I'm Hungry… Just a Lick, Perhaps? Maybe He Won't Notice.
The weapon was unremarkable save for the holy symbols etched into its hilt—small wings and tears representing the goddess Seraphiel—which now glowed with a faint, unsettling light in response to the unholy flesh it had pierced.
The blade's position was precise, driven through ribs and directly into the heart.
He let go of the first vampire woman's mouth.
"PWUH! WHAT-" who immediately resumed blaming him—her accusations grating on his nerves like fingernails across slate.
"Move," but Lucien commanded, his voice carrying an unnatural weight that seemed to press against Elara physically.
The first vampire woman retreated from supporting her elder sister's body, still glaring at him—likely because of his previous actions.
He didn't care. His massive frame cast a long shadow over Lyra's fallen form as he knelt beside her, the tattered remnants of his once-white shirt brushing against the drying blood.
She's annoying as hell. Doesn't try to accept what's happened or blame herself—just throws it all on me.
Logically, he had nothing to gain by reviving this second vampire woman again, except perhaps the slight loyalty of the first vampire woman.
After all, with the two data points he had gathered so far, he could say it wasn't just luck—perhaps the success rate for reviving people and turning them into vampires using his blood was actually quite high.
But this time, he was curious. If, before, reviving a dead human with his blood turned them into a vampire, what about a vampire themselves? Especially a vampire who had already been created by his blood?
Would it work?
It must. Or rather, I'd say I'm one hundred percent sure, Lucien thought inwardly.
"A deal is a deal," Lucien said, dismissing her furious glare with cold indifference. His long fingers flexed experimentally, preparing for the pain he knew would come. Then…
"Ah..." A horrified moan escaped Elara as she watched the towering vampire easily pull the silver knife from Lyra's chest—even as it burned his skin.
The sizzling sound of holy silver against vampire flesh filled the cavernous space, accompanied by the acrid smell of burning meat.
Smoke rose from between his fingers as they gripped the ornate hilt, wisps of gray curling upward to join the dust motes dancing in the moonlight.
She stared at the wound on him and flinched, bracing herself at the thought of that pain on her own body.
But then, she saw him holding the knife, treating the burning pain on his skin as if it were nothing more than a mild irritation.
His massive hand engulfed the ornate hilt completely, wisps of gray smoke curling between his fingers as the blessed silver seared his flesh.
He slashed his palm with it in one fluid motion, the blade parting his marble-pale skin with a soft hiss.
Dark blood—almost black in the colored moonlight—welled up immediately, thick and viscous, more like oil than mortal blood.
Then, with surprising gentleness from such massive hands, he let his blood drip into the open mouth of her elder sister, which he forced open with his thumb pressed against her chin.
A second drop fell directly into the gaping wound in her elder sister's chest. It landed with a soft, almost inaudible splatter against the exposed heart tissue, where the silver had cauterized the surrounding flesh into a blackened crater. The blood seemed to sink into the dead tissue, disappearing like water into parched earth, leaving no trace behind.
Is this enough, perhaps? Lucien pondered, already having tossed the silver knife aside as he looked over the second vampire woman's body. The blade clattered against the marble floor, spinning several times before coming to rest in a pool of congealing blood.
"S-sister!" At the barest twitch of movement—nothing more than a slight tension in Lyra's fingers, a trembling of her eyelids—Elara immediately rushed forward to support her elder sister's body.
"Sister! Sister!" she shouted again, her voice cracking with hope and fear. This time, after the twitch, Lyra's chest began to rise and fall once more, mimicking human breath. The movement was shallow but unmistakable, the torn blue silk of her bodice lifting slightly with each inhalation.
A choked, tear-streaked smile of relief formed on Elara's lips, revealing the sharp points of her fangs. Dark tears—tinged with the crimson of vampire blood—carved fresh trails down her cheeks, dripping onto Lyra's face below and leaving faint stains that resembled bruises on the ashen skin.
But suddenly, her smile—and the hope shining through her squinted eyes—froze. She noticed her elder sister's body was still otherwise unresponsive. The rising and falling of her chest continued mechanically, but there was no flutter of eyelids, no tension in the muscles, no sign of consciousness returning to the empty vessel in her arms.
"S-sister?" she whispered, the word barely audible even in the oppressive silence. "Wake up! W-wake up!" She bent close, her ear nearly touching Lyra's bluish lips, listening for breathing, but realized that the faint signs from before had vanished.
The mechanical rise and fall of Lyra's chest had stopped as suddenly as it had begun, leaving her body still and unyielding once more.
With her heightened senses, nothing indicated even the smallest change anymore. No subtle movement beneath the eyelids, no whisper of air through nostrils, no latent warmth returning to the cold flesh.
Why? What happened? Panic raced through her thoughts as her frantic gaze shifted to the towering vampire.
Her mouth opened to call for him, but pride held her back. Her fangs caught the light as her lips parted, then closed again, the muscles in her jaw tightening visibly beneath her skin.
Resolutely, she closed her mouth, then instead shifted attention to the silver knife discarded nearby.
It lay in a pool of darkening blood, the ornate hilt catching occasional glints of colored light from above, the goddess Seraphiel's symbols seeming to watch her with judgment.
Her hand trembled as she reached for it, fingers hovering momentarily above the blessed silver before she steeled herself and grasped it.
"Urgh... i-it hurts..." She groaned, lips puckered in pain, eyes narrowed and accusing as she looked at the silver knife.
Beneath the skin, she could see her own inner flesh exposed as her skin burned and curled like dried leaves—yet she endured it. The blessed silver ate into her transformed flesh with methodical hunger, blackening tissue that fell away in flaking pieces.
"TSK!" Gritting her teeth and smacking her lips, she slashed her palm open, mimicking the action of the towering vampire.
SLASH!
The pain radiated up her arm like liquid fire, sending tremors through her slender frame. Black blood began to drip—viscous and thick like heated tar—as she hastily brought her wounded hand to her elder sister's lips.
The effect was... nothing. Lyra's throat gulped, clearly accepting the blood, the movement mechanical and reflexive rather than conscious.
The muscles worked beneath the translucent skin of her neck, but the reaction wasn't nearly as intense as when the towering vampire's blood had touched her.
No color returned to her cheeks, no vitality sparked in her still form.
Not enough! This isn't enough! Still glaring, she endured the pain, clutching the silver knife with one hand while slashing the other palm repeatedly, desperate to increase the flow of blood.
Each new cut sent fresh waves of agony through her body, the silver's touch causing her flesh to sizzle audibly in the oppressive silence of the ruined foyer.
Her chestnut hair fell forward, brushing against Lyra's face as she bent closer, willing her blood to work the miracle that Lucien's had performed.
For more than a full minute, she struggled to feed her blood to her elder sister, but instead of seeing an effect, there was no reaction at all.
Besides...
I... feel dizzy... I-I can't... Her vision blurred, the world distorting and swelling into something unreal and dreamlike.
The vaulted ceiling above seemed to ripple like water, the stained glass panels melting into pools of liquid color. The massive columns supporting the mansion appeared to bend and sway, while the shadows in the corners deepened into bottomless wells of darkness.
CLANG!
The silver knife clattered to the floor, unnoticed. The wounds on her palms had already healed—there was no more blood to give.
The supernatural regeneration had closed the gashes, leaving behind only faint silver scars where the blessed metal had touched her flesh. She swayed precariously over her sister's body, her strength momentarily abandoning her. But then—
A sigh snapped her out of that hazy, warped world. The sound was soft yet somehow penetrating, cutting through her disorientation like a blade through silk.
She looked up just in time to see a drop of black blood—slow, deliberate—fall directly into her elder sister's mouth.
It descended with hypnotic slowness, catching light and shadow as it fell, appearing almost solid rather than liquid in its perfect spherical form.
GULP!
For some reason, she herself gulped, unconsciously raising her head to look at the same towering vampire, who was once again tearing his palm with the silver knife and letting his blood drip down.
His massive frame blocked the colored light from above, casting his features in shadow save for the glowing crimson of his eyes.
The silver blade in his hand continued to burn his flesh, sending tendrils of smoke curling around his wrist and up his forearm, yet his expression remained impassive—revealing neither pain nor sympathy.
"P-please..." she pleaded again, the word escaping as barely more than a whisper.
But it seemed the towering vampire understood what she meant—more of his blood gushed from his palms as he tore them open with the silver knife, the blessed metal hissing against his supernatural flesh. The wound gaped wide, revealing darkness rather than red beneath his marble-pale skin.
He let it pour into her elder sister's mouth, thick and viscous, like liquid night falling between Lyra's bloodless lips.
What he didn't realize, however, was the true meaning behind her plea. Her gaze had been fixed not on her sister, but on his neck—the clean, unscarred line of his throat visible where his tattered shirt had fallen away.
A pulse beat there—slow and unnecessary for his kind, but hypnotic nonetheless, each throb sending subtle vibrations through the air that only her newly enhanced senses could detect.
As he knelt lower, one knee nearly touching the floor to feed Lyra more directly, Elara's attention only intensified.
She didn't look at her elder sister, even as Lyra began to show more pronounced reactions to the blood; her focus remained entirely on the exposed neck so close to her.
The color was returning to Lyra's cheeks, the ashen pallor giving way to porcelain luminescence, but Elara noticed none of it. The veins beneath Lucien's skin called to her like siren songs, promising power and satiation beyond anything she had known in her short vampiric existence.
Just a bit... Just a lick... Her eyes widened, pupils dilating to black pools rimmed with blood-red fire, sweat beading on her forehead as she unconsciously licked her lips and gulped, entranced by the slender, muscular neck of this tall vampire.
Her fangs extended fully without conscious thought, pressing painfully against her lower lip until a droplet of her own dark blood welled up and fell, landing unnoticed on the tattered silk of her gown.
Without thinking, she leaned closer—closer, her fangs nearly brushing his skin. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, everything else fading into insignificance.
She could feel the coolness radiating from him, could almost taste the power that flowed beneath his skin. Just as she was about to sink them in—