A Spider's Hunger (rewrite)

The Bite

A dull tickle had formed in the back of Zestial's throat. It was no more than a subtle hint of thirst, one that he had hoped to rectify by drinking the Jasmine tea that Carmilla had prepared for him before the meeting. The sensation vanished after the sip, and the thought of it went to the back of his mind.

Yet Not for long.

Soon enough, the dull tickle returned. Despite sipping more of his tea, the feeling did not leave his throat. He had not felt this feeling since his early days in hell.

Uncontrollable thirst.

His thirst wasn't for any normal beverage; it could only be satisfied with blood.

Zestial dared to sneak a glance at his beloved swan he had the pleasure of calling friend. In the many years he had known Carmilla and her daughters, he had not dared to confide to her about his vampiric needs. Perhaps, after this meeting he could summon the courage to speak to her.

His desired reaction to the confession would be her lack of fear towards him. She would be supportive of his...condition and ask him if there was anything she could do to help him. It was surprisingly easy for him to imagine his response.

He would smile, say nothing as he pulled her closer to him, releasing her long snowy hair from her horned hair style, combing his long fingers through it. He would lean in, taking a deep breath, smelling the lavender shampoo she prefers. He would place a small kiss on her nec- Zestial shook his head, a warmth growing on his cheeks. He dared not think of his beloved swan like that. Zestial would move away, taking her hand into his, bringing it to his face, nuzzling it, placing a gentle kiss to her skin, before giving a small questioning nip, glancing up at her. Carmilla would nod her head. Zestial would then smile, placing one more kiss to her warm skin, before biting into it, breaking it with a loud pop. Carmilla would gasp, as Zestial moaned, her blood flowing down his throat, the faint smell of copper filling the air of her office.

No.

Zestial shook his head, the wonderful daydream vanishing from his mind. The copper smell was real, and filled the air. Saliva gathered in his mouth as the ever growing scent of blood filled more of the air. His thirst grew with each breath he took, his gums ached as he felt his curved fangs begin to grow, with smaller serrated teeth piercing through the remaining areas of his mouth. The ancient overlord, in attempts to control his growing instinct to feed, clenched his fists tightly. So tightly, that his claws dug into his palms, leaving lines of puncture holes from each tip. His blood pooled in his enclosed fists, slowly overflowing and leaving a trail down his wrists, dripping onto the dark oak table's surface.

Where was the smell of blood coming from?

Closing his eyes, Zestial tried to focus on the smallest of sounds: the talk of his fellow overlords, and the scratching of the pencil in Carmilla's hand as she worked, but the scent of blood quickly became overwhelming. The silhouettes of each of his fellow overlords formed in his mind. He could see the precious life source of each of them flow through the veins throughout their bodies. He could hear their hearts, pumping out strong rhythms: thump, thump, thump, thump. There was only one heart that was beating slower, weaker than the others. The owner of the weaker rhythm was...Alastor?

Zestial's spiders, or the ones that avoided those little cyclops at any rate, revealed that the Radio Demon had faced Adam alone during the Extermination. Was it possible he was injured from the encounter?

Alastor's silhouette had a single elongated wound from his left shoulder to his right hip, glowing red, his blood slowly oozing from it. Opening his eyes, Zestial studied the infamous man's chest, finding a section of his red shirt darker than normal. Not looking away from Alastor, Zestial released his right fist, bringing the hand to his lips, his tongue chasing the droplets of blood. The ancient man knew from past experiences that his own blood would do nothing to quench this hunger, yet he did not stop. Nor did he stop the low growl from slipping past his lips.