Vampiric Interdiction

[1] Understatement

Villahr slid the balmy blade against the sharpening rod twice, then lifted it for closer examination. The sun gleamed off the flawless surface, he beamed with pride. He tested the keen thorny edges on his finger, silver liquid coated the tip, but he did not cry out. Instead he relished the relief. Before it sealed, Villahr scrutinised the wound. A clean cut. This method is poor practice amongst infradai crafters, but vicio can't get diseases, so who could it hurt?

A conclusion cream is applied to the each heels smooth surface and serrated perimeter. Villahr wiped away unwanted remains and set it on the finishing block. He grabbed a damp cloth from the table-top, rubbed his hands. His palms transfer excess oil polish to the material. Stray drops descend his muscled forearm, but are wiped away too.

The front door signifies a customer's entry with a tinkle. "You're here early," Villahr said. He sounded cheerful, but not as theatric as the bells. He raises his head but does not turn to greet. 

With a spray-bottle he grabbed from the carrel's corner, Villahr gives his station a quick scrub. His work-worn hands hold the rag he used to remove blood. His white skin appeared in the surface after a few spritzes of odourless chemical.

"Fortunately for you," Villahr spun around in his chair. "I just finished."

There's a familiar face at the counter. She brushed flaxen strands from her face, took off her too-big sunglasses, and grinned. Villahr's latest designs hung from hooks along the wall.

"Always efficient," she flattered, and admired a simple, circular blade with black teeth. To humans, this place might pass as an arsenal, but to vicio it resembled a pharmacy. 

The blonde clicked her nails against the glass as she watched Villahr tidy his post. The open-plan workshop allowed her to see everything.

Dark specs slide into ample alabaster cleavage. "That's not the reason I've come," she said, her voice thick with worry. She bent to put her elbows on the glass showcase. Villahr's mouth flat-lined. He tossed the soiled scrap in a wash basin by his seat, got up and walked towards her.

Having known Karolinna for years, it was easy to distinguish her many expressions.  Usually when she begged for his help, she wore forged innocence with a heavy flirtation slathered atop. Today a new product dusted her cheeks — Dread.

"What is it now, Karolinna?" he spoke as if he'd gargled nails and it hurt to say the words.

Karolinna scrunched her somewhat upturned, snub nose. "Hey! No need to 'full name' me!" she scolded. "Although, I… uh …I did make a bit of a ...mess." She dropped her face to avoid inevitable dissaproval. Her well manicured fingernails marked the wooden divider between them. The snowy-haired male frowned, a forefinger and thumb rubbed at the space between his eyes.

He took a deep breath, counted to five, then released it. "Again?"

"Um... yeah. Again." Karolinna's cheeks flushed when he caught her gaze. Embarrassment, or simple rose cosmetic powder, he wasn't sure.

"I'm getting tired of cleaning up your messes," Villahr snatched keys from a peg beneath the desk, jumped the gate, and leaned back against the divider. His arms folded over his chest.

"Seriously, Lahr! Please?"

"Why should I?" Karolinna's reasons never did hold much validity. In the end, Villahr and his white horse always came to save the day, but her attempts at rationality amused him.

Her body started to sway as she pondered his question. "Because you love me?" she offered weakly. 

Karolinna often played the 'innocent girl' card. Puppy dog eyes, a pouty lip. The help, her folks, strangers on the street — everyone softened. For as long as Villahr remembered, he held immunity.