Chimera

08|Eight

His vampire trembled beneath the blade's edge but so sweetly pretended otherwise. Chimera angled the dagger to force his chin up, and the vampire did so without resistance. If anything, he looked more afraid of his realization than the threat of getting his throat slashed. Curious.

He received no other response, only silence that stretched for longer than he liked, so Chimera decided to break it himself as he inspected his newest gift. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

The vampire's multicolored eyes—unfairly pretty with that unique sliver of brown cut through their clover green—jumped up and down Chimera's figure. He allowed the poor thing a moment to sort through his nerves and get his wits about him, then put pressure on the dagger. That got him talking.

"You helped me escape." Chimera cocked his head, listening, and the vampire continued. "Those dreams—the raven. Why?" Nerves dripped from his tongue and Chimera reveled in it. Such a gorgeous creature; so skittish.

A simple question presented, though not an easy question answered. Chimera regarded the vampire and sorted through his own thoughts, his own theories, as to the fate that had been set up for the two of them. "It wasn't me." Disbelief flickered through the vampire's gaze for just a moment before he schooled back his expression. Chimera ignored it and explained, "As I said, my father is the one to orchestrate your daring escape. He contacted you, yes? And in contacting you, he dragged me with him. I may be parotheia, but I don't have the power to enter one's dreams on a whim. Not yet, anyway."

Chimera's gaze caught on a detail he hadn't noticed before and used the dagger to angle his vampire's face up and to the side. A blotchy scar, jagged and recent, covered a good portion of his throat. He studied it as he continued. "As for the why, I don't know. I don't have much of a relationship with my father. Never did. But he's not as foolish as others like to claim he is; this was a deliberate plan of his." He released the pressure, and the vampire slowly lowered his face back down. His stare never left Chimera's, and that alone tempted out a grin. "You know of me."

Another flicker—confusion. Still, the vampire responded to the change in subject. "I—yes. You're rather infamous."

Chimera's grin sharpened and he leaned in. "Oh?" he purred, and panic briefly crossed the vampire's expression. "Do tell."

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Chimera waited patiently for him to cave, and it didn't take very long for him to do so. "Chimera. Blood of the Slaughter. Son of the False Bloody King. They say you lure victims into your bed before you carve them up just for fun, like a land-bound siren with an even greater inclination to violence."

More stories were whispered about him than just that, but the one his vampire spoke of was the loudest whisper, and longest-standing. Just as he started to say as much, he was interrupted. The vampire looked down at him, all pathetic eyes and tangled blonde curls. Grim certainty. Acceptance.

"Is that what you intend to do with me?"

Chimera reassessed. You could slice my throat right now and I'd thank you. That's what this vampire had said to him before, the last time he had been under threat of a dagger. No doubt he continued to feel the same way. But as far as Chimera was concerned, he had been a gift—a new toy to play with and own. A beautiful vampire to worship and study, to learn everything there was to know about the mysterious group of Ancients. Underneath the burns and grime and tattered clothes, he still had a glowing beauty to him that Chimera wanted to taste and touch—to keep.

He let the dagger dissolve into a mist and stepped away. "No."

The vampire moved slowly, like he thought Chimera to be a rabid beast ready to pounce. To assuage his suspicion, Chimera made a show of stepping further away with splayed, empty hands. He couldn't quite wipe off the smile tugging at his lips, though. Oh, how he loved the fear his very presence elicited. The power he held by simply existing.