eggbug_writes | Observations on the Dead

Written for Vamptober prompt number 9 (yes, I'm doing them out of order)

Vampire who is still growing in their new fangs.

It is approximately 1400 words long, or about 2 pages. It contains:
Captivity
Torture
Starvation
Mild Gore
It's a good deal darker than my usual work, but I do hope you enjoy!

The hunter arose at sunset, as befit one of her profession. She made her ablutions as the last rays of the sun disappeared behind forested hills dusted with the first snow of winter. With care, she made a circuit of the safe-house's interior, ensuring the wards were still in place at every possible entrance. Religious symbols and sacred herbs could not stop an experienced vampire for long, but they bought precious time to prepare for an intrusion. Each had been ritually bound to her, so that their destruction would not go unnoticed. Unlikely that her quarry's sire would find her this far from the city, but precautions were still warranted.

Satisfied, she made her way to the kitchen and prepared a small pot of porridge. The provisions here were meager stuff, but it was better than the travel rations in her pack. A warm bowl of anything was preferable to hard tack and jerky. She ate her fill, cleaned the dishes, and then prepared herself for the night's ministrations.

She donned her vestments, tied back her hair, strapped her tools to her waist, and finally drew on long gloves of brown leather, studded here and there with dots of silver. Her neck was protected by a steel gorget, engraved with the symbols of her order. She took up her book of observations, lit a candle, and thus armed, descended into the basement.

The fine hardwood staircase gave way to a floor of cold stone. The air down here was damp, and smelled faintly of rot. She was unsure if moisture from outside was getting in, or if it was a consequence of all the bodily fluids. Wall sconces were lit from her candle as she passed, until she came to a lone door. It was heavy, made of thick beams of oak reinforced with steel. She produced an iron key, fit it to the lock, and pushed it open.

There was a scrabbling sound within, and the clink of chains. The hunter showed no concern, but set about lighting a pair of standing candelabras. As flame came alight, a form took shape in the center of the room: lanky and ragged, nude flesh covered with inflamed welts, unkempt hair hanging about its shoulders. Two faint red lights glared up at her.

The hunter considered her quarry carefully. It no longer looked at her with conscious hatred, had indeed progressed past even cowering fear, and now regarded her with simple animal hunger. There would be no more point in asking it questions, as she doubted it could still speak.

She placed her notebook on an old wooden lectern, opened it to a fresh page, and took up pen and ink to record this new development. The creature's eyes did not leave her even once as she did so. It shifted around, pulling at its chains, its budding canines visible in its open mouth. The previous night, it had been timid and obsequious, only rising from the floor when forced to, and otherwise kept its face to the black stone beneath it. It had groaned and begged, pleaded for a drink. Now it was restless, testing the limits of its captivity. A fascinating transformation.

The hunter rose again, and walked a slow circle around it. The thing followed her with its gaze, craning its neck painfully when it couldn't turn any further. She inspected the restraints. Neither collar nor wrist cuffs showed any serious wear, the advantage of using iron instead of silver. Given how young this one was, she had been concerned that prolonged silver exposure might kill it preemptively, and it wasn't yet strong enough to break chains of more ordinary metals.

She checked the deep cut she had made down its back, to gauge its ability to repair itself. Three nights in, and the scar was still visible. Hard to say for certain if the starvation was a factor in that. The marks from the most recent lashing were still quite stark. Otherwise, its skin remained supple and full, despite its deprivation.

As the hunter got closer to inspect its fingernails, its breathing grew heavy. It made an attempt to lunge at her, and she reflexively pulled back.

“Petulant beast, be still!” she snapped, “You'll have another taste of the cat, if you cannot behave.” It merely hissed at her, unhearing. She grabbed the end of the chain that held its collar, through an iron loop on the wall, and pulled. The thing's head was yanked upright and back, until the collar stuck fast against stone. It cried out and flailed, and the hunter noted that it fought with more strength than usual.

An older vampire in this state was exceedingly dangerous. Unlike something living, vampires became more powerful on the brink of starving, burning away their reserves and abandoning their reason in an attempt to secure a meal at any means. They'd been known to take unwary hunters in this way, breaking free and savaging their captor with beastly glee. But she had been fortunate enough to take this one while it was still weak, still growing into the full potential of its unbirth. It could not have been turned more than three months ago.

The hunter wished she could take another measurement of its adolescent fangs, but it would surely not behave for the procedure now, wits too dulled to respond to threats of punishment. She would have to destroy it soon, after some final observations. She released the chain, and stepped back.

The beast was growing frantic, straining against its restraints, desperate for a taste of her. It grunted and growled with frustration. The hunter ignored it, returning to the lectern to take more notes. As she scrawled out her observations, the thing's sounds grew more and more pained. It whined, it spat, it scraped its nascent claws against the stone tiles. The hunter was beginning to grow exasperated. She stood, and pulled the bullwhip from her belt. A bit of pain may quiet it for a time.

Then the creature suddenly went silent. Its ferocity became stillness, but the intensity of its stare remained. The hunter paused, wondering if perhaps the beast still had more wits than she had thought. Could it recognize that it was about to be punished?

Then the hunter felt a chill. She realized far too late that the shadows within the cell were growing darker, draining all the light from the room. She reached for the silver dagger at her waist, and spun towards the door. There had been no warning, and no sound, to mark the thwarting of her wards. The candles beyond the door had all been snuffed out.

“Reveal yourself, abomination!” she said while brandishing the dagger, trying to put the engraved holy symbols between herself and the intruding horror.

Long, clawed fingers clamped around her wrist. Her eyes snapped to it, and followed its pale arm back, already behind her, already in control.

“Drop,” came a voice like the stillness of a frozen corpse, and the hunter let her dagger fall to the floor.

“Very good,” its mocking praise seeped into her flesh, held her in rigor. She felt the press of its lifeless body to her back, as a second hand snaked up her front to hook a finger around her gorget.

“You've been keeping my pet from me,” it whispered into her ear, sending tremors down her spine, “and just look at the state of her.” It spun her around to face the chained creature, which was on its hands and knees, with a predatory grin on its face.

“I do believe you owe her a meal.”

The hunter was consumed by a vision of a fresh deer carcass, guts steaming in the snow, as a wolf tore meat away from its bones. Her mouth went dry.

“But you shall make your apologies to me, first. We have all night to feed my sweet pet.”

The finger grasping her gorget was pulled down, and the protective steel split apart like paper. Cold lips brushed the bare flesh of her neck. She tried to say something defiant, last words before her death agony began, but all that came out was a pitiful croak.

“Ah-ah, not a sound now. You will suffer me in silence. You will save your screams for her.”

She met the young one's eyes and held them as fangs burrowed into her flesh, and claws raked her belly. The cell was filled with the scent of fresh blood. Howls of pain died in her throat, forbidden to cross her tongue. The night was young, and the dead are not possessed of mercy.