“The pup’s all grown up.”

Hemlock woke to clawed hands clasped just above his ears in a possessive grip and a familiar bloodied floor beneath his knees. The voice that had spoken caressed the shell of his ear with a dark laugh. His head got pulled back, gaze averted from the floor’s ominous sigil, and he fixed his attention on a sculpture he hadn’t noticed before, a monstrous winged creature with too many curling horns perched on the sill of a squat, red-stained window high above. The laugh switched ears.

“Like it?” the voice asked. Glee laced the words. It would’ve been childlike had it not had a fanatic edge making the question sound mad. “Made from the bone of a fool who thought he could tame me. He fought so hard to keep his leg. Shame. Guess he shouldn’t have grabbed the rope.”

He should’ve been horrified, but Hemlock instead felt a tinge of sympathy. If only he had the means and courage to fight back. When he didn’t answer, the claws grazed the corner of his eyes in what felt like a warning. Ignoring his trembling and the question posed to him, he instead asked, “Who are you?”

Because the voice sounded different from the last one. Grounded, with only one smooth and low tone purring into his ears with a rolling accent that Hemlock had never heard before. Old but young. Godly but mortal. Not the voice of death that had brought him to this dreamscape before. Hemlock wasn’t sure if he should be concerned about the change or thankful he didn’t have to hear the echoing screams rattling through his skull this time.

A nip to his ear; a neat row of carnivore teeth instead of the fangs of a vampire. The laugh moved behind. “Inevitable.”

The grip loosened and slipped to cup his neck instead, and Hemlock tensed when claws brushed against the suddenly opened gash across his throat. Abel’s wound, his killing blow. He watched as his blood rained down to the cracked tiles, choked as it bubbled up into his windpipe. Helpless, weak, Hemlock could only bow over the sigil as it glowed stronger and stronger in time with the spilling of his blood. He couldn’t breathe around the thick gurgle rising higher, tasted the copper as it ran over his tongue and dripped down his lips in a red drool. Panic paralyzed him. Dying, he was dying again and—

It stopped.

Slowly, Hemlock touched his uncut and unbloodied skin. He stared at the hand in front of him, lithe and smaller than his but armed with pointed claws tipped in a gradient of inky black. Veins pressed against the delicate flesh of a pale wrist and underarm. His blood pooled in the waiting palm before it came to life—swirled into a miniature storm of movement as it took the shape of a crimson blade. The razor’s edge hooked beneath his chin, dented the skin of his throat, but did not cut.

A breath in his ear. “Do you trust me?”

Shadows danced on the wall in front of Hemlock, where a tiered stone altar full of empty bowls sat just a pace away. They must’ve been scrubbed clean of red gore and now pretended their innocence with immaculate wood. Candles of varying heights and colors flickered all over the steps. The scent of burning incense drifted from somewhere behind him. He could see no sign of worship, no signal of what god demanded his attention so fiercely. Why pray to an empty wall?

The blade shifted.

Thing was, Hemlock’s trust had never been his to give. His soul belonged to Dregan, his killer and reviver, the master of his body and life. What good was his trust when he’d be as good as dead in less than a fortnight, just a hollow husk of who used to be Hemlock the vampire. A ghost—and ghosts don’t trust.

The candles flickered in time with Hemlock’s soft exhale. “You could slice my throat right now and I’d thank you. Maybe you could make some more carvings from my offered bones.”

Clawed fingers raked through Hemlock’s hair, scratched at his scalp, and despite himself he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Opened his neck to the blade just to welcome the warmth. Against all odds, it was the softest treatment from another and he craved the unabhorrent intimacy. He had to be losing his mind to be so responsive and open with such a twisted person—a person who he didn’t know anything about, just that they admitted to murder and the morbid hobby of bone carving. But hands made for killing had done nothing to harm, and Dregan had broken Hemlock so thoroughly that it was enough.

The blade disappeared. Warm touch pressed to his face, fingers hooked beneath his jaw; it encouraged him to lean back and seek the steady pillar of another behind him. Hemlock kept his eyes closed for some reason, but something told him that this was a test in trust as well. If he looked, it would all go away and he’d be stuck, alone, with no one but his thoughts and the dread of his impending doom. He’d be abandoned. So, he didn’t look, only accepted the warmth of the other and basked in the tentative trust that he’d be safe from harm.

As the seconds ticked by, everything faded away. Dregan and his horde of groveling vampire underlings, his failed attempt at freedom, the impending end of his life without the sweet embrace of death—everything. Hemlock thought about nothing but the warmth of another behind him, the steady support holding him in place with nothing more than a loose grip. Though he still kneeled, and the position put him into a reflection of submission, the voice and touch did nothing more than act as support with the silent price of control. He could give it for a moment just to bask in the peace of warmth and nothingness, and the absence of his usual nightmares. Whoever held him, whoever the claws belonged to, was powerful enough to scare away the fears and demanding memories. Or perhaps terrifying enough, if even the worst of Hemlock’s memories could be frightened into the shadows.

Whatever the case, Hemlock wanted to keep it.

“I don’t want to leave here,” he murmured, an admission that left his lips without his permission. Thumbs pressed against his cheekbones, like another miniature warning.

“You don’t want to stay here,” the voice said. When Hemlock opened his mouth to argue, to insist that he’d rather stay asleep forever with his eyes sealed shut than endure Dregan’s wrath, the thumbs dug in. “We will meet again; now is not our time. Listen for the storm and seek the red-soaked petals.” Hot breath fluttered over his lashes, then skirted around to his ear. Hemlock shivered. “And mind the sun this time.”

The next time Hemlock opened his eyes, he sat alone and cold.

**

There’s something to be said about the psychology behind isolation. One can pretend they’re not alone when the whisper of life echoes faintly from beyond their solitary home. But the moment every hint of another’s existence is blocked by grimy stone walls, suddenly the reality of isolation becomes very very real—and it drives one mad.

Hemlock never thought he’d miss the rusted bars of his cell, but once he lost the privilege, he wished to have them back if only to know that the other newborns were close. He’d even take the absence of Abel back and not complain, because that had been nothing compared to the absolute nothingness of what Dregan called “rehabilitation.”

He sat in a stone box, a perfect cube of nothing but stone and more stone holding back the invisible threat of crushing earth. Evidence seeped through the spidering cracks, but no bloom of so much as moss creeped over the dirt. Hemlock represented the only form of life in the room, but he couldn’t be counted for much considering he stood on the precipice between living and unliving. No chains locked themselves around his wrists, but the dried evidence on the walls suggested that they’d be a small mercy. Whoever had been in there before him apparently tried clawing their way through the unforgiving stone until their fingers bled, and the dark streaks left behind told stories of their desperation. Rehabilitation indeed. Hemlock trembled in the corner and tried not to think of himself going mad just as others had before him. Of becoming so desperate for sensation that he’d paint the walls with murals of his misery.

He didn’t know how he got in there when every stone seemed unmovable, so ingrained in their position that not even the greatest of technology and magic could pry them apart. But he had seen the way that the tower opened for Dregan despite the lack of door, and Hemlock could only assume that the rehabilitation room worked just the same. No escape. Only infallible despair.

As he curled in on himself, Hemlock swore he wouldn’t panic and pretended it didn’t already have his body trembling or his heart pounding. He accepted his fate, so he had no choice but to go along with what Dregan wanted until the end finally came to him. It’s what he wanted. He’d just have to bend and take the abuse until that end came to him. But just as he got ready to start talking to himself to silence the silence, he heard something. The scratch of… claws? Hemlock lifted his head and found himself staring into the eyes of a plump raven. It clacked its beak at him and hopped to the side, talons sliding on stone for purchase, and continued to stare at him. The red hue of its feathers must’ve been his imagination.

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Hemlock heavily debated the state of his sanity as the bird continued hopping and clacking at him. No light penetrated the room, no torch nor beam of light from another room, so the creature couldn’t have snuck in on the very slim chance it got into the underground fortress. How long had he been down there already? Surely it couldn’t have been long enough to start hallucinating.

The raven clacked at him again, then shot forward to yank at the loose fabric of his pants. Hemlock startled and shooed it away on reflex, and it fluttered just out of reach without breaking its stare. “Go away,” he told it, still thinking himself insane but annoyed enough to humor his broken mind. Another clack of a beak and a break for his clothes. Hemlock surged forward to swipe at it, fangs out in threat, and its retreating croak sounded an awful lot like a laugh. “Go. Away,” he bit out.

Safely out of Hemlock’s reach, it gave him a definitive snap-snap that echoed in the empty room and repeated in a distorted croak, “Go.”

He knew that ravens could mimic others, but Hemlock thought it ironic that it chose that specific word to repeat at him. “Yes, go. Leave me alone. I have no treats for you.”

It almost seemed to huff at him before it turned away and flew at a wall. Hemlock watched it scratch at each one and took pity on the poor creature. If it truly did exist outside his own mind, then it must’ve gotten stuck along with him. He couldn’t help it, though, so he sat in his corner and could do nothing but watch it fly at each wall again and again with its feet poised to attack.

“They’re not going to—”

One wall flared to life in a bloom of bright red whorls and symbols. Hemlock’s words caught in his throat as he watched the wall crumble into rubble beneath the glowing lines, until everything settled, and a makeshift opening waited before him. The raven hovered in the air and resumed its staring, as if to say, See? I told you so. Hemlock blinked between it and the opening. And blinked some more.

He couldn’t. His last attempt had failed miserably; trying again would only make things worse for him. But Hemlock couldn’t tell his body that, because he was already creeping over the rubble and investigating the newly revealed corridor. Absently, he felt the weight of the raven land on his shoulder while he investigated, but he paid it no mind as his attention caught onto something much more pressing. There, beneath the blocks of broken stone, were the bodies of the guards assigned to him.

They were dead. Dead, and unable to report to Dregan. Dead, and unable to stop an escaping newborn.

A brush of soft feathers against his ear. Strangely, the bird smelled of herbal incense. Hemlock breathed out a sigh and stumbled back until his outstretched hand hit ragged stone. “I can’t…” He huffed a laugh and combed fingers through his hair, then hissed when the movement tugged at the burns on his hand. He inspected his still-healing wounds that fought against whatever slowed the process down, considered how they would impact him, and found that he didn’t care. If he could escape, he’d take every chance he’d get.

A gust of wind whipped through the corridor, bringing with it the scent of rain. Hemlock strained his ears to listen for the source and faintly heard the whistle of air whipping over a crack. “Is this close to the surface?” he murmured to himself. On his shoulder, the raven clacked its beak and took off flying towards the source, and Hemlock took it as an omen. Maybe… maybe this time he’d be free. The idea of it made him dizzy, but he ignored it in favor of following the raven.

With each quick but limping step, Hemlock’s seared skin pulled and tore, threatened to bring him back down in agony. But ignoring it was easy when he painstakingly climbed up a slick staircase and the sound of wind and rain got louder the higher he climbed. A storm raged outside—it couldn’t be anything else. Important words drifted back through his mind, and Hemlock debated on hitting himself for his stupidity.

When the storm breaks, find petals steeped in red.

Maybe fate had its plan after all.

Hemlock heaved himself up the last step and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The corridor remained empty, with nothing but torches and empty walls the entire way down, but off to the side sat evidence of a minor collapse. Rain poured through a slim and craggy opening within the wall, split mostly towards the ceiling, and a pile of soaked rubble led up to it. Outside, a wall of dirt covered three-quarters of the height. Leaves twirled in on the dancing wind. And—moonlight. Not sunlight, but moonlight seeped through the crack. This portion of the fortress must be just barely above the surface, and the storm broke open a weak point.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Hemlock breathed. The raven perched on a rock that had rolled a bit aways from the crack and stared him down with a strangely disapproving glare. Hemlock sent it a look back. “Don’t look at me like that. You going first?” He gestured to the small opening right at the top. The perfect size for the raven and its personality, but it would be a bit of a squeeze for Hemlock to get through.

Insane of him to be talking to a bird of all things still, but he had no one else to speak to, and the strange creature had helped free him somehow. He’d start reciting poems if it continued to get him out of that place. But, instead of doing either of those things, the bird clacked its beak and disappeared in a burst of hazy red mist that settled over and stained the top of the poor rock—the only evidence that the odd raven existed at all.

A twinge of loss tugged at Hemlock’s heart, but he couldn’t afford to linger any longer. Later, he’d allow himself to sort through the mental box of every ignored thing and feeling, but for the moment everything got pushed to the backburner in favor of escape.

Gritting his teeth, he approached the crack and got to work climbing up the rubble. Wind and rain slapped against his bare skin and made the ripped fabric of his clothes flutter and lash back. Hemlock sunk his fingers into the damp earth for purchase as he climbed higher and continued to mutter vague prayers under his breath that it wouldn’t give out under him. He just needed to get to the small opening at the top where he could see the curious peek of grass, and then he’d be free to go. Just a little further.

His arms shook with effort and pain when he finally latched onto the harder-packed dirt of the grassy topsoil, but Hemlock continued to climb and pull himself up until he could wiggle his way through the opening. Rock and stone caught onto his clothes and opened wounds, begged him to go back and stay within the fortress, but he wouldn’t be kept prisoner any longer.

“Come on, come on,” he panted. Just as he got his upper body out, the earth beneath his foot gave way and he slid back down. Hemlock flailed in panic, his heart skipping a terrifying beat, but he found purchase on an outcropping of the broken stone wall and kicked off that to launch himself the rest of the way. He tumbled out unceremoniously, spat out dirt and grass that had gotten into his mouth, then rolled onto his back to stare up at the rumbling and angry sky. It flashed lightning, as if knowing his escape.

The smart thing would be to stop and catch his breath, considering he still had the ripped-open burns all over his body and something else slowing down his vampiric healing, but time didn’t allow for smart thinking. So, Hemlock pushed himself to his feet—and ran.

**

Branches tried hooking into his clothes and hair, tried catching him off-guard and ripping him down to his feet so that he’d be discovered, but the wind roared and batted them away before they could. Hemlock’s lungs burned from the sear of the icy storm cold. His legs wobbled with every desperate stride. He couldn’t stop, though. Despite not knowing where he was, he knew he still existed far too close to the mansion and would be found in no time. He needed out of Dregan’s hunting grounds, out of his domain—only then would he be safe.

Red petals, red petals, red petals. The two words repeated over and over in his mind as he cast desperate and fleeting looks over the blurred woods. Between the anger of the trees threatening to rip him off his feet and the rain’s assault battering his vision, he couldn’t see shit. Please, if anyone is out there and taking pity on me, show me the damn flowers.

As if some kind of god really did look down on him, Hemlock slammed into a tree and came to a teeth-singing stop. “Fuck!” A string of curses flew off his tongue as he stumbled back, his head spinning from the impact. Thankfully, his nose didn’t feel broken, but he did bite his tongue and it throbbed in time with his pounding heart. Now stationary, rain soaked him to the core in an unforgiving shower. It battered his wounds and washed away the blood, as if that made things better. But…

Hemlock watched as a bloody stream of rainwater slid down his hand and fell through the spaces between his spread fingers. Beneath him sat a low bed of innocent white flowers—that slowly turned red from the makeshift waterfalls he created.

“Petals steeped in red,” he whispered. The wind picked up and carried the streams forward, soaking a new line of flowers with red. A direction—his direction. To freedom.

And just in time. From the mansion came a distant furious screech of bats and the rumble of familiar rage. Hemlock swore again and took off in the direction the wind had shown him, trusting that he’d be okay. He just needed to run.

So he did. He ran and ran far beyond his breaking point, then ran some more. He ignored how the earth slowly turned to mud beneath the torrent of the storm, ignored the grip of the trees and grass that tried to slow him down and throw him into the waiting maw of Dregan’s furious pursuit, ignored the ache in his skin and muscles and bones. The wind became his battering buffer keeping him upright when his body wanted to collapse. It became his ominous guide.

Only when he stumbled into the protection of an empty cemetery and the cry of screeching bats softened into a silent memory did he finally stop running.