Chimera

06|Six

"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."