Not a Drop of Honour

i

Note: one thing I should mention now, as I flesh out the world of this story in my mind: since the vampires are heavily inspired by Dracula's, there may be some religious mechanics to how they work, and the story's themes may become disagreeable if you're devoutly religious. If you have religious trauma, please take care of yourself, know I see your pain and I care for you. It's not an easy thing to deal with.

This man's blood was thick with liquor; Dio Brando nearly choked, nauseated. Ever since he was young, even the scent of it made him sick. The very thing that had driven him to kill this man made his death so disgusting.

He didn't want to dwell on it any longer than was necessary. This wasn't a meal he would relish. Tossing the body aside carelessly, leaving it likely to be discovered by the man's daughter in the morning, he changed once more into a bat, disappearing out of the window into the night. The dirty streets below him were not even at this hour empty, occupied by women and men passing along, doing God-knew-what at these hours. One man slid his knife into another's abdomen, pulling it out as his victim collapsed to the ground and blood began to drip down his body, pooling around him. He bent down, checking each of the man's pockets, pulling out anything of value he found—coins, a pocket watch—a beautiful ring that, judging by the clothing of a man, must have been a gift he'd saved an entire year's worth or more of his income to buy.

Dio circled, watching the scene with a nostalgic curiosity. He had used to scavenge bodies like this when he had first become undead. There was a fondness for those memories, recollections of an early rush of freedom and power, that made him want to live out such a scene once more. Were it not for the liquor making his insides churn, he would have. For now, he had fed enough. It was time to rest.

Jonathan stared down at the corpse below him (now, finally dead). He should have been satisfied at having slain this horrible beast, he knew this, and yet it was impossible for him; that face, framed by dark hair and with dull blue eyes, was not the one which he wanted to see dissolve into dust.

Am I selfish? He wondered to himself, a question he asked whenever he killed another vampire and found himself unable to celebrate having freed the world from another monster. Every time it just reminded him that the one he was after still stalked the world.

I still don't know even his name. There was only that indelible face, one he hated to remember but had vowed never to forget.

Just before dissolving, that vampire's face had become peaceful, a strange difference from the snarling anger it had worn just moments earlier. This was something Jonathan had seen before. It was more common in vampires who had been turned by another's bite, and not those who had chosen to undergo this transformation, but it did occur in both. What, he wondered, was it that made things this way?

Were these lost souls, no longer able to stop themselves from violence and destruction but desperately hoping for a release from their sin? Were they wracked with guilt every time they drank another victim's blood, added another undead servant? Did they keep on killing in a desperate attempt to convince themselves that they didn't feel guilty? Did they corrupt more humans because having other vampires around, unwilling beasts who agreed to their biddings without protestation, comforted them in having others tread down the same damned path?

And yet—that could never be enough, could it? Those people they bit, whom they held under their dark hypnosis, they could never fully share in these vampire-lords' immorality. Every bite they took, every kill they made, they didn't do of their own free will. Every bloodless body they left behind couldn't be blamed on them, only the depraved vampires who commanded them, the ones who made every choice consciously, who knew fully what they were doing and yet did it anyways.