Chapter Text
The Count calmly watches the Vampire stalking through the room, back and forth, like an animal, stirring up loose pages of paper, torn out of books, trinkets lying on the floor, dust.
The room is lit warm by the fireplace, soft light illuminating it, and despite its messiness, it is apparent that this is a home. Dark walls rise high, bookcases and trunks full of mementos, novels, décor. On the sidetable by the armchair, in which the Count has taken place, one of his long legs bent over the other and the polished leather shoe shining in the light of the flames, are placed two crystal wineglasses – untouched.
The Vampire turns around with a sharp exhale, his robe tied around his waist, long-sleeved, silken and yet revealing miles of his perfect, pale, naked skin on his chest. His hair is long and blonde, of an almost honey-like color, reminding the Count in some way of his own vampire Bride.
Yet the eye color is different, far too intense and bright, the iris rimmed with a ring of black. Otherworldly. Stange. He can see the lingering anger and distrust playing in them, but distress, too.
“They really are ungrateful aren’t they?”
The Count takes a deep breath, clasping his hands and letting them rest on his knee, the long fingers clawed with sharp nails. “I am afraid that doesn’t even begin to cover it, my dear.”
“How was yours?” the Vampire asks, standing there, the burning irritation still roaring beneath his surface.
And even if the Count cannot access his thoughts just like that – he’d have to drink from him first to establish a connection - he can feel both of their consciousness lightly rub against each other, clashing and forming sparks. It is not enough for either of them to access the other man’s mind, but still lets him just barely brush against his inner world, feeling his emotions prickle under his fingertips.
And the loudest impulse of all, practically screaming from within;
Fledgling, Fledgling, Fledgling.
They are different from each other; follow different rules and customs, have to bow to different limitations, and are yet of the same ancestral bloodline. But France and Transylvania rarely intersects, and so, when they both meet perchance in America, the Count sees it as a sign.
The Vampire, as an aid for help.
“Angry, in the beginning. Enraged. Confused. Unwilling,” the Count lists calmly, looking at the Vampire, standing there, his hands lightly shaking and whole body tense. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“And yet he didn’t run.”
The Count tilts his head to the side, a soft smile on his lips. “I didn’t let him. He was bound. To me, to the castle,” he explains. “He wouldn’t even be able to pass through the front gate without me by his side.”
He has to think of his own Bride, sitting right now on his bed in the hotel room they had rented out while passing through the town, lying on his stomach and reading a book, while loud jazz music plays down in the brightly lit streets below. Patiently waiting for the Count’s return.
The Vampire, in return, shakes his head, averting his stark green eyes. “What I would give to hold such power.”
“Your kind has its own benefits,” the Count shrugs.
Another deep exhale and then the Vampire looks back at his guest. “But yours adapted. He accepted his new life,” he lets out in frustration. “While my Fledgling has disappeared without a trace during a fit, your Bride is obidiently waiting for you.”
The Count’s voice is gentle as he speaks. “These things need time. You turned him, what, last summer? Be patient and you’ll see. He will come back around.”
The Vampire straightens his shoulders, his long blonde hair brushing the top of his nightgown. “How long did it take yours?”
This time, it is the Count who has to take a deep breath, turning to look to the side, out the window. His chest rises and falls, moving under the all black three-piece suit and his hair, dark as the deepest night, shines in the warm light. “Almost fifteen years, give or take.”
The Vampire lets out a frustrated sound, a near snarl that shows his fangs, as he turns away, towards the fireplace. One of his hands raises as he leans against the wall with his forearm, looking down at the flames burning red.
“Will you help me find him?” he lets out through his teeth, white and sharp.
The Count watches the Vampire carefully, taking in each small detail of his form, tasting the electricity of each of their minds buzzing in the background, and he knows that he means it.
“Naturally,” he simply says.
The Vampire straightens his back and slowly turns around, looking at him with disbelief. Then he grabs hold of himself again. “And in return?”
The Count just shakes his head and rises from his seat, smoothly and without a sound. “Come for dinner. The two of you. I'd love for each of our little family to get to know each other.”