Venette was right—he was pretty.

Hemlock stared at himself in the mirror, unblinking, and almost felt a sense of horror that the person looking back at him followed his every twitch. The golden, sun-blonde hair was familiar, though the loose curls that normally fell to his hips in a tangled mess were now washed, combed, and tamed into an intricate updo containing braids and artfully sectioned out locks. It spilled over his shoulders and down his back and caught the flicker of a nearby hearth. His skin, too, was familiar in a sense, coated in freckles and sunspots and naturally tanned as if declaring itself a favorite of the solar rays—except it was all too clean, and those freckles scurried up to a face he couldn’t look away from.

It was a stranger, surely, looking back at him. The man’s wide-eyed gaze bore into him with shimmering green irises that had a mirrored slice of brown within them, almost like a cut of pie. He had a gentle face, but strong brows, and faint crow’s feet around the corners of those eyes like he spent a long time grinning ear-to-ear. The sun had laid its claim around the man’s nose and cheeks, smattering darkened spots wherever it could reach, including the downturned curve of his pointed ears. This was no vampire that stood before him; he was a child of the sun, who belonged far away from the dungeon of a mansion. And yet the man stared back at him, fear trembling in those mismatched eyes, and tilted his head when Hemlock did so.

Hemlock opened his mouth, and the stranger mirrored him. The sharp points of fangs sat where canines ought to be. Tucked away, and yet they still betrayed their existence. He watched as the man poked at them with his tongue before he stopped and turned away.

Venette grinned up at him through the mirror. “Never seen yourself before, eh?”

“No,” Hemlock murmured, still unsure if the reflection truly was his. Had he really gone this whole time without walking past a mirror? How had he gone this entire time without realizing he never knew what he looked like? Obviously, he had at some point, but ever since that fateful bite that dragged him into the depths, he couldn’t remember a thing of his past. It made sense, logically, for his memory of his reflection to go along with it, but it felt uncanny to stare at himself and not recognize himself.

Mora drifted around the room behind him, and he caught glimpses of her in the mirror as she gathered whatever she needed to get him ready. “It’s always odd, to see yourself for the first time. Hell, I was in denial that Venette and I were twins for ages before I finally got used to it. I can’t imagine not having a living reflection of your own to see every day.”

Hemlock didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. Venette fluffed about and sat him down, still in front of the damned mirror, and he watched them move about behind him. They looked like proper vampires. Skin bleached from the darkness, almost translucent to the point of seeing the red and blue of their blood and veins, they held no evidence of a life out in the sun. Their sleek black hair had always been cut to just graze their shoulders, and their features were all sharp bones and triangles. Long and pointed ears that flared out at the end, forked tongues, and magically altered bright red eyes—Venette and Mora were every part vampire that he wasn’t, except he had the height where they didn’t.

As he silently gazed at his reflection, Hemlock wondered if he’d ever get used to it. Not just the discomfort of his unfamiliar self, but the not knowing. The empty space in his mind where his past should’ve been. His fucking name, even. Who had he been, before he had been made into Hemlock?

He didn’t get time to dwell, though. With his hair done, Mora knocked his knees out of the way so she could stand over him and dust a bit of makeup over his face. “Not a lot,” she told him, “since the mask will cover it.” She ran a line of black along the bottoms of his eyes then dusted it out around the corners, taking care not to stab him in the process or get any of the powder into his eyes. Then she considered her work, glanced over at something behind him, and nodded her satisfaction and gestured to Venette.

“That it?” he asked her, confused. All that fuss for a bit of powder around his eyes?

Mora flapped a hand at him. “You’ll see why once we get you dressed. Now, up on your feet, and no squirming. It’ll make this process even more painful for all of us.” And he couldn’t argue with that.

**

Hemlock had never been to the other end of the mansion before. Mora and Venette guided him to unfamiliar halls, both dressed in a sparkling silky blood-red gown with symmetrical slits up to their hips, and matching strapped heels clicked with each echoed step they took. They were beautiful, no doubt, but the black veils over their faces in lieu of masks denotated them as mere servants expected to wait on each and every established vampire in attendance. A haunting reminder of their roles, and Hemlock had his own that he had to play. His bare feet were silent against the carpet, but he could imagine the cold of marble once they reached the ballroom.

Silk brushed against his skin, so different from the filthy rags he had worn for so long. It felt alien, and cruel. Of course Dregan only gave him luxury after tearing him apart, plucking out every roaring emotion within Hemlock’s spirit and leaving nothing behind, and then with the caveat of this only being for another ploy. A game. Conflict warred within him—nasty nervous nips at his heels mixed with the cool press of certainty.

He had to do this; he had to play along. But how far would he be expected to go? Would Dregan expect him to bend and bend and bend until he broke in front of all the prestige within the room? Would he be humiliated in front of those that could—and would—tear him apart? Hemlock absently rubbed at the jagged scar along his throat as his vision shuttered for half a moment. Would he be expected to perform?

Being good meant the closest thing to safety that one could find in this place, but he wasn’t sure he could survive that. Not with his already fractured mind.

“Hey.” Hemlock blinked, and the churning thoughts skittered away. They had stopped in front of a set of grand doors, arching higher than necessary and certainly heavier than they needed to be. Mirrored carvings were etched into the wood and depicted a gnarled tree that had symbols within the branches. Four circled a fifth—marks of the Ancients, with vampires right in the middle of them all.

Self-important bastards. His heart threatened to stop beating altogether with how much it skipped.

Venette laid a hand on his wrist and twisted around to face Hemlock; her red eyes fierce but warm as they looked up at him. The question in them was obvious, and the answer was anything but what he needed to say. So he picked the lie and nodded, told her what he needed them to believe. Hemlock hated lying to his only true friends, but admitting his fears would do nothing but plunge him deeper within them, and he needed to trick himself into believing that everything would be okay. That he’d be okay.

A pair of guards stood in front of them, faces covered by polished helmets, and they nodded in acknowledgement before stepping back and opening the doors for the trio. Hemlock swallowed as the heavy wooden doors swung open and let the tsunami of power crash into him. He followed Mora and Venette as they floated into the room as if they belonged, veiled faces held high despite their positions, and tried to emulate their confidence with shaky results.

Numbly, Hemlock wondered just how big this mansion could be as his eyes swept up and up to scan the ballroom. The ceilings arched so high he swore he swore there were clouds blotting out the paintings, even with the massive chandeliers and fancy, swooping carvings into the beams and decorative architecture. The dark atmosphere persisted with accents of Dregan’s signature red and the reminder of wealth and power in the touches of gold. There were windows, stained glass and arching high up the walls, but they let in no sunlight—a false corridor, maybe, to perpetuate the illusion. The floors themselves were indeed marble and cold, with intricate detailing in each tile tying them all together into a massive pattern that Hemlock wanted to admire. Music drifted from some shadowed corner. Food wafted about the air from heavy tables laden with dishes and treats, and another separate table displayed an array of drinks—and blood.

It was simple: be on his best behavior, play the game that Dregan expected from him, and he would escape this hell unharmed and only slightly worse for wear. Easy. But the immediate eyes on them as they coasted through the grand room made Hemlock itch at his skin. They knew what he was, what his role was, as they raked clawed gazes down his body. No one paid any mind to the twins as they whispered their farewell and good luck, then joined the other servers drifting about. He was alone. A target. A pet. Their fingers likely itched to yank at that invisible leash.

Steeling his nerves, Hemlock weaved between the guests, ignored the snapping of snarling teeth and too-interested leers behind masked faces, and searched for Dregan. It wasn’t hard, his very being called to Hemlock whether he liked it or not, and soon he found himself at his nightmare’s side and forced to put on a mask of pretty indifference before his apprehension could be caught.

The host of the party made sure that fact was known. A sweeping black cape full of gold and red embroidery spilled from his shoulders and circled his polished boots, and his tailored suit matched the flourishing style with extra flairs here and there. His mask, though a simple porcelain that covered the upper half of his face, had two pairs of curling horns, one reaching up and one dipping down. Feathered detailing flared out from the eyes and skirted around the outer edges. Beautiful, powerful, and an utter nightmare to most in attendance.

Dregan spotted Hemlock and bared his teeth in a warning smile as he reached out an arm. Hemlock swallowed down his fear and took the offered arm with a small uptilt of his lip and a silent bid not to flinch. “Sabien, old friend,” Dregan said, and turned to the vampire who stood in front of him, “You remember this particular pup that I brought in, don’t you?”

Hemlock vaguely knew the man. Sabien, House Merle’s lord. A relatively old vampire compared to Dregan, he had been present when Hemlock briefly came into consciousness during the change—but beyond that memory failed to serve him. For his part, the vampire lord also seemed perplexed as he eyed Hemlock.

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“Well, I’ll say,” he finally muttered, and surprised recognition glinted in his crinkled forest green eyes. “Last I saw this one, he was covered in muck and didn’t know what was up or down. You sure know how to clean them up, Dregan.”

Dregan hummed and glanced over at Hemlock. “Yes, I do pride myself in elevating the filth that ruin our homeland.”

Hemlock bristled. Of course, Mora and Venette had done an excellent job of getting him ready for the masquerade. They always took great lengths to take care of him—not Dregan, even if he had picked the clothing—and he had to admit he likely looked the best he’d ever been.

His top was barely more than a swath of black silk that draped over his torso, the giant V barely covering his nipples where it eventually tapered off at the tied cinch around his waist, and the excess hung down at his hip. What little of the neckline remained hung loose over his shoulders, where long and flowing sleeves swooped down and hooked around his middle fingers like silken wings. Rubies were inlaid into the fabric along with golden stitching. Hanging low from his hips was a pair of similar bottoms. The flowing black silk gave the illusion of some kind of skirt, as the extra fabric layered upon itself while giving Hemlock’s skin room to breathe and feel a breeze with each step despite the golden cinches around his ankles. Ruby jewelry hung from his hips and decorated the sliver of exposed stomach between the two halves of his outfit, each hanging accessory clinking with every movement.

And his mask. The thin antique black metal crisscrossed and swirled over itself in a way that created strategic mesh-like detailing around the eyes, and thickened for the rest, to give the illusion of being blindfolded. Thin and curved golden points curled around the mask and towards his exposed nose and cheeks like reaching fingers, then curved up into a twisted crown atop his head and buried themselves into his hair to hold everything in place. More rubies decorated the mask itself, with a large one sitting right in the middle and settled within a detailed frame of its own. Thin black chains hung down over the rest of his face, with red beads breaking up the otherwise mundane addition.

Dregan wanted him seen, but marked as property, and the clothes he had picked for Hemlock embodied that claim perfectly. Hemlock would’ve admired how he looked if he didn’t see right through them and to the heart of their purpose, and all he could feel was dirty—like some whore at Dregan’s beck and call.

And the way that Sabien’s gaze caught on the pinkened skin of still-healing wounds on his exposed chest, Hemlock wasn’t the only one that saw it that way.

For a moment, the party fell away and he was back in the bedroom. Sharp nails filed into false claws dragged down his skin and tore it open. Teeth bit into his neck and dragged his blood to the surface, let it pool everywhere and be a waste just because they could. Fabric smothered his breath and caught the rolling tears. Hands on him, hands everywhere, holding grabbing pinning taking taking taking—

Dregan repositioned, drawing Hemlock into the curve of his side with a hand on his waist. This time, he couldn’t hide his flinch, and that earned him a sharp pinch at his side. Hemlock wanted to vomit at the proximity and touch, so close to how they had been before, a mockery to true intimacy. He hated how Dregan still stood taller than him, even if he could look over the heads of a good few guests. Weak. Small. Powerless. Just a newborn in need of rescue and bottle feeding. A thing to use again and again.

Still, Hemlock had to play his part or that touch would gut him in an instant. So he bore his teeth in a pretty smile to bite back the bile and leaned into Dregan. “I can’t thank my lord enough for his generosity. He’s taken great care of us.”

His words worked just how they were supposed to. Sabien’s eyes flickered with a hint of competition and unwilling respect, and Dregan’s hum was both indifference and praise. All Hemlock needed to do was talk the vampire lord up and perpetuate the reminder that he stood as the most powerful lord in the room. There was a reason they all flocked to him, and Dregan loved dangling that reason over their heads. Easy, Hemlock told himself. Easy, except he had to find a way to escape the man’s clutches and convince the others he didn’t want to crumble to dust.

The two lords battled it out with clipped words and flowery praises hiding poisonous barbs, and Hemlock smiled and nodded when needed, but otherwise tuned them out. Instead, he listened to the other guests. Their whispers slid through the air in an undercurrent, bold but cautious. They wondered if Dregan held his position for far too long. They doubted he had the power he claimed he did. They wanted a taste of his collection after seeing the prize on his arm. Backstabbers and gossips, the lot of them, but Hemlock spun through thoughts of his own.

Another’s words floated between them. Gnaw on your cage and see it open. Maybe this was his chance. If he could weasel his way from beneath Dregan’s arm and slip into obscurity, then maybe he could finally escape. He hardly noticed when Dregan began moving, drifting from one vampire to the next. His thoughts were too consuming, and the faces blurred together after a while anyway. Hemlock really wasn’t needed. His only purpose was to be an object, an accessory. None of the vampires really expected him to say much, and their eyes skipped past him more often than not. He preferred it that way.

The droning bell of a clock chimed. Mora, he thought, sidled up to him and Dregan as a young lord kissed the older vampire’s ass and asked for pointers in maintaining his own House. “A drink, my lords?” she asked, and held out a plate laden with goblets full of thick red liquid. The two happily took a helping, and Hemlock decided he’d never get a chance if he didn’t take it himself.

“My lord,” Hemlock smoothly interjected right as the two were taking a sip. Dregan cut a look over at him, but he refused to openly cower beneath the warning stare. “Would I be allowed to excuse myself? I’d like to welcome the other guests on your behalf.”

Under the unblinking stare of the young vampire, Dregan had very little choices, and Hemlock allowed himself just a tendril of triumph. Those icy eyes narrowed, and the goblet lowered. “Very well, pet.” Hemlock held still as a finger ran over his jaw in a false show of care. “And help yourself to the delicacies, please. Wouldn’t want you to wither away, now would we?”

Bastard. Conniving, lying, cruel bastard. Hemlock bit back the words that threatened to hiss through his teeth and instead smiled in silence. Then he fled as gracefully as possible before he could be stopped.

Hemlock didn’t necessarily make a beeline for the food, but he didn’t wind his path quite as much as he could’ve before arriving at the table. The onslaught of scents nearly brought him to his knees, and maybe it would’ve had he been alone and not in a room full of predators. No, he couldn’t let his confidence falter regardless of its nonexistence, or they’d tear him apart. Amazing how he had the fangs just like them but still stood beneath them in the food chain.

Food, real food, had been a luxury that Hemlock rarely got. Abel sometimes got a plate of scraps here and there and would share a piece, but Dregan had always treated it like some kind of reward. A treat, like they were just a kennel of dogs. Hemlock did everything in his power to school his fury and desperation into a look of neutrality as he carefully plucked small bites. Vampires, he had learned, didn’t necessarily need food to live so long as they had a blood supply, but they still enjoyed it. Perhaps it worked in tandem with the blood and provided extra nutrients. Hemlock had no clue how he functioned. No one had bothered explaining the biology behind what he had become, so he had been left with piecing it all together himself. The puzzle looked awfully ragged and incomplete.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered at the moment but his plan. He just needed some kind of opening, leverage to pull himself up and away from all this death and despair.

Escape. Escape, escape, escape. Gnaw the cage, see it open, he needed out—

“Aren’t you a scrumptious thing?”

Thin fingers tipped in stiletto nails brush against the back of his neck, and the hairs there stood to attention. Hemlock didn’t move as a woman swung into view just within his peripheral; her grin was hungry and bright. She spoke again before he could.

“Dregan should really put a leash on his toys,” she purred, and those fingers brushed back his hair to expose his neck. Gooseflesh rippled over his skin. “Else he might find a bite taken out of them.”

Hemlock swallowed. “You wouldn’t seek to anger my lord,” he said, though the words came out more of a question than a statement. Her answering smile didn’t reassure him.

“Dregan’s House has been a bit cocky as of late.” More touches, light caresses over his neck and hair as she combed those nails through the loose strands. “I’m his neighbor, see, and our supply of newborns is getting dreadfully thin because of him. You understand, don’t you?”

Competition. Vampires loved their power plays, and Dregan most of all. But this woman sought revenge. He could see it in the spark in her eye, and maybe… “I could tell him.”

That smile turned sly. “You could,” she agreed, “but what if we struck a deal?”

Hemlock glanced over his shoulder and saw Dregan off talking to someone else, none the wiser to the conversation happening. “A deal?”

The woman hummed and played with the chains hanging from his mask. “I get to take a bite from you, and you get something in return.” Her head tilted and she squinted her eyes in a knowing look, a smirk dancing over her painted lips. “I bet I can guess what it is you want.”

He refused to say it for fear of another overhearing, but he wouldn’t deny that the wants of a chained newborn were pretty narrow. “You can feed from anyone here, or even the offered blood over there,” he countered, and gestured to the table laden with bottled blood and empty goblets, “This ‘deal’ seems quite one-sided.”

She laughed and tugged on the chains, as if demanding he pay attention. Frantic glee glowed in her eyes, a haunting black that exposed more than it should’ve. “On the contrary, pretty pet. I get everything out of it. Lord Dregan’s favored pet, whisked away and tainted right under his nose. It would be a spectacle. A circus of chaos, and I an agent. His reputation would crack, and it won’t take long before it crumbles beneath its own weight. His arrogance could never sustain itself.”

Hemlock swallowed and considered her words. “And if I agree? You would ‘whisk me away’?”

“Like a stolen biscuit off a dinner plate.”

Blood in exchange for freedom. It felt too good to be true, but what other choice did he have in that moment? She likely didn’t care if he survived, and maybe would prefer he didn’t just to rub it into Dregan’s nose even more, so none of this was out of the goodness of her heart. No catch that he could detect. He just had to endure fangs sinking into his neck once again.

Heart racing, Hemlock glanced over at the party once more. Mora and Venette blurred within the shadows of the room, but he pretended they were there with him. They wanted him out and safe. He wanted out and safe. But what would this safety cost him? This vampire had her own agenda on the line, but he would be putting everything out there. Plans took time, not impulses. He’d surely suffer somehow.

Memory flickered like a whispered scream. ‘I care not if you succeed. It changes nothing; I will still get something.’

Fuck. Maybe that dream really did mean something. “Okay. Deal.”

The vampire’s fanged grin sent chills down his spine. “Excellent.”