Archive of Our Own

It’s going to be a whole production.

It always is, these days, with Martin’s little collection of bloodbags. They’re always glaring and making comments and yelling at him whenever they need someone to blame for the trouble they’re in. As if Martin is responsible for their decision to murder someone!

(And, to top it all off, they’re still holding their secret little meetings where they whisper and plan. Yeah, guys, that will make Martin regret implementing the new rules.)

Tonight is going to make everything worse, but it’s unavoidable. Elias is lurking closer and closer, and every day Martin finds it harder to convince himself that the actual murder will just blow over. There will be consequences, and Martin isn’t strong enough to shield Jon from the worst of it.

But there is one thing he can do.

“Hi, Jon,” Martin calls when he comes through the door, taking a moment to revel in the quiet and calm. He doesn’t have to duck suddenly, dodging an attack that could be dangerous to him. They don’t have to start off with a fight to set the tone for the evening. It’s nice!

(The rules are good.)

Instead of lurking just inside the doorframe, ready to kill Martin, Jon is curled on the couch. He glares at Martin in cold silence, like he’s regarding a spider.

Martin wants to tell him to smile. He has such a sweet smile. Martin’s caught glimpses of it, in moments when Jon had no idea Martin was watching. It would be nice to see it again.

But Martin isn’t evil, regardless of his bloodbags’ opinions, and he doesn’t want to cause them more distress than necessary. Especially not Jon. That’s why—

That’s why.

“Come on,” Martin says, reaching towards Jon. He doesn’t actually touch Jon as he passes, just uses his arm as a guide to get him started down the hall. Jon’s walk is very stiff, like a prisoner. The smell of fear hangs heavy in the air.

Jon sits down on the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt. He prefers to do it himself, undoing only the first few buttons, then sliding the shirt to the side. It risks bloodstains, doing it that way, but Martin knows how to pick his battles.

Martin sits beside him, and Jon’s fear spikes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Martin says.

“Just get it over with,” Jon mutters, staring at his lap, where his hands rest, wringing together, perpetual nervous motion.

“Stay still,” Martin says. Jon freezes, his fidgeting hands ceasing. The only movement comes from his chest, rising and falling in shallow, quick breaths. Jon hates this part. Martin tries to be quick, maneuvering Jon’s neck where he needs it to be. He bites down, and Jon lets out a choked-off whimper.

As always, Jon’s blood is wonderful. When Martin first claimed Tim and Danny, he’d fretted that Jon would start to seem less special by comparison. Danny was the sort of quality other vampires would be jealous of, and Tim wasn’t far behind.

But even compared to other high-quality bloodbags, Jon’s taste is a revelation.

Martin could indulge. Jon isn’t going to need his blood, after tonight. Martin could take a larger meal than normal, spend more time enjoying his final sips of Jon’s perfection.

But Martin doesn’t want to cause Jon more distress than necessary, so he drinks his usual pint and releases him. Immediately, Jon squirms away, turning his back and curling up on his side at the head of the bed.

Ordinarily, Martin would leave him for a moment. He’d gather snacks and first aid supplies, and then he’d return and get Jon ready for bed. But tonight is different.

Jon senses it. Hardly ten seconds have passed before he lifts his head, eyes flashing as he looks over his shoulder. “Martin…?” Another bolt of fear, which nearly makes Martin sigh in exasperation. What has Martin ever done to make Jon think this level of fear is necessary?

Martin says, “I think Elias is planning to use this Nikola thing to take you from me.”

Jon’s fear yawns, a sudden rush that makes Martin feel almost hazy. It’s gratifying, in a way, that Jon at least prefers him to Elias. “But—But he—“

Martin doesn’t want to force Jon’s mind to catch up with an answer. Martin says, “He wouldn’t let you see Sasha, or Tim, or Danny ever again. And you know that’s the least of it.”

Jon looks like he might faint. “I—I—I don’t—“

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Martin says. “I’m going to fix it. I’ll keep you safe.”

Jon blinks, and the look he gives Martin is—of course, why would it be anything else?—pure suspicion. “How?”

Martin takes a deep breath. Then he says, “Stay still, Jon.”

Jon’s fear spikes again. Martin raises his hand to his mouth, cutting a slash across the meaty side of his thumb with his fang. He leans over, trying not to drip any blood onto Jon’s comforter, and presses the wound to Jon’s lips.

“Drink,” Martin says.

Jon’s eyes widen as his mouth latches on, as he sucks. Martin closes his eyes against a delicate, teeth-aching pain. He lets out a shaky breath, then opens his eyes and trains them on Jon’s narrow, perfect throat.

He watches him swallow three times. He only needs to consume one drop for the transformation to take hold, but Martin doesn’t want to be stingy. Perhaps consuming more of Martin’s blood will make him stronger.

“Alright,” Martin says, and Jon thrashes as the compulsion releases him. His breath is ragged and panicked and fast. He’s almost insensate, his eyes wide and frightened.

Martin loves him.

“Go to sleep, Jon,” Martin says before Jon can work himself into too much of a state. Jon slumps, and Martin catches him before his head makes contact with the headboard. He tugs off his clothes, dressing him in something more comfortable. Then he tucks him into bed for the last true sleep he will ever experience.

Martin rubs his face. There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

He sits on the bed beside Jon, stroking his hair for a few moments. Then he pulls out his phone and sends a text to Sasha, Could you swing by Jon’s to check on him?

Sasha will understand. She’ll at least hear Martin out, and when he tells her about Elias and the danger that Jon faced as a human, and the fact that logistically they should be able to share three bloodbags with no issues, she’ll agree that it was the best thing.

She’ll help him explain it to Jon.

In the meantime, Martin… indulges. He lays down beside Jon and wraps his arms around him. He’s still warm, still breathing. Martin listens to his heart beating, longing for more, more, more.

Maybe one day. Jon will be angry for a long time, but eventually he has to realize that Martin only has his best interests in mind. Maybe when that happens, when Jon matures as a vampire a little, when he embraces the security Martin has given him… maybe he’ll find it in himself to consider Martin a friend.

Martin feels his final heartbeat. Then—stillness. Silence so thick it seems to fill the room. They’re the same, now. Two of a kind.

“You could not be more loved,” Martin tells him.

Finally, Martin hears a soft knock on the door, and Martin dissolves into mist. The front door creaks open. Jon doesn’t move.

“Jon?”

Martin’s heart sinks. It’s Danny’s voice in the hallway. Why the hell is Danny here?

“Sasha told me you weren’t feeling well…” Danny continues, voice getting closer and closer to the bedroom.

Martin could stop him, but decides against it. Jon will be waking soon, whether or not there’s food for him. If no one is here when that happens, Jon will wake up feeling like he’s on the wrong side of a nasty hangover. Martin doesn’t want to subject him to that.

He stays where he is and watches the door ease open. “Jon?” Danny calls softly.

One step into the room. Another. Closer and closer to the bed where Jon is still sleeping.

Finally, the scent of him—delicious, nearly perfect in his own right—filters through Jon’s mind. His chest rises with a huge inhalation. Then he sits bolt upright.

Danny jumps. “Christ, Jon! Don’t—“

That’s as far as he gets. Jon jumps on him, tackling him to the (carpeted, thankfully) floor. Danny cries out, but he’s no match for Jon’s new strength. He thrashes as Jon bites into him, carving long gashes across the side of his neck.

It’s messy. Blood drips down Jon’s mouth, staining his clothes and Danny’s clothes and the carpet around them. Martin watches Jon’s first feeding, fascinated, feeling something like pride at the sound of him purring.

Beneath that, he smells Danny’s fear and his blood. Danny is still trying to fight, pushing against Jon. His breathing is ragged, and his heart is pounding with loud adrenaline.

It’s this last that Martin trains his attention toward. When Danny’s heartbeat begins to weaken, just the smallest bit, Martin steps in. “That’s enough, Jon,” he says, putting his hands on Jon’s shoulders and trying to pull him away.

Jon makes a growling noise and tightens his grip.

“Jon,” Martin says, his voice firmer. He pats Jon’s cheek, hoping to wake him from his frenzy.

“Jon, stop,” Danny says. His voice is soft, and it quivers ever so slightly.

Martin puts one arm around Jon’s chest and physically pulls him back. He tries to resist, to stay with his food, but Martin knows better how to use their strength. He gets Jon to let go and drags him a few steps away, held tight against his chest.

“That’s good, Jon, it’s alright,” he says, keeping his voice gentle. He feels the moment Jon comes back to himself, the way he goes rigid with horror. Danny has pushed himself to sitting, back against the wall. One hand is pressed over the wound at his neck, which is still dripping blood.

Jon sucks in a heavy, gasping breath, preparing to speak. Before he can, Martin says, “Danny, go to sleep.”

It would be better if Danny merely slumped at the neck as he passed into unconsciousness. Instead, his whole body falls to the slide, smacking his head against the floor.

“Danny,” Jon says, and he’s shaking now. He brings his hands to his face and lets out another gasp as he finds his mouth and chin sticky with rapidly cooling blood. “Oh, god.”

“It’s going to be alright, Jon,” Martin whispers into his hair. He feels Jon’s chest jolt in what must be a sob. “Shh, shh, you’re okay.”

Jon starts wriggling, so Martin lets him go. Jon stumbles like his legs won’t hold his weight, then gets to his knees beside Danny. He’s still shaking.

“Danny will be alright,” Martin says. Danny will wake up with a bump on his head and scabs on his neck, and possibly a bit of a headache. No worse for wear. He doesn’t even have to remember this, if Jon would prefer it that way.

“Why did you do this?” Jon asks. His voice is heartbreakingly hollow.

“It was supposed to be Sasha,” Martin says. He wants Jon to know that he didn’t choose Danny for this. He might not be happy about the whole ‘Let’s go behind Martin’s back to murder a powerful vampire!’ scheme, but he is sensitive to the scale of trauma Danny suffered. It was just bad luck that he happened to be the one to fall victim to Jon’s newborn frenzy.

“What does that mean?” Jon asks. His voice is hard, accusing. Martin is used to it, was prepared for it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.

“Just, I asked her to come check on you,” Martin says. “I guess she was busy tonight, or—or she thought you’d rather see him. I don’t know.”

“You’re supposed to be her friend,” Jon says.

Uh, yeah? “That’s why I wanted it to be her.”

“You set a trap for her! You knew whoever came here would get hurt!” Jon’s voice is getting shrill as he works himself up. Honestly.

“Jon, calm down,” Martin says. He doesn’t have compulsion anymore, but the words come reflexively. “Danny isn’t hurt. He’s fine.”

“I’m covered in his blood!”

“It had to be one of them,” Martin says. “Sasha would have been better. I don’t think the frenzy would have been as bad with her blood. I could have kept her awake, and then she could have reassured you—“

“Reassured me of what?” Jon says. “You honestly think she won’t be horrified when she finds out what you’ve done?”

They’re all so dramatic. “Would you rather Elias get his claws in you again?”

“Yes!” Jon says.

It isn’t even worth talking to them. It doesn’t matter what Martin says, they’ll choose to be contrary just for the hell of it. Martin says, “Fine. Sorry.” He turns his attention to Danny, whose neck is still bleeding sluggishly. “I’ll be right back.”

He goes to the kitchen, reminding himself that this night was always going to be difficult. He forces down his pissed-off anger and pastes a pleasant smile on his face. He gets the first aid kit, and wets a flannel in the kitchen sink.

He returns to the bedroom, ready to continue the conversation while he dresses Danny’s wounds.

Except Jon is gone.

***

Jon is pretty sure he’ll be okay if he jumps from his second-floor window. Vampires are stronger and faster than humans, so it only makes sense they’d be sturdier, too. Besides, what difference does it make if he’s wrong and shatters his legs? Martin will find him and tend to him, and Jon will still be a vampire. Can’t take that one back.

Jon jumps out the window and lands on his feet, and it feels no more strenuous than if he’d jumped down from his sofa. Then he runs, faster than he ever has in his life, faster than human. He chooses shadowy streets and alleys, places where he would be hard to spot even for a bat searching from above.

When he’s run far enough to make himself lost and his emotions begin to catch up to him again, he finds a suitably abandoned alleyway and wedges himself between two large dumpsters.

He wants to scream, but if Martin happens to be searching nearby, Jon doesn’t want to send out a beacon for him. He feels like he should cry, like he should shake to pieces under the weight of what has happened. He died tonight.

Jon sits in silence, no noise from his heart or his breath. It’s eerie. He wants to go home. He wants Sasha, and Tim, and Danny. He doesn’t want to be a threat to them. He doesn’t want to be a monster.

He wonders how long it will take before he stops feeling human. Before he stops acting human. He needs to talk to Sasha and Tim, to warn them. He needs to tell them to make sure Danny is alright.

He’s dressed in his pajamas, which means he doesn’t have his phone, abandoned in his trouser pockets. He’ll have to go back to his flat, face Martin again. The thought of seeing Martin makes him want to throw up. He doesn’t want to exist. He wants to hide here forever, a corpse’s final resting place.

Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t think. He listens to the night. The hum of street lamps and cars. He looks up at London’s dull gray sky. A brick wall scratches at the back of his head as he leans against it, and with a flicker of disgust Jon gradually realizes that he is sitting in a puddle of an unidentifiable liquid.

Jon pulls himself out of his hiding place and surveys the damage. His clothes are stained a muddy brown, which means part of his confrontation with Martin when he goes home will include arguing over laundry.

That’s the detail that makes Jon’s chest hitch in a sob. Jon died tonight, and now he has to go home and argue with the thing that killed him about laundry. Jon leans against the dumpsters and lets the tears fall, and each breath hurts as the sobs rip through him.

Finally, the tears slow. He straightens and rubs his face, and his hands come away red because he’s still covered in Danny’s blood. Jon freezes, red hands held stiffly in front of him, and wishes with all his might that he didn’t exist.

When it doesn’t work, Jon wipes his hands and his face on his increasingly ruined shirt and begins the painstakingly long walk back to his flat.

He doesn’t bother trying to stay hidden.

He’s walking through a park, near a stand of trees that cast stark shadows over the landscape, when something hits him from behind, sending him toppling onto his face. He only just manages to roll over before his attacker comes down on top of him. Her face is obscured by a hooded cloak, but the object in her hand is unmistakably a wooden stake.

Jon grabs her wrist, fighting to throw her off. She must be human, but she seems impossibly strong. His hands shake just to keep the stake from striking true.

“Please don’t kill me,” Jon gasps, starting to cry again. He’s such a coward. He’s a monster, and he hurt Danny, and he should be glad for someone to put him down before he can become like Martin.

He doesn’t want to die.

To his surprise, the pressure on the stake disappears. His attacker continues kneeling on his chest, but she pulls their hood back, revealing inquisitive eyes and blue hair pulled back into a short ponytail. She calls into the shadows under the trees, “Gerry, I’ve got a fawn.”

The response comes as a sigh. “Lucky us.”

Jon strains his eyes to see the person in the shadows, but the woman pinning him to the ground snaps her fingers in front of his eyes. Her fingernails match her hair, Jon notices with a flash of mania. “This is your first night, right?”

Jon nods desperately, clinging to the softness in her tone, hoping—just, just hoping. He doesn’t want to die. More tears spring to his eyes unbidden, and he closes them, turning his face to the side.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” she says. “It’s good that you ran into us. I’m Melanie. I’m a vampire slayer, but you probably worked that one out already. What’s your name?”

Jon swallows, then croaks out, “Jon.” It isn’t fair. Vampire slayers evidently exist, but in all his years of vampire bullshit, he doesn’t meet them until the moment they’re a threat to him, rather than a help.

“Okay, Jon,” the woman—Melanie—says. “Can you tell me who your sire is? Which vampire turned you?”

There’s a tension in the question, and a watchfulness in her eyes. She’s not asking for no reason. If he answers correctly—what? She’ll spare him? She’ll let him go on his way? He swallows, allowing desperate hope to bloom in his chest. “Martin Blackwood.”

Melanie turns her head to the side, looking to her companion, still shrouded in the shadows. Jon follows her gaze and sees a tall man—Gerry—step to the edge of the tree line, leaning his shoulder against one of the trunks. He looks like a vampire himself, dressed all in black, skin almost bloodlessly pale.

Gerry shakes his head, back-and-forth, no. Jon feels his chest flip-flop, unsure if that head shake is good or bad for him.

“Are you sure?” Melanie calls. “Name sounds familiar.”

“He’s not on the Council, and he’s not a Fairchild,” Gerry replies.

“Right.” Melanie lets out a long sigh. She turns her focus back to Jon. “Alright, Jon, here’s what’s going to happen now. I’m going to kill you. It won’t hurt. It will be quick, and then you’ll be at peace.”

“No—” Jon bucks, trying to dislodge her from her perch on his chest. It isn’t fair; he’s supposed to be stronger now, why can’t he—

Gerry steps over him, placing heavy hands on his shoulders, adding his weight to help pin Jon down. His face is grim and impassive. Melanie says, “You’ll want to stay still. Otherwise, I might miss. I don’t want you to suffer.”

“Please don’t kill me,” Jon tries again, sobbing, his mind flailing for purchase. He catches on the man’s comment—not a member of the Council—and he says, “Elias—Elias Bouchard will be angry if you kill me.”

Melanie again pauses, and her eyes go to her companion.

Gerry is staring down at Jon, eyebrows furrowed. “Why would Elias care about the fate of someone else’s newborn?”

Jon gasps in air that he doesn’t need. It’s a habit, more than anything. “I—I—I used to be his bloodbag. Before Martin. And—and—and now he wants me back. He—he—he’s—he likes me. That’s why Martin turned me b—because he didn’t want Elias to have me.”

Gerry clicks his tongue and sits back on his heels. Melanie watches him. “Complicates things,” she says.

Slowly, Gerry shakes his head. “Not for us. Elias won’t want him like this. He won’t come after us for killing him. He’ll go after Martin. Save us some work, even.”

“No—no!” Jon says, trying to push up from beneath them again. He almost succeeds in shaking them loose, and Gerry rolls him onto his stomach, pinning his arms behind him. Jon keeps babbling, “You have to free the others! They—If you let Elias—He’ll kill them!”

There’s a pause, and Jon cranes his neck, trying to look at his captors.

Melanie speaks first. “Gerry, I hate fawns.”

“Go grab some water,” Gerry says. “I’ll handle it.”

Jon hears Melanie’s retreating footsteps, and then there’s another moment of silence. Jon tries again, “Please, there are three others, and they aren’t—Martin isn’t going to turn them, but if Elias kills Martin, he’ll kill them too, please—”

“Listen, Jon,” Gerry’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “I promise Elias doesn’t care about Martin’s other bloodbags. He has dozens of his own. Your friends will be alright, as long as they have the common sense to get out while they can.”

“No, you don’t understand, Elias will kill them! He was friends with Nikola, and he knows that we—“

“Nikola?” Gerry interrupts.

“We killed her,” Jon finishes. “He knows it was us. He doesn’t know how we did it because he doesn’t have our bonds, so he hasn’t been able to—to interrogate us, but he wants to!” Jon takes a deep, sobbing breath. “Please, they don’t deserve that. Danny’s only had a few months away from it, and it isn’t fair—”

Gerry lets out a heavy sigh. “Fuck,” he says. He calls out in a voice loud enough to make Jon jump. “Melanie!”

Jon hears her footsteps jog back over. “What’s up? I thought you were going to—”

“You were right. Martin Blackwood is a familiar name. He’s the one whose bloodbags took down the Circus.”

“Oh, fuck,” Melanie says. She’s silent for a moment, and Jon hears her pacing. “Well, that does complicate things, doesn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm,” Gerry says. “Elias will know about this situation by tomorrow. If he doesn’t already.”

“So there isn’t much time.”

“Nope,” Gerry says. He’s silent for a moment, thinking. Then he says, “Okay, Jon, all this begging us to help your friends. Are you willing to help us?”

“Yes,” Jon says immediately. They have to get the others out.

“We’re going to kill Martin Blackwood,” Melanie says.

“Good.”

There’s a pause. Jon can’t see, but he’s sure the two slayers are exchanging glances.

Gerry says, “Alright. I’m going to bind your hands now. You’re strong. You’ll be able to break out of the bind. But you’re not going to because the second you break free, I will drive my stake through your neck. Understand?”

Jon nods quickly, his cheek scraping against the concrete.

They use zip-ties. Five, all layered around each other, pulling his shoulders back at an uncomfortable angle. Then Gerry pulls Jon up onto his knees. “I need you to answer some questions,” Gerry says.

Jon nods.

“Do you know where Martin is now?”

Jon shakes his head. “I—He would have tried to find me when I left my flat, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. I don’t think. I—I—no, he didn’t. We would have seen him if he was—if he was watching. He would have been here.”

“That’s where he turned you? Your flat?”

Jon nods. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Do you think he went back there?”

“He—Probably.” Jon swallows, forcing himself to speak. “Danny is still there.”

“Is that who you’ve got all over your face? Danny Stoker?”

Jon barely registers that they know Danny’s full name. He nods. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—He just—”

“Is he still alive?” Gerry asks, and there’s a bit of an edge in his voice.

“Yes,” Jon says desperately. “Yes, he—he’s fine. Martin stopped me from—he—“ Jon wants to cover his face in his hands, or to bury his face in his knees, but he can’t do either. He tips his head down, hiding as much as he can. He’s disgusting. He should let them kill him. He should be begging them for it.

“Good luck for us?” Melanie says.

“Better luck for him to be miles away,” Gerry says. “He won’t be strong enough to fight, but if Martin Orders him—”

“He’ll still be fighting at a disadvantage,” Melanie says. “And I think we can count on him to resist.”

“Maybe,” Gerry says. He rolls his neck and stands up, pulling Jon to his feet with the stake continually pressed against the side of his neck. “Come on. Van’s this way.”

They take Jon on a path through the trees. It’s dark, and Jon wonders that neither of them show any discomfort at all with the lack of visibility. Maybe they’re just familiar enough with the trail; it’s only a few minutes before they emerge on a car park. A large white van is the only vehicle in attendance.

Gerry takes Jon to the front while Melanie goes around to the back. Gerry opens the passenger side door and gestures for Jon to get in. Once Jon is seated, Gerry scoots in beside him, crawling up close to keep his stake hovering over Jon’s neck. Jon takes the hint and doesn’t move, even as the pressure on his shoulders pinches and aches.

Jon can hear Melanie in the back, digging around. It’s a few minutes before she comes around to the front. She opens the driver’s side door and steps up without sitting down. She’s wearing leather gloves and holding, Jon realizes with a dizzying flash of unreality, a ball gag.

“It would be very bad if either of us were bitten,” Melanie explains. “It’s just not a risk we can take.” Her voice isn’t unkind, but Jon’s chest jolts in the start of a sob anyway. He wants to be home, safe and asleep in bed, and human again.

He doesn’t want to be here.

“Open your mouth,” Melanie says.

Jon obeys, and Melanie fits the device around his head, keeping her hands as far from his—his fangs as she can get. The ball gag isn’t huge, but it still stretches his jaw uncomfortably. It’s still humiliating.

“Thank you,” Melanie says. Now that he’s safely contained, she drops into the seat beside him. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

***

It wouldn’t be the end of the world, if Danny slept through the night. Sure, he needs iron and electrolytes and whatever else to start replenishing the blood he’s lost. But he can get those in the morning! He doesn’t need Martin to do the whole post-donor program of biscuits and juice.

His neck is bandaged, now, the bleeding staunched. He’s tucked into Jon’s bed, sleeping soundly. His breathing is a little uneven, but it’s fine. He just has a touch of sleep apnea; it doesn’t mean he needs Martin to wake him up and make him eat right now.

It’s been one hour since Jon left. Martin keeps hoping he’ll be back soon. It’s hard to think about anything else.

Martin pours a glass of juice and puts together a plate of biscuits. He arranges them carefully on Jon’s bedside table. Then he backs up a step from the bed and says, “Danny, wake up.”

It’s immediate. Danny’s eyes fly open and land on Martin. His heart rate spikes, and his fear. He sits up, his hand going to the bandage at his neck. His eyes widen, his breathing gasping along. “Where’s Jon?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says.

“You made him a vampire,” Danny says, his voice soft and trembling.

“I had to protect him from Elias.”

Danny shakes his head wildly, then fumbles for his pockets. He pulls out his phone, clearly intending to call Tim.

“Danny, put your phone down. Don’t touch it for the rest of the night.”

Danny places the phone on the bedside table with a little whimper.

For the love of— “I just don’t want to have to deal with the others tonight,” Martin says. “Especially your brother.” Martin is not looking forward to Tim seeing the scabs on Danny’s neck. “I woke you up so you could eat,” Martin says, nodding to the food on the bedside table.

Danny glances at the little plate, the bright glass of juice. “You’re a monster,” he says quietly, which Martin thinks is a little unfair.

“I’ve heard,” Martin says.

Danny slowly picks up one of the biscuits and takes the most agonized, miserable bite Martin has ever seen. It’s honestly impressive! Martin sighs. “Stay here. Keep eating until you’re finished. Then go back to sleep.”

Martin goes back to the living room and slumps down in Jon’s big armchair. He sighs. “I am not evil,” he says, and when he says it out loud, the ridiculousness of it becomes clear.

Knock-knock-knock.

Martin sits up, staring at the door. His first thought is that it’s Sasha, come to check on Jon like Martin asked. But he would smell Sasha. He doesn’t smell anything from the person on the other side of the door.

It must be Jon, then. Knocking to let Martin know that he’s back. Knocking so that they can both take a moment to prepare themselves for the conversation they’ll have to have.

Martin opens the door.

It’s Elias.

***

The worm has the nerve to say, “You aren’t welcome here.”

Elias steps past him, letting himself into Jonathan’s flat. He half-expects the worm to attack him, with the look on his face, but he evidently restrains himself. A wise choice, but a disappointing one.

Elias goes to the kitchen and begins opening cabinets. He’s unsurprised to find that Jon hasn’t kept his wine in stock, but it does nothing to supply any levity for his mood. There is another bloodbag in the flat, a high-quality one. It can only be Danny Stoker, recovering from Jon’s Change.

Elias considers it, but anything less than perfection would taste like a slap in the face, at the moment. He takes a seat on Jon’s couch, lounging like he did in better days, before his own mistakes piled up before him, mis-timed moves ruining everything.

“You can’t have Jon,” the worm says. Elias has always known that he isn’t very smart, but now it’s like he’s begging for Elias to gut him.

“I know what you’ve done, Martin,” Elias says darkly. He should have pulled down a glass, at least. Something to fiddle with while he waits for Jon’s sweet scent to herald his arrival.

… Except it won’t, will it? Never again.

“Then what are you doing here?”

Elias wants to see how things stand between Jon and his sire. It’s an important relationship, especially in the early days of the Change, and Elias can put aside personal dislike for Jon’s sake, on the off-chance Jon clings to the worm as a steadying beacon.

“Jon isn’t here!” the worm says in response to Elias’ lack of one.

Jon is currently at Beddington Park being accosted by Gerard and Melanie. (Out of all the slayers currently haunting London! If Elias were in a better mood, he would find it humorous.) When Elias left them, Jon had just about convinced them not to kill him; had, in fact, agreed to help them kill the worm.

Which doesn’t particularly speak of any sense of attachment to his sire, but Elias is willing to wait and see. Jon always was full of surprises.

“Martin, you are aware that Nikola was a particular friend of mine?” Elias says, having an idea. A pleasant diversion, a way to project his intentions to poor Jonathan while putting the worm in his proper place.

The worm stiffens. “I know you’re going to say I should have stopped them, but I didn’t know!”

Elias laughs, although mirth is not an emotion he particularly feels, this evening. “What I wouldn’t give to see the Council’s reaction to that defense,” he says. “But I see no need to bring such proceedings before the Council. Not when I can extract justice from you right here.”

The worm goes very, very still. Elias meets his eyes and waits for him to attack, convincing himself that his only chance at survival is to take Elias by surprise. But the worm controls himself, so Elias allows himself to relax as well. “I’m not going to kill you,” Elias says. “Instead, I’d like to ask a very particular favor.”

“What?” the worm practically spits.

“Give Daniel Stoker’s Bond to Jon.”

“What?”

“He’s here, isn’t he? The sacrificial lamb for Jon’s Change? Give him to Jon.”

“What are you talking about?”

Elias speaks slowly, patronizingly. “I’m talking about the responsibility you have to your newborn. He’ll need a bloodbag. He deserves one of quality. Therefore.”

“Jon doesn’t want—He won’t take—“

Elias is sure. He’s equally sure that a competent sire wouldn’t have trouble bending Jon into compliance. “You can give him Daniel’s Bond, or I can can kill you.”

“Why do you care? He isn’t your newborn, he’s mine!”

Thankfully, Elias doesn’t have time to unscrew the worm’s head from his shoulders. Jonathan chooses that moment to open the door. (Gerard and Melanie always did have a knack for excellent timing.) He steps inside, shoulders already hunched, projecting his fear quite clearly even with his precious vital signs gone silent.

He notices Elias, and he freezes.

It’s good to see Jon, in spite of everything. Even though the sight of him with no breath in his lungs and no blood in his heart makes fury jangle through whatever remains of Elias’ veins, the pure animated terror on his face nearly makes up for it.

Elias expects questions. The why and the how of Elias’ presence here, seeking an unobtainable assurance that Elias hasn’t been hunting Jon’s every ignorant step.

(Not every step. If he’d been watching Jon’s every step, Nikola would still be alive, and Jon would still be human, and Elias wouldn’t be stuck salvaging scraps from the ashes of his plans.)

“Where’s Danny?” is the question Jon lands on, his voice trembling as he asks.

Elias smiles, taken by surprise. Jon is such a wonder.

“Danny is fine,” the worm says, which isn’t a good enough answer. If Jon’s heart were still beating, they could enjoy the pounding thrum of it speeding past sanity from the inadequacy of that response. Jon knows that Daniel Stoker is not ‘fine’. Not here. Not in Elias’ company. His fear will not be assuaged with a base platitude.

“Listen,” Elias says. He has no control over Jon, not anymore, but he can still pitch his voice authoritatively. “You can hear it, now. That’s his heart, beating nice and strong.”

Jon takes a breath that he doesn’t need. It will be a few weeks before he’s lost the habit. He goes quiet, his eyes distant. He listens. Elias sees him hear, sees him smell. It would be better if the bloodbag were awake, seasoning the air with fear that Jon wouldn’t know to recognize as such. Alas.

Jon takes another shaky breath, and Elias sees his shoulders relax, just a hair. He looks back and forth, between Elias and the worm. “It wasn’t Danny’s fault. He didn’t know—“

“Why don’t you come sit, Jon?” Elias asks, interrupting whatever path this apology might take. If he were still human, Elias might have enjoyed forcing Jon to apologize for his role in the mess, finding the appropriate threads to pick it, manipulating Jons’ words into whatever form Elias found most gratifying. But it would be absurd to hold Jon to any true responsibility for Nikola’s unfortunate end.

No, the worm bears the brunt of the blame for his incompetence in managing his bloodbags. Elias isn’t afraid to admit his own responsibility for complacently trading away a volatile bloodbag to an inexperienced vampire. And, of course, Nikola should not have let her guard down so far as to be ended by three amateurs.

Not Jon’s fault at all, really, and—if he’s honest—not something Elias cares to dwell on, tonight.

Jon doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.

“He wants me to give you Danny’s bond,” the worm says, utterly out of turn. Elias shakes his head in annoyance, but doesn’t give the worm more quarter than that.

Jon’s eyes go wide and wild. “Why?”

“Call it a favor,” Elias says. “A competent sire would gift you a high-quality bloodbag to get you started. Especially since he was there for your Change.”

“I don’t want Danny’s bond,” Jon says, and Elias knows he’s stubborn enough to refuse his new role altogether. Starve himself to an early end! It irritates Elias. Jon was never the sort of person who should be turned in a single moment of terrible surprise. Much better to prime him over months and years, slowly readying him for the transformation.

“He said he’ll kill me unless I give it over,” the worm says.

Jon doesn’t reply, just looks back and forth between them with his big, dark eyes. Like perhaps he does want Martin Blackwood dead. Like perhaps he can’t decide which of them he hates more.

The worm scoffs. “Seriously, Jon?”

“Neither of us can force you,” Elias says. He feels a zing of satisfaction that the worm is so inept at handling Jon, that he is so clearly unfit for the task of growing Jon into his new life. “Unfortunately, bloodbags and their masters are considered a package deal in matters of honor. Whether he was personally culpable or not, as long as Danny belongs to Martin, I have to consider him party to Nikola’s murder.”

Jon is so excellent at glaring. “Fine,” he spits. He stalks over to the sitting area and throws out his hands. “What do I do?”

The worm slices his thumb open on his fang, a resigned expression on his face. “With this blood, the Bond of Danny Stoker.” He holds it out to Jon and says, “You need to—to swallow it.”

It does lift Elias’ mood, a bit, to watch Jon’s expression as he licks the blood from the worm’s thumb. There has never been any question that Jon hated Elias, but it was always the sort of hatred one feels towards a car accident, or a hurricane. Impersonal. A natural extension of pain and fear.

The way Jon looks at the worm is personal, and far more poisonous. Better yet, it’s a hatred that cuts into the worm’s soft flesh, a rejection that the worm hasn’t yet learned to take impassively.

Jon grimaces as he leans away, like Elias and Martin aren’t perfectly aware that Daniel Stoker’s blood is something of a delicacy. Resistance in the face of all reason. It’s very Jon, Elias has to admit.

Elias pictures the scene another way: Jon, melted down to perfect obedience, kneeling in submission for this offering. Even better: Jon, still thrumming with delicious life, held in place under the orders he so hated. Unable to resist as Elias tilted his head back and partook in holy sustenance.

Perfection is such a rare thing, and Jon was a gem even among gems. And Martin Blackwood defiled him.

Elias stands up. There will be more work by far in the nights to come. Tonight, though, he wishes only to grieve what has been lost. “I’ll intrude on you no longer,” Elias says. “The first night is something sacred between a sire and their newborn.” His voice drips with irony, but Jon and Martin don’t notice, too preoccupied with the voices in their own minds.

Elias doesn’t bother switching shapes, although he typically prefers to fly where he can. The slayers are both savvy enough to spot the erratic flight of a bat, even one kept well-shrouded in shadows. Easier to take them by surprise when he looks little different from any other passer-by.

It’s hard to sense their vitals with the walls and windows of the van between them, so Elias doesn’t know when they recognize him. By the time he reaches the driver’s side window, Melanie is already staring at him with wide, wary eyes. Gerard isn’t in the passenger seat, but he isn’t on the street, either. Probably busying himself in the back, amongst their grisly tools.

Elias taps on the glass and motions for Melanie to lower the window. Melanie just stares at him, then slowly raises her hand to the ignition, like she plans to start up the engine and drive away.

“Ms. King, if you’re under the impression that I can’t keep pace with your little motor home, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

“What do you want?” Melanie says, her voice muffled and distorted through the window.

“I want to speak to you in a composed tone of voice,” Elias says. “Perhaps without a pane of glass in the way?”

He hears Gerard speak up, although his voice is too quiet to take any meaning from. Melanie half-turns her head, unwilling to take her eyes off Elias. “No! Are you stupid? I’m not going to—”

This time, Gerard’s voice is louder, and Elias can hear him say, “If he wanted to kill us, he could just seep in through the air-con!”

Melanie turns back around and mutters something to herself. Elias clearly sees her mouth form the words, “Fuck this night.” Then she puts her finger on the button and lowers the window by half an inch.

Elias has half a mind to make her lower the window all the way to the bottom of the frame, but he lets it go. As entertaining as it could be to watch Melanie grapple with the spectre of Elias suddenly lunging at her through the window, the wide opening would expose him to the same vulnerability. Elias knows he isn’t planning to attack Melanie this evening, but she had an unfortunate tendency to behave more like a wild ape than a rational human being. Better to give them both the distance of the barrier.

“Thank you,” Elias says.

“What do you want?” Melanie growls.

Elias regards her coldly for a moment. Then he says, “You’ve both been very, very lucky tonight. I imagine it was close, wasn’t it? No better chance to murder him than his very first night among us. Before he even knows how to defend himself.”

“Sorry, are you trying to paint us as the monsters?” Melanie says.

Elias laughs. “I do wonder what it does to your humanity, spending so much of your time killing those of us that are still so much like you.”

“Are you just here to call us hypocrites, or—?”

“As I said, you’ve been lucky. If you had killed Jonathan Sims, I would have devoured the both of you the moment I learned of it,” Elias says. “You might think that’s an exaggeration; after all, your lives are already forfeit to me, and yet here you breathe. But this is different. Jonathan Sims is mine.”

Elias waits, watching Melanie’s expression flicker until he is sure she understands. Then he looks over his shoulder at the building within which lies Jon’s flat. “I hope you two are competent enough to dispatch Martin Blackwood without my involvement. I will be very displeased if the sunrise finds him anything less than dust.”

He taps on the window one last time, a little note of encouragement. Then he shifts to bat and flies home.

***

Danny wakes to sudden silence. He checks his phone: 1:42 AM. He closes his eyes, remembering Jon’s eyes and teeth flashing, pinning him down and clawing into him as if he was nothing more than prey to be devoured.

He waits for the noise to continue. He has an impression of noise, the moment before consciousness took hold. It’s what woke him. The silence stretches on and on, and Danny’s legs begin to itch beneath Jon’s blankets. He can see lights beneath the door, bright in the living room and kitchen. He slides out of bed and swings the door open, ducking his head out into the hallway.

From the bedroom, Danny can see the front door—closed—and not much else. He creeps forward, dread pooling in his stomach. He has a horror of running into Martin and being Ordered back to sleep. He wants to talk to Jon. Even though he doesn’t know if it’s safe to be around Jon, anymore.

Danny pauses at the end of the hallway. It’s so quiet. He feels like a character in a horror movie as he peeks out into the living room, and the feeling does not dissipate when he sees the corpse sprawled out on the floor in a puddle of blood.

It’s Martin. Danny takes a shaky step forward, then another, spotting more details as he gets closer. There’s a bloody hole through his chest, which seems to be where all the blood is coming from. Wooden stake, of course. At least his head is still attached to his body.

“Danny!”

It’s just Jon, but Danny flinches. He can’t help it.

“Sorry,” Jon says, shrinking into himself. He’s sitting on the floor on the other side of the sofa, back pressed against the upholstery, knees wedged against the coffee table. His phone is held between his hands, and he keeps his eyes down, looking at the screen. “Sorry,” he repeats.

Danny looks at the body on the floor in front of him. He looks at Jon, his friend, who looks about one breath from cracking apart entirely. His neck hurts. His head hurts.

He steps around the sofa and wedges himself in beside Jon. Jon’s shoulders go tense.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Danny says. Maybe saying it out loud will make it true.

“Yes, you are,” Jon says. He lets out a watery laugh. “I can smell it.”

Oh, right. Fuck.

“And you’re right! It isn’t safe. You—” Jon’s phone buzzes, an incoming call. Danny doesn’t have time to read the screen before Jon declines it. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I texted them to come over. I told them about—ah—” Jon looks over his shoulder, and even though the sofa is blocking their view, Danny knows he’s talking about Martin’s body. “But now they keep calling, and I understand, but I—”

“Give me your phone?” Danny says, holding out his hand.

Jon hands it over. Danny enters Jon’s password and thumbs over to their group text thread.

Jonathan Sims, 1:42AM: I know it’s late, but I need everyone at my flat as soon as possible. We need to have a discussion. Martin is dead, which means you’re both free of your bonds. Be careful.

Sasha James, 1:42AM: ????????????????????

Sasha James, 1:43AM: is danny there?

Tim Stoker, 1:45AM: Jon what the fuck

Tim Stoker, 1:45AM: Answer your phone

Jonathan Sims, 1:46AM: Please just come over.

Tim Stoker, 1:46AM: JON!

Danny calls Tim. It hardly rings before Tim answers, his voice sounding brightly frantic, “Jon, I’d like to know what the fuck is going on over there?”

Just then, Jon’s front door opens, and two strangers come in. Jon tenses, but he doesn’t turn to look, like he expected them. Danny feels his stomach clench. More vampires?

No. Jon wouldn’t be calling Sasha and Tim over if he didn’t think it was safe. Unless—

No. No unless. Jon wouldn’t.

“Jon?” Tim prompts on the phone.

Danny clears his voice. “Not Jon, actually.” His eyes follow the strangers as they grab chairs from Jon’s kitchen and sit down on the other side of the living room, apparently unperturbed by the corpse five feet from the front door.

“What is going on?” Tim is asking. “What happened?”

“I’m not entirely clear on that,” Danny says. Beside him, in a low voice, Jon asks the strangers if he can get them something to drink. One of them is goth or something, and he replies, “Water?” Then the other one, who is wearing an honest-to-god cloak like they’re going to the Ren Faire, sighs like the concept of water has personally insulted her and says, “Sure. Water would be. Fine.”

Jon gets up. Both of their eyes follow him to the kitchen and back. He doesn’t hand the glasses directly to them. Instead, he places them on the table beside the armchair and returns to sit beside Danny. The strangers get up and retrieve their waters only after Jon has stepped away.

Tim is speaking the entire time Danny is absorbed in this drama. Listing off all the questions he’s thought of: What happened? How did Martin die? Are you okay? Is Jon okay? Was it Elias? Et cetera.

“I don’t know,” Danny says. “I missed some of the important bits, and Jon doesn’t want to get into it until you’re here. Just hurry, and—and be careful.”

The strangers are both watching him, now. Studying the bandages at his neck, his clothes (which are still covered in blood), the small space between him and Jon. Danny wants to close the space, to lean against Jon’s shoulder and rest his head atop Jon’s.

(Perfect height for Jon’s mouth to access Danny’s neck.)

Tim does not sound happy. “Fine. You be careful, too. Both of you.”

A quick goodbye later, and Danny no longer has the phone to shield himself from the focus of the two strangers. He hands Jon’s phone back. Jon taps his fingers against the glass pane of its screen. Without looking up, he says, “Danny, this is Gerard and Melanie. They’re vampire hunters. They killed Martin.”

“What did Elias say to you?” The goth one—Gerard?—says, ignoring the introduction.

“Elias was here?” Danny asks. Jon glances at him, then gives the tiniest nod of affirmation.

“He—um—he—he didn’t say much,” Jon says. Danny wonders if these strangers recognize it as a transparent attempt to obfuscate the details, or just a probable one.

“What, he just popped by for no reason?” Melanie says.

Jon swallows. “I—I—I think he wanted to talk to Martin. Maybe he was going to try and take me, and that’s how he found out. Or—or—I don’t know. I don’t know why Elias does anything!”

Jon cuts off before his wave of emotion can crest out of control, but it doesn’t assuage the vampire hunters. They both stare at Jon, waiting. It’s an interrogation, and even though Jon might be hiding something, Danny isn’t going to take the side of the people who are clearly thinking about killing him!

“Elias doesn’t need a reason to show up and taunt Jon,” Danny says. “It’s entertainment, right? Anything to fill up those endless years of immortality.”

The hunters look at each other. Gerard shrugs. Melanie doesn’t look happy about it, but she looks away, taking another sip of her water. Gerard says, “The two of us have a bit of a history with Elias. He saw us outside and put together that we were here with you. And he told us that he intends to act as your sire. So! You were right. We would have been in trouble if we’d killed you.”

Danny can’t see Jon’s face, but he doesn’t need to. It’s clear in his voice when he says, “What does that mean?”

Gerard shrugs. “It’s not a very common situation. I don’t know exactly—”

“What do you think?” Jon presses.

“It won’t be like it was before,” Melanie says. Her voice is surprisingly gentle. “You’re not prey. You’re not entertainment. You’re—I don’t know—an extension of himself. Basically. He’ll help you find bloodbags for yourself. He’ll help you develop your powers. He’ll introduce you to all the important vampires of London.”

Jon rubs his hands over his face, his eyes. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “What if I say no?”

Melanie and Gerard exchange a glance that speaks for itself.

Jon is shaking, now. Danny fights down his fear and puts his arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon glances at him, then brushes him off, standing up to pace around the room. “What if you killed me?”

“Jon!” Danny says.

“Elias made it clear that you’re under his protection,” Gerard says. “Which means killing you would be a death sentence.”

Jon lets out a deep breath, then lands on the sofa, the corner furthest from Danny. He pulls his knees to his chest, head resting in the palm of his hand.

“It’s not a terrible deal, honestly,” Gerard says. “This transition can be hell, but it doesn’t have to be. Elias has experience. He knows how to smooth the road.”

“You wanted to talk to Danny,” Jon says, his voice dull. He waves a hand in Danny’s direction, his gaze already going distant.

“Right,” Gerard says, meeting Danny’s eyes for what seems like the first time. Then he looks at Melanie. Melanie shakes her head and waves a hand at him. Gerard blinks at her in a way that Danny is sure means something between them, and Melanie responds by flipping him off. And then Gerard looks at Danny again, his face twisted into an expression that puts Danny in mind of a serial killer.

He says, “You’re aware that you’re a high-quality bloodbag?”

Danny blinks, unprepared for this tangent. “… Yeah?”

“Then you know it’s basically certain you’ll get bonded by another vampire within a few weeks?”

He hadn’t exactly considered it yet, but yes. He did know that. He looks at Jon, who is avoiding his gaze. Better his friend than another sociopathic monster, right? Even if Jon is doomed to become a sociopathic monster. “Yes. I know.”

“Melanie and I are both as good or better than you,” Gerard says. “And we’ve been unbonded for over a year now.” He pulls a wooden stake from his pocket, twirling it between his fingers. “That’s the other choice. Killing them.”

Jon slumps down deeper in his seat.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Danny says, unsure of exactly where this conversation is supposed to go.

“We’ve got an opening on our team,” Melanie says, cutting in. “We would teach you. How to fight. How to find jobs. How to avoid getting caught under the fang.”

Oh. It’s a job offer.

Danny rubs his face. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? Or—or some other time?”

Melanie and Gerard share a glance. Again, something wordless passes between them in several annoying gestures. Gerard says, “We can come back in the morning, but after that, we need to be off. It’s dangerous to hang around the same place for too long.”

“Fine.

“Ten o’clock?” Melanie says.

“Sure,” Danny says, looking meaningfully at the door. Thankfully, the two vampire hunters take the hint and start to leave. As they do, Gerard places his wooden stake on the coffee table. “Be careful,” he says.

He doesn’t look at Jon. He doesn’t have to.

Then they’re gone, and for a moment he and Jon are left alone in a silence that feels far, far too deep.

“You have to take it,” Jon says quietly.

“I know,” Danny replies.

***

“There’s one more thing,” Jon says in the quiet breath between the end of the horror story and the voicing of reactions. Jon runs his tongue over his teeth, his fangs, and Tim braces himself. “I have Danny’s Bond.”

Jon says it with enough revulsion to put Tim’s heart at ease, a bit. Martin never acted like it was a violation to take total control of their actions. To the end, he insisted that claiming Tim and Danny had been a favor.

“When?” Danny asks, taking Tim by surprise. He’d assumed his little brother was aware of the change in management. Silly of him. Why would vampire magic include informing the victims of anything?

“When Elias was here,” Jon replies.

“Wait, Elias was here?” Sasha echoes. Jon and Danny had included Elias’ words to the vampire hunters in their recap. They hadn’t included Elias making contact with Jon.

Jon nods. “He was here when I got back. I don’t—I’m sorry. I don’t really remember what he said. But he made Martin give me Danny’s bond. I didn’t want it, but he threatened to kill Danny if I didn’t, so—” Jon takes a deep, shaky breath. Tim is surprised he’s still upright. He looks like a strong wind could blow him to pieces. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s alright, Jon,” Danny says. He lets out a breath. “I mean, at least it keeps me safe from the real monsters, right?”

“I’m going to become a monster!” Jon says. He sniffs, wiping his eyes. “I want you to get away. I don’t want it to be me—”

“How did Martin give you Danny’s bond?” Sasha interrupts.

Jon clears his throat, collecting himself. “There was—a—a ritual. Martin cut his thumb, and I licked the blood off.”

“Do you think it would work if we tried it?” Sasha asks. “If you cut your thumb, and Danny licked it off?”

Jon’s eyes widen. “I—I—maybe?” His voice is lighter now, some small bit of hope. “There were words, too, um—‘With this blood, the Bond of Danny Stoker.’ I think?”

Tim raises his hand. “I hate to put a damper on things, but aren’t we a little bit worried this ritual will turn Danny into a vampire? Drinking blood, and all that?”

Jon’s frown comes back so quickly and deeply, it almost makes Tim regret speaking. He wishes everything could be easy, that every problem could be solved immediately.

“It’s been hours,” Danny says.

Jon shakes his head firmly. “It isn’t worth the risk.”

“Have you tested that Jon really has your bond?” Sasha asks. “I mean, I don’t know why Elias and Martin would want to trick Jon like that, but… It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Give me an Order,” Danny says.

Jon looks like he’s going to be ill. “Tap your cheek with your left index finger.”

Immediately, Danny taps his cheek. Then, looking like he’s going to be ill himself, he nods. Tim takes Danny’s hand and squeezes. Danny squeezes back.

They sit in silence for a moment with the terrible certainty sitting between them. Then Sasha says, “What if we did it like a blood pact?”

“Huh?” Tim says, echoing the opinions of the rest of the room.

“What if Jon cuts open his thumb, and Danny cuts open his thumb, and then Danny’s blood can get back into Danny’s body without anyone else becoming a vampire?”

Tim blinks at her for a moment, then turns back to Danny and Jon. He wants to ask if they think it would work, but before the words leave his mouth, he remembers that they know exactly as much about vampire bullshit as he does.

“I think it’s worth a try,” Danny says, finally. He looks at Jon, who slowly nods in agreement.

“Do we think there’s any chance of… side effects?” Tim asks. Again, he hates to put a damper on things, but he feels like someone needs to ask the question. Bad as it is for Danny to be under the control of any vampire, it would be far worse for him to become one himself.

“You have to drink it,” Sasha says. “It’s the symbolism of it. Like communion.”

“And you know that because… ?”

Sasha shrugs. “Research, most of which can be taken with a grain of salt. Talking to Martin, who didn’t know much about vampires other than himself. And talking to Jon, who learned some stuff from Elias.”

“Not about making new vampires,” Jon comments.

Sasha stretches her neck. “It seems safe, and I don’t see that we have a lot of other ideas. We could wait to see if—”

“We can’t wait,” Danny says. “Gerard and Melanie are coming back tomorrow morning. And I can’t go with them if I’m bonded.”

“Is it really the end of the world if you miss the pickup?” Tim says.

Danny and Jon share a look that says it would be the end of the world. Charming. Then something wordless passes between them, and Danny nods. Jon nods in response.

Danny says, “Okay. Let’s do it. Who has a knife?”

Sasha holds up her hand. “First, we should set up a test that will let us know if it works or not. An ongoing Order that will stay active unless Jon no longer has the bond. Probably a negative Order, something Danny won’t be able to do unless it works.”

Jon swallows, then says, slowly, “Danny, never touch the walls of this room.”

Danny is still for a moment. Then he stands up and walks to the center of the room. He walks around the armchair, heading toward the door, getting closer to the wall as he does so. Then he turns around and sits back down. “It’s weird. I can’t even approach the walls if I’m thinking about touching them. I have to be walking toward something else to even get near them.”

Jon lets out a shaky breath. “Hopefully you’ll be able to rub your hands over the paint to your heart’s content. There are knives in the kitchen.”

Danny gets up and retrieves one. Tim winces as he cuts into his thumb, the same moment that Jon brings the pad of his thumb to his mouth and runs it across his teeth. Both of them cut deep wounds that drip blood freely over the rug. “With this blood, the Bond of Danny Stoker,” Jon says, his voice shaking.

Danny and Jon press their thumbs together. Tim feels like there should be some moment to mark the ritual, a flash of light or sound. Instead, it’s no different than any other moment, over as soon as it began, just a brief instant of contact.

Danny stands up, walks to the wall, and presses his hand against it. The air in the room clears, all at once, all of them letting out a collective breath.

Sasha goes to the kitchen and returns with two clean flannels. She hands one to Jon and brings the other to Danny, directing him to apply pressure to the wound. Jon stands up and goes to the kitchen, leaning over the sink with his head lowered.

Sasha’s eyes follow him, and then gets up and goes to stand with him beside the sink, talking to him in a voice too low to make out. Danny leans his head against Tim’s shoulder. “What are we going to do about Jon?” he asks.

Tim watches Jon and Sasha in the kitchen. Jon looks like he hasn’t slept, like he needs nothing more than a good meal, a massage, and a few weeks’ rest from being terrorized. He doesn’t look like a monster. He looks terrified.

“I don’t know,” Tim answers. “But we’ll figure something out.”

***

TWO WEEKS LATER

“Tim,” Elias’ voice is absentminded, not raising his eyes from his computer screen. “I was wondering if you’d have the courage to show up.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Tim says, leaning against the wall on the far side of the room. He’s been waiting for Elias to request a private meeting every day since the night of Jon’s Change. He doesn’t know why it’s taken so long, why Elias would wait until Tim’s very last day at the Magnus Institute to make his move.

Maybe Elias is a procrastinator, too.

Or maybe he’s just been enjoying the jolt of adrenaline Tim has experienced every time he’s caught sight of Elias during his dwindling workdays.

“Couldn’t risk leaving a bad impression, I suppose. So hard to find a position that doesn’t check references, these days.”

Tim feels fairly confident in his ability to explain to everyone involved that his last boss was a creep who shouldn’t be contacted for a reference. “I thought I should see what you wanted. In case it’s important.”

Elias laughs. He still hasn’t looked up from his computer. “Your brother has been very busy making himself a problem these few weeks, hasn’t he? I had hoped Jon would be a stabilizing influence on him, but I suspect he tossed away that gift?”

Tim doesn’t answer. It’s none of Elias’ business, is it?

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Elias says. He lets out a put-upon sigh. “I did expect it. Jon has always been difficult, and his Change was… not ideal. But if he released Daniel, then I somewhat doubt he took it upon himself to claim you?”

Tim’s stomach clenches. He forces himself to stand firm. Don’t give him an inch.

Elias looks up, then, for the first time. “It’s borderline, with you. Most of the time, you fly under the radar. Good, but not remarkable. A nice flavor if you’re hungry, but not really worth the effort of planning a meal around. But when you’re all worked up and afraid? It’s really quite lovely.”

Tim has a stake in his pocket. Elias is supposedly powerful, too powerful for trained slayers like Gerard and Melanie to go after. But Tim won’t go down without drawing at least a few drops of blood.

Elias doesn’t lunge for Tim’s neck. Instead, he turns his eyes back to his computer screen. Back to relaxed disinterest. “I wanted to ask you about Jon. Have you seen him?”

Tim was expecting this, more than anything. He wishes he could control his hormones as well as he can control his facial expressions. He’s sure Elias can smell his fear, his stress. A built-in polygraph. He says, “No.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No.”

Elias sighs again, and now he does stand up. Tim doesn’t move from his place backed up against the wall, even as Elias approaches. Even as Elias moves in, closer and closer, until he is practically pinning Tim to the wall.

“I could bite you right now,” Elias says. “I could Order you to tell me exactly where he is, where he is planning to be, where I can best intercept him. I could use you as a prize to lure him back. It would be easy.”

Just breathe. Just breathe, and don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

Elias steps back. “But I restrain myself. Do you know why?”

Because you’re a crazed monster that’s been around about a hundred years too long!

Tim doesn’t get a chance to voice the thought, or any thought. Immediately, Elias answers for him, “Because I know Jon. He’ll be back soon enough to collect you and your brother, and I intend for him to find you unmolested. As far as I’m concerned, the two of you belong to him already.”

It twists Tim’s stomach, but he holds his tongue.

“In that vein,” Elias says. “I want you to know that I will intervene on your behalf if another vampire tries to make their own claim. You know where to find me, if such support becomes… necessary.”

Tim blinks at the unexpected turn the conversation has taken. “Sorry, you… are you offering to help if another vampire bites me?”

“I am,” Elias says. “The same goes for your brother, although I would be forced to hold his Bond in trust for Jon. I couldn’t allow him to continue his present activities. Technically, I shouldn’t be allowing it now, but…,” Elias shrugs, “I always have been a bit soft in these matters.”

Tim has entirely lost the thread of what is happening. “… Okay?” he says, for lack of any other response.

Elias sits down again at his desk. “That’s all I needed from you, Tim. Good luck in your future endeavors, and perhaps I will see you again soon.”

***

Tim heads home early, head still spinning from his meeting with Elias, equal parts looking forward to and dreading the conversations to be had at home.

Sasha’s flat is closer and more convenient, and after two weeks of following the path every single day, Tim’s feet and mind are beginning to get used to the new route. He finds her building, heads upstairs, unlocks the front door with his key, and steps into a dim world of curtained windows, lamps, and a cot made up beside the radiator.

Laying on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, both wrists encircled in rings of metal attaching him firmly to that very same radiator, is Jon.

“Hiya,” Tim says when he comes through the door. He keeps his voice cheerful, but his stomach is already sinking. Staring-unblinkingly-at-the-ceiling days are the worst kind. It’s better when Jon is reading, or watching documentaries on the TV, or clicking through Wikipedia articles on his laptop, or even laying on the cot with his eyes closed pretending to be asleep. All are preferable to the days when Jon just lays there, sinking deeper and deeper into a depression he can never be free from.

It’s been worse this week. Danny left with Gerard and Melanie on Monday, and his absence has been like an anchor, pulling Jon down and down and down. It wasn’t so obvious when they were all three available to keep Jon’s spirits up, but with him gone it’s clear that Jon’s mostly been relying on Danny.

“Mm,” Jon replies.

Tim strains for a conversation topic. Asking about Jon’s day is a non-starter, obviously. He could ask about Jon’s feelings, but that seems unlikely to lead anywhere pleasant. He doesn’t want to throw Jon in the deep end with talk of his own deeply strange, nightmarish day. What does that leave him?

“It’s a meal day, isn’t it?” Tim asks. As if he doesn’t know, as if he isn’t right now heading to the kitchen to make his own little meal in preparation for his blood donation. He feels like Jon could use the reminder, a little emotional pick-me-up.

Jon wrinkles his nose. “It is. Yeah.”

“Ouch,” Tim says, trying for levity. “Do I really taste that bad?” The tone isn’t quite right. Only an hour ago, he was listening to Elias describe his flavor, so he knows the problem isn’t his blood.

“Even if it’s still warm, it—“ Jon fiddles with his hands, searching for the words. It’s the most life Tim has seen from him today, so he counts it as a win. “It’s like drinking ketchup,” Jon says. He looks down, which means he doesn’t want Tim to see his face. Which means, more than likely, he’s on the verge of crying. “It isn’t—pleasant.”

Tim finds some leftover pasta in the fridge and pops it in the microwave. “You could bite me directly. I would give you permission.” He knows it’s pointless to even bring up, but he has to try.

“No.”

“I trust you to return my bond. I know you wouldn’t keep it.”

“No, you don’t!” Jon’s voice is sharp, tired. It’s an argument they’ve had before, beginning to become well-worn. “I could be lying!”

“You aren’t, though.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re a shit liar,” Tim says.

“You can’t assume that will always be true!”

Tim retrieves his pasta from the microwave and takes it over to Sasha’s sofa. Too far for Jon to reach him, even if he pulled at his chains as far as they would go. He stirs his fork through the sauce and noodles and reflects on how terribly absurd his life has become in a few short months. “Fine. One day, all of this might be an act. You could at least bite me tonight. Just this once.”

“No,” Jon repeats.

“Why not?”

“It isn’t safe!”

“It is exactly as safe as Sasha sucking out my blood with her little needles! It’s more safe, even, because it might help you feel a little bit less miserable!”

Jon hugs his knees to his chest, curling himself into a little ball. “I don’t want to.”

“Jon—”

“No! I don’t care why you think it’s secretly the best option! I don’t want to!”

Tim lets out a breath. He hears it in Jon’s voice, now, the true source of this resistance. “Jon, it isn’t your fault that Danny got hurt.”

Jon snorts a horribly laugh. “Interesting use of the passive voice.”

God. He’s so annoyingly Jon, even now.

Tim just wants him to be okay.

“Fine. You hurt Danny. But you didn’t choose it. You weren’t in your right mind. You didn’t have control of yourself. Martin is the one who set you up to attack him. That doesn’t make you—“

“Tim, I don’t want to talk about this,” Jon interrupts, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “I’m not going to bite you.”

Tim wishes Danny were here. Danny is better at navigating these arguments, knowing the right times to push, the right times to release. He’s better at knowing what Jon needs to hear.

Jon is already crying, a little bit. Tim is worried that another push will shatter him entirely. Instead, Tim bites the bullet and says, “I heard from Elias today.”

Jon jolts upright, his attention rapt on Tim. “You did? What did he say? Did he—?”

Tim puts up a hand, holding back the tide of questions. “I think it’s good news, actually. He asked if I knew where you were, and the way he said it… I don’t think he has any idea you’re still in London.”

Jon huffs a laugh that doesn’t brighten his expression at all.

It’s better than nothing, so Tim keeps plucking the thread, “I think he assumes you’ve gone on holiday. A little vampire gap year?”

“Hm,” Jon says, and his eyes go to the curtained windows, and Tim wonders, sometimes, if Jon wishes he’d left when he had the chance.

(Tim wishes it, sometimes, when it all starts to wear on him. When he starts to think weeks, months, years into a future where Jon is still chained to Sasha’s radiator, and he starts to feel dizzy with the impossibility of it.)

“So maybe we can start opening the curtains again?” Tim says, trying to change the subject.

“Maybe,” Jon says, in a tone that means, No, but I don’t want to have another argument about it. “He didn’t bite you, did he?”

You think I wouldn’t lead with that? Tim thinks, but he shakes off the urge to hit Jon with the sarcasm. Jon has every reason to be worried. Tim rolls his neck around, trying to show off every unbruised angle. “No bites here.”

“Why not?” Jon says. “You’re a good bloodbag, and, and if he wanted you to tell him where to find me—”

Tim didn’t want to get into that part of the conversation, but he should have known Jon wouldn’t let him avoid it. He chooses his words carefully, trying to keep his tone as even and unconcerned as possible. “He did threaten to bite me, and he… implied that he could go hunt down Danny. But he said, as far as he’s concerned, we belong to you.”

Jon wraps his arms around his middle. He looks so worn-down. Tim has never known Jon to be anything less than exhausted and fraying and terrified. His heart twists, wishing he had some way to fix… any of it. “Did you tell Danny?”

Tim nods. He told Danny the full version, offer-of-aid included. Danny had seemed just as discomfited by it as Tim feels. “Elias isn’t exactly a new threat for that crew.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Here, at last, Tim sees a path to a happier conversation. “Did you see Danny’s hiking pictures?”

Jon nods. “He called earlier. Gerard and Melanie were going over some notes, and he was able to get away for a few minutes without it seeming suspicious. It sounds like he’s having fun.”

Tim agrees and doesn’t voice his terror at the idea of his baby brother antagonizing vampires on purpose. “Did he tell you about the others?”

“He can’t,” Jon says.

Sometimes Tim wants to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him. “I don’t think—“

“Don’t,” Jon says harshly.

“I just think—“

“You think we should take stupid risks that might lead to me hurting someone. I know. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Fine,” Tim says, giving up. He takes his now-empty bowl back to the kitchen and tries to think of anything to say that will make Jon laugh. Or smile. Or do anything other than stare miserably at the ceiling.

When he comes back, Tim asks, “Do you want to have a lie-down? I could use a nap.”

Tim hopes Jon agrees. He needs to be held, to be touched, to be grounded to the physical world. He needs to feel that he isn’t alone. That he’s still cherished. Especially at times like this, when the weight of it all seems to be pulling him beneath the ground.

Jon lets out a heavy sigh. “I guess,” he says. It isn’t exactly enthusiasm, but it’s the best Tim has managed to pull from Jon, lately.

“Okay.” Tim reaches for the box beneath the coffee table. Jon doesn’t look, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. This is the part that Jon hates more than anything, and the part that he most fervently insists on.

Tim whistles to get his attention, then tosses him the ball gag. Jon expressionlessly fits the ball into his mouth and fastens the leather strap. When he lowers his hands to his lap, Tim closes the distance between them, sitting down on Jon’s cot behind him and tightening the strap around his head. Then he fastens the padlock, ensuring the gag stays in place until Tim gives Jon the key to unlock it.

Finally, Tim unlocks the cuffs keeping Jon chained to the radiator.

Immediately, Jon falls over on Tim’s shoulder, burying his face in his neck. Tim wraps his arms around his shoulders, holding him close. Jon doesn’t inhale his scent, out of politeness or self-conscious shame, but Tim wishes he would. It would be less unsettling than the cold silence that emanates from Jon’s still body.

There is no exchange of human warmth. No soft whispering breaths. No faint, barely perceived heartbeat. Just terrible, inarguable silence.