Hemlock was running.

He didn't know where his feet took him, just that he had to keep running. Dregan would be on him in no time, fueled by the raw power of ancient bloodlines and his own wrath, and Hemlock stood no chance as a bumbling newborn. But he had to go, and go far. So he did.

Thorned branches tried clinging to his arms and whipped at his face. The mud threatened to drag him down with every step. Even the earth was against his defiance. But the wind whispered go—go here, go this way, go past this tree. Hemlock had no mind to question the whispers as Kaskan held far too many oddities to even begin narrowing down what it might be, and there was more chance of it being his paranoid mind fracturing completely than a natural oddity. All he could do was run, run, run, and push his exhausted body past its limits.

Turn. Turn now.

He heard too late. Hemlock's foot slipped and he skidded, crashing onto his side and splattering mud everywhere. Thunder rumbled from above. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. His heart pounding in his ears drowned out the laughing owls and roar of the rain, but not loud enough to cover his fears. They paralyzed him. The what-ifs, the inevitable punishments. Would Dregan kill him for this? Or would he torture him for eternity, make Hemlock an example of what happened when the newborns tried to escape? Death would be preferable to whatever cruelty floated within Dregan's mind. The shower of rain ran down his face in a parody of tears.

The screech of bats in the distance kickstarted Hemlock's adrenaline. The wind whipped and screeched back, and it almost felt like mini whirlwinds yanked at his limbs to get him up faster. Hemlock didn't care. All that mattered was getting up, and he flailed like a panicked deer on its back before he managed to get himself on his feet. Turn. The whispers said turn. Hemlock bolted further into the woods.

And just in time. He didn't dare look, but he could hear the angry chatter of bats behind him as the hoard found where he had just been. The woods groaned and snapped in response. Grass twisted around his ankles, but he slipped through their rain-soaked grip. Gusts of wind battered him from behind and propelled him forward. Just a little further. He just needed to get a little further.

Dregan didn't continue after him. Either he lost the scent or gave up the chase, but Hemlock didn't want to take any chances. He kept running until he couldn't anymore. He kept going until he tripped yet again and collapsed into a heap on unforgiving concrete. He feared the worst until the cloud of bats didn't follow him to his grave. Nothing more than a crumpled heap in the dirt, he sought out death and found the scythe nowhere to be seen. A whimpered wheeze escaped his lungs. With the last of his strength, Hemlock got to his elbows and flipped onto his back to get a glimpse of his surroundings.

Angry grey clouds flashed with lightning and buried him under the promise of a flood. Craggy and ancient trees loomed just below with a crown of circling ravens. Just inside his peripheral stood a proud but equally as ancient stone building, with words carved into it that Hemlock couldn't read. Just from the top corner he could see, he knew it was grand; likely once important, too, now left abandoned to rot. Hemlock felt a pang of kinship with the sentiment, though he felt far from proud and important.

To his side, a headstone mocked him with a weather-erased name. Hemlock turned his head and let himself finally give up.

**

His mouth tasted like old copper. It had been weeks since his last feeding, and his stomach cramped and screamed in agony, but he had no way of knowing if he'd be allowed to feed again soon. The dark cell offered no promise of help.

Years upon years of living like an animal, and yet it never got easier—the waiting, the hunger, the torment. Hemlock rested his forehead against the cell bars and closed his eyes, catalogued the scents drifting about and connected them to conjured images. The dungeon, his home, had been the only place he knew in this lifetime. An underground fortress full of twisting hallways with steepled ceilings, grand statues of different figures, massive braziers set an exact distance apart from one another, and layers upon layers buried deep within the earth, it housed not only him, but hundreds of others stuck in the same position as him. The stonework held memories of an ancient time, and spoke of builders proud of their work, but filth accumulated over the years from neglect. Now, whatever purpose it served before had fallen into ruin in favor of becoming a place of torment and misery. Death.

He had no idea what else was hidden beneath the earth, what kind of horrors or hidden treasures the old stone held in other areas of the fortress. Hemlock wondered who else sat like him against the bars and pictured their life before and their life now, who else caught scents and turned them into pictures and possibilities. Did they smell the mold and think of a crack giving way to nature? Did they feel phantoms on their skin in every waking moment? Hemlock shuddered and dragged nails down his arm.

A draft from somewhere brought with it the stench of rotting flesh—and the salty tinge of tears. He wondered who he had been in his past life, before he became this. Had he deserved this life? Did he choose it? Did he know what he'd become? Hemlock could speculate all he wanted, but no memory surfaced to aid him.

Undoubtedly, the master was hosting some kind of fancy feast in the mansion above the dungeon. He had fetched some of the more presentable ones and brought them to the surface, so they'd be forgotten for some time while he entertained and gorged himself on luxury and power. Hemlock itched to find the courage to bite back, to fight against the bastard and find a life of his own besides blood and death. But he couldn't even figure out how to be himself, let alone find a version he liked. Forget finding a way to overthrow the man responsible for the misery of hundreds.

A groan echoed in the silent dungeon from the side, and Hemlock winced at how it pierced his ears. Such a small sound, but so so loud when there's nothing but your own breathing and the hanging reminder of death. The ancient fortress didn't even have the decency to have water dripping from the old stones in a steady rhythm.

Hemlock contemplated gnawing at the rusted bars in front of him before ultimately shuffling back against an uneven wall. Across from him laid Abel, stretched out on his back and arms cushioning his head. The both of them were reed thin beneath their scratchy and filthy rags, but through Abel he could see that their ethereal beauty still shone through the dirt and grime. Fucking vampires. Beasts, but beautiful ones. Abel's particular brand of beauty shone in his effortless poise and sultry aura, and it's one that got turned towards Hemlock far too many times to count. Or that he was thrilled about.

Another groan. Abel remained still, but Hemlock knew better than to believe his cellmate's false sleep. When the silence stretched for too long with Hemlock not answering Abel's subtle bid for attention, the other vampire eventually gave in and rolled onto his side to pout. Hemlock blinked back, unmoved.

"I can hear your hunger, babe," Abel purred. Long fingers stroked idle patterns on the cobbled floor. "I can help." Lashes lowered, and glittering onyx eyes peeked up from beneath them. "It'll be our little secret."

Absolutely not. "No."

All the time. Hemlock could never figure out what Abel's goal was when he tried this, but he simultaneously didn't want to know either. Whenever the master pushed the limit of "forgetting" to feed them, Abel made his advancements. Tried seducing Hemlock into feeding from him, into sating his hunger with Abel rather than waiting and starving. Once... he had been tempted. Those first nights of confusion, with agony twisting his entire being into nothing but the single thought of getting some kind of food... it was tempting. Abel was older than him, in terms of their time as vampires, so it was easy to fall back on the assurance that the other knew what he was doing and to trust that he wouldn't be led astray. But something had held him back from taking Abel up on his offer. Was it fear of repercussions? Perhaps. Fear of not knowing how to feed? Also possible. Disgust at the thought? Most likely.

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Whatever held him back, it didn't matter. His insistence on refusing Abel still failed to deter attempts, and each one proved bolder than the last. The man was one 'no' away from begging at this rate.

Just as he expected, Abel smiled. It was a slow ordeal and involved only half his mouth and the slightest peak of a fang. With his long black hair tumbling down his shoulders and artfully into his face, Hemlock could see how effective of a hunter Abel could be if let loose. But Hemlock would not be his prey.

"Come on, babe." Twisting his body, Abel opened his neck up for viewing pleasure. Hooked a finger into the collar of his frayed shirt to expose the skin even more. Hemlock looked away. "I know you want to. You don't have to starve. I can take care of you—"

"I said no, Abel. Give it up."

Silence.

It wasn't so much footsteps Hemlock heard but rather a presence he felt when their bodies collided. Fight or flight already activated, Hemlock was ready for the inevitable tussle. He scrambled across the cobblestone, cracked fingers digging into thousand-year-old dirt, but Abel straddled his body and forced him down with strength he couldn't match. Didn't know how to match. Both newborns, but unequal. Imbalanced. Had he any pride left, it would've withered at how quickly the fight fell through his fingers.

Lips pressed to his ear in an angry hiss. He could feel the extended fangs dangerously close to clipping his skin, and his heart pounded in both fear and instinctual reaction. His blood stirred and simmered, readying itself as a perfect meal for a hungry predator. Hemlock thrashed against the other vampire, but his untouched strength remained dormant and useless. How could Abel tap into what had never been taught? Had he been practicing this whole time?

Those delicate hands now shoved Hemlock down and held him still, as brutal as their master's. "You always make things so difficult," Abel hissed. Rage poured through every word despite his effort to stay quiet. "All you had to do was give in, but no. You had to deny me. Deny this." Body against body, power against powerlessness. Hemlock wanted to vomit. "My patience is waning."

Three feet away sat an innocent stone. Hemlock traced the sharp edges with his gaze and ran through the odds. "From my vantage point, your patience is already gone."

Once, Abel's laughter soothed the restlessness of being trapped—reminded him that there could still be good in life. But now it rang dark and cynical. How often had it been a lie?

A cold and ghostly touch brushed against his neck, and he flinched. Abel paid no mind and continued pushing Hemlock's hair to the side. Leisurely, like he had all day. "If it were gone, little flower," he purred, then leaned in to brush his fangs against Hemlock's neck, "you'd already be dead."

Hemlock moved right as his skin gave way to piercing fangs. The rock's edges dug into his skin, but not as much as they did to Abel's when he swung back and cracked him on the side of his face. Abel shrieked around a mouthful of blood, and his grip on Hemlock relented as he grabbed at the wound. Hemlock took the chance to thrash again and throw the man off, but Abel recovered far quicker than he anticipated. His shriek turned to a furious snarl as they grappled for leverage. They rolled and clawed at one another with their teeth bared and emaciated muscles working overtime to overpower the other. Too quickly, Hemlock ended up on his back with Abel bearing down on him, hunger and rage setting his stare ablaze.

He got no warning this time. The dungeon filled with Hemlocks shouts and screams, but Abel's teeth didn't remove themselves from his throat. They tore at flesh and buried deep for more. Hemlock's vision wavered. The walls caved in around him with every frantic beat of his heart. Blood coated his throat and chest, stained the floor crimson, and made a gruesome gloss on Abel's curled lips.

In a last-ditch effort, Hemlock slammed a knee up and tossed his body to the side. It threw Abel off just enough to give him space, and Hemlock clutched at his torn throat before scrambling away. He couldn't scream anymore, too dizzy and weak, and maybe his vocal cords were too mauled to work. It didn't matter. He picked a corner to collapse against and watched as a fading and bloodied Abel stalked closer and closer.

**

Death would not have him.

Not before, when the master decided to turn him into something deadly and doomed. Not after, either. Between blurry moments of consciousness while still crumpled in the corner, his throat stitched itself back together. Abel disappeared at some point and never returned. None of the other newborns dared to whisper bits of concern, or even attempt to see if he was alive out of fear of their own lives becoming forfeit. Death remained his only companion—held his hand in the shadows and kept the scythe at bay. There would be no tug on his soul this time.

Perhaps there should.

Metal against stone grated against Hemlock's ears in a metallic scream. It threw him out of his floating dreams and drew a hiss from his parched lips. Copper hung in the air. Fresh. Warm. Dipped in honey. His body moved before he cracked open his eyes, instinct driving him more than thought, and he found a tin bowl just within reach.

The scent of another hit him just as the bowl slid back.

Hemlock flinched, cowered back, and finally took notice of the vampire before him. Dregan had to be ancient—power hung from his shoulders like a king's heavy cloak, speckled with blood and dipped in twisted cruelty. He ruled his castle above while they stayed slave to his whims and hidden from sight. Lower than scum, he always said, not worth being seen by even so much as a guest's servant. But his ice blue eyes, sleek brown hair, and death-pale skin made him a typical vampire lord in looks alone, with the towering height and build to match. The expensive clothes tailored to his body had not a single speck of dust on them. Yet.

Hemlock knew better than to expect kindness when clothes were on the line. Dregan had no qualms about getting his hands messy, no matter the occasion.

Dregan crouched to Hemlock's level, and the newborn bowed his head in respect and fear. A knuckle tucked beneath his chin and forced his head back up, then to the side as the vampire lord inspected his still-healing injuries. They'd scar, he knew. Vampiric healing didn't create flawless miracles. Hemlock's gaze skidded to the man's face then away, unable to get a read on his fate.

"Abel would've made a fine hunter with skills like his," Dregan murmured. Pondered, perhaps, like Hemlock was no more than a mirror to think out loud at. "Shame he turned them against my property. Now we'll never know his potential."

The touch moved to his face, and Hemlock closed his eyes against the gentleness. A ruse, a farse. Dregan was only soft on occasion, which meant a storm was due to pass any minute. And, similarly to Abel, it made Hemlock want to vomit for reasons he completely understood and knew.

Property. Slave. Toy. They were what Dregan wanted them to be, and he liked to pick favorites for certain wants.

His hair got tucked behind an ear, then Hemlock was released. He refused to look up, though, for fear of the man getting any other ideas. "I know that you know better, but consider this a warning if you ever try something like this yourself," Dregan said as he stood. "I won't tolerate any of you thinking you can damage anything that doesn't belong to you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Dregan hummed, satisfied. "Good. Drink, heal, and I will be back for you again soon. I've had to put off our appointment because of this little stunt Abel pulled."

Terror slammed through Hemlock's mind, quickly followed by panic. He trembled in place and only nodded in response, but Dregan seemed satisfied enough to leave him alone without question or argument.

No no no nononono—He had to leave. He had to go. The image of Abel tearing open his throat compiled with other images. Another vampire on top of him, overpowering him while laughing at the effort, hissing threats in the case of disobedience, slicing and bruising patterns into his skin, taking and taking and taking until Hemlock saw in blurs and the empty ceiling. He wouldn't survive another call, even if Dregan let him feed and heal. He'd shatter the second he left his cell, with no will to put the pieces back together.

He suspected he's lost a few already, scattered about the mansion and lost forever.

With trembling hands, he scooped up the tin bowl and brought it to his lips. Honey and copper, still warm. Hemlock imagined the source was a woman who loved to mix honey into her tea, perhaps coat sweets with it. The thought helped him drink it down in large gulps with less resistance. He nearly forgot about his doom. Nearly.

Once the bowl sat empty at his knees, reality crashed back down around him in a brutal check. Hemlock had to go. Somehow, he needed to run.