Fallacy

Author’s Note – This story was written with the prompt being it takes three bites for a vampire to turn a human into another vampire. SnG please return!

Fallacy

*

         The Southern folk? Yeah, they look like us, sound like us, and stories been told even love like us, but they ain’t like us. They’re an odd bunch, but I suppose friendly nonetheless. ‘Least when we all worked out our differences.

         What differences, you ask? Well, they stopped taking our blood for food, and we stopped driving anything sharp we could find through their hearts, dragging ‘em out in the midday sun, things like that. Oh sure, they still need us to survive, but we got diplomatic ways of handling our problems now.

         I’ve been fed upon, quite a few times, myself. Mainly before the war when I didn’t have much choice. In recent years I’ve been known to offer myself as an appetizer, if the trade’s right.

         Never had the same Southerner feed off, much less bite, me more than twice. I don’t know why. Figure three bites can’t be a good thing, but a Southerner would never tell you why. Ask em’ yourself. Say, ‘What happens if you take a bite of me more than twice?’ You’ll get a polite smile, most times, and a simple answer, ‘Nothing would happen, because it’s never done.’ An odd bunch.

- Tam Verkinsen
Retired Colonel, Northern Defensive Front. Thoughts on the People of the Night, five years after the war.

*

         Many considered The King’s Retreat to be the most esteemed inn located within the central district of the sprawling city, Jerbalt. A scant half-mile from the Palace Wall itself, The Retreat was a stout, three story building. Dissimilar to every building in Jerbalt save the Palace itself, it was designed round rather than square. In contrast to the Palace’s stone fortification, The King's Retreat was made of a thick red stained wood.

         The inside of the first floor was affectionately known as ‘the common room.’ It was windowless, and all along the walls hung dark colored tapestries of varying shapes and designs. Hid along the South wall was a single door leading to the kitchen, and along the North wall a pair of oaken doors served as The Retreat’s entrance. The common room was not elaborate. It was decorated in comfortable leather seats and sturdy oaken tables, all arranged around a cozy fire pit.

         In contrast to the many inns within the large city, The King’s Retreat was quite small. The current owner, Fiur Otesn, didn’t fret over the size of his establishment. It had been successful long before he had purchased the place. Fiur figured this night would prove to be the most profitable evening in the long-standing inn’s history.

         Fiur was a sizeable man. Muscular in his youth and soldiering days, time had taken the sharp curve of his physique leaving him a round, and quite ample, midsection. Balding, but with a full beard, he had sharp blue eyes and a bulbous nose. Most nights his presence at the inn would be cause for much fanfare and celebration among the customers. That night, few realized he was even there.

         Not only ignored, he found himself serving the drinks and food. The workload being too much for the three chefs, two housemaids, and six barmaids he employed. Three of the barmaids he had hired weeks prior. While he worked, he cursed himself for not hiring more.

         As he finished serving, careful to collect proper payment, Fiur looked over at the man who had been the reason for such success. ( “Full ain’t the word to describe the ol’ man that night,” Fiur would later say. “One more person come through the doors and anyone standing near the walls woulda’ become mighty uncomfortable.”)

         Dressed in a strange flowing robe, made of a strange material few in the crowd recognized (Fiur knew it was called ‘silche,’ or some such thing), the man sat on the stones surrounding the fire pit. He was short of height and handsome by most ladies’ standards. Pale facial features, with hair so dark it seemed to absorb the firelight. He looked upon the world through deep aqua eyes and had a peaceful look about him. A strange, square, stringed instrument lay in his lap, and delicate fingers played a gentle tune. His soft, melodic voice rose through the common room, both in perfect harmony.

         It had been many hours since he had begun the songs, but few moved. The performer, on the other hand, had moved many times during the night. He had stood, and sat. Danced, and paced, all to the musical stories. The crowd was transfixed. A smile lit his face as Fiur took his gaze back to the attentive gathering, a King examining his court.

         Among the masses Fiur was quick to spot one of the recently hired barmaids. A tall, very tall, young woman with bright, uncombed, red hair (”A curse of the family,” Fiur had heard her say to another girl). Stergi was rather plain of face. Dim hazel eyes, buck toothed, fields of freckles lined her mouth. Stergi always seeming to have a frightened, or confused, look about her sun burnt face. Now she stood, shoulders slouched, an empty tray cradled like a child, gawking at the singing man. Worse still, the man was looking back as he strummed his instrument, singing a quiet song.

         Seeing no clear path to the girl through the crowded tavern, Fiur decided to wait until the end of the Performance. Having required a private showing, he had seen the show the pervious night. He knew the end was near. Trying not to be a disturbance he made motion towards Stergi, scowling in her direction, all to no avail.

         After a time, the song ended, and the man broke his gaze with Stergi. Closing his eyes, head bowed. The crowd’s hypnosis broke with the silence. As one they broke into thunderous applause. The man didn’t stir as the crowd cheered, an endless thunderstorm of appreciation rolling through the inn. Fiur was quick to take advantage of the tumult.

         “Curses, Stergi, I sure ain’t paying you for the show,” he bellowed his deep voice barely rising above the crowds echoing approval. “Get to work or I’ll be sure your pay is cut for the money yer’ losing. Now, get!”

         Stergi heard him. A dim squeak escaped her lips, audible over the applause. Pulling herself together she made her way to the kitchen. Fiur knew his point had been made, but this wasn’t the first time he’d caught the girl shucking off simple work. Pushing the thought aside he turned his attention back to the Performer.

         The robed figure stood, and in moments was surrounded by fawning audience members. One of them, Fiur recognized, was an upstanding noble of the Royal house itself. Lord Edurum was rather lanky, a thinning dome of graying hair, and awful taste in clothing. He was a man of sharp intellect, quite fond of drink, and well loved by the common folk.

         Fiur made his way to the growing crowd surrounding the trouper. At least fifty people stood around him in a cluttered circle, towering over his inconsiderable stature.

         “…utterly astonishing,” Fiur overheard Edurum saying as he arrived shouldering his way through the group, “Though I must admit I expected a much different show.”

         A slight grin arose on the robed man’s face. He asked in a soft voice, “What is it you were expecting?”

         The lord thought for a moment. “Well I suppose I prepared for some type of magic,” he gave a hesitant laugh, adding, “ Juggling, perhaps.” The crowed mimicked his nervous titter.

         The performer’s grin broke into a full-toothed smile, his teeth glistening white even in the dim yellow firelight. “I could have told a story of a juggler. I’m afraid he has much more talent for it than I,” he said, taking an offered glass of wine and sipping it with ethereal grace. The crowd burst into laughter.

         “Tell us, Master Kiyrown, was your journey from the Southern continents a peaceful one?” the Lord asked as the laughter died down.

         Kiyrown nodded. “Indeed it was,” he said, “Pleasurable, I would hasten to add. The Torn Sea has become quite calm in the years since the treaty was signed”

         Edurum guffawed. “Yes much good has come of it. Not the slightest being a talented performer such as yourself free to visit our lands.”

         “We’ve spent too many years with only jugglers and magicians for entertainment,” a man in the gathering intoned. The crowd laughed, and the plump Lord scowled.

         The Performer gave another smile. Edurum, feeling a bit chastised, was quick to change the subject. “How long do you plan to stay in Jerbalt?” he asked. The crowd was beginning to disperse, not very fast, reluctant to leave the man who had brought them so much amazement during the night. Fiur still couldn’t get close.

         Kiyrown spoke, after finishing the wine, “I’m hoping to be on the road by early tomorrow evening. I plan to reach Itamin before the month’s out. Your summer nights are quite short, so the journey would take time…”

         Edurum choked on his drink. He asked, “Tomorrow?” while wiping some spilt wine from his gaudy, overly decorated, cotton doublet.

         Edurum stepped forward, placing a hand on the slim Performer’s shoulder. He spoke in a low voice, “I was hoping you would Perform for us one more night. You see, my niece is her Majesty Fae Isgottrin bel’ Tsuinsri. Her Father, the King of Jerbalt,” he added some emphasis into King, but was disappointed when Kiyrown simply nodded, “ Has fallen ill with an uncommon malady that has affected his breathing, among other things. He has been suffering it for years, and it is believed he won’t live out the month. Her Lady Mother’s death was only two years ago, and she is not handling her Father’s malady well. She worsens as he does.

         “Anything may help bring her out of the dark cloud she’s under. It would be more than a favor to me, but vital to the people here; their new Queen must be strong. I beg with bestowments equaling all the wealth of my Noble house, please, stay to perform one last night.” Edurum truly looked as if he would get on his hand and knees, and beg.

         Kiyrown was swirling his finger through the empty glass of wine, his face unreadable. “A dying king, and a forlorn princess,” he mused. “One more night’s performance would be my honor.”

         Edurum beamed. “Excellent, then here tomorrow night, we shall have an encore,” his voice had risen to be heard. What remained of the crowd cheered, and Kiyrown gave them a simple bow.

         Fiur pushed forward his voice raising, “Yar, I’d be happy to offer the services of ma’ inn…” his voice trailed off. No one was listening. They had all turn to separate conversations, or were listening to Edurum and Kiyrown.

         Disgruntled, Fiur turned towards the kitchen, and saw Stergi. She stood, yet again, a ‘cow at pasture’ look directed towards Kiyrown. Mouth agape, her horse teeth protruding out. She didn’t seem to have any knowledge that the inn, still quite full of thirsty customers, was around her.

         It was exactly what he needed.

         “This inn could very well burn down around our ears,” he bellowed so loud everyone in the room, including his victim, turned, “and Stergi, lass, you’d be doing nothing but sitting there! Now, get into the kitchen!”

         The girl went red. It was quite a feat considering her sun burnt face, and fiery hair. She wheeled about, and flat out ran, Fiur chasing close behind, yelling the whole way to the kitchen.

*

         After a long conversation, Kiyrown managed to disentangle himself from Edurum and the rest of the crowd (most whom had long since left). Bidding them a good evening, promising to return the next night, he made his way out of the double doors. The moon hung lazily on the horizon. Examining the pale orb, Kiyrown figured he had four hours before he was forced to seek shelter. Feeling a bit restless, he decided to do some exploring. Looking about, he saw the inn was the center of an intersection of four large roads. Buildings, dwarfing the inn, surrounded on all sides, save one.

         To the North across what must have been a busy street in the daytime, a little park was hidden away. A fine place to begin, he thought, strolling across the roadway. His footsteps echoing through streets destitute of any other sound, his mind going over the night’s show. His Performance hadn’t been bad, or good. It was tepid. He blamed it on the fact he hadn’t fed in far too long, an unfortunate perk of being this far north in a land still quite hostile to ‘Southerners.’

         The crowd tonight, though, could care less of his lineage. Kiyrown had attributed much of their amazement to a simple fact; most people of the Northern Continents hadn’t seen a Performance in more than fifty years. This far North, it had probably been much longer. They were amazed, but in his mind he could hear his Master calling out every mistake he had made during the night. “No, Kiyrown,” the soft voice would say in his mind. “You know the words. You know the notes, and the timing. It isn’t enough. A child must be delighted by its imagery, and an older person amused at its subtly. The words convey the meaning; the Performance brings it to life. Now, do it again.”

         “Bah,” he said aloud, disgusted by his thoughts. My guild hall? Hundreds, and thousands of miles away. Me? Reflecting on a bad Performance like a thirteenth year novice. He pushed the thoughts aside, realizing he had crossed into the park. The grass he walked across was a soft luscious green carpet. A plot of land a bit larger than the Retreat, it was a perfect square of nature in the bustling, building condensed city. A fountain was sunken into the middle. Little more than a tiny pool of water, a single spout in the center. The rhythmic sound of the recycling liquid was quite pleasing. Four large maple trees stood sentry around the fountain, and positioned between those were comfortable looking, wooden benches. One of which was occupied.

         As he made whisper quiet steps towards the sitting area, a soft, off key humming drifted through the still air. Kiyrown recognized the song as one of the many in his Performance that night. A rousing song, the tale of a foot soldier in a fight for his land, the song had always been his favorite. Stopping behind a thick tree he listened for a moment, wincing. The inept musician seemed to be recalling (vaguely) a portion of the piece, and was humming it over and over again. A grin set firm, Kiyrown stepped out from behind the maple. Interrupting the hummer, he finished the chorus line for her. He had guessed the identity of the person, and was pleased to see it was she.

         Stergi sat bolt upright in the bench, her eyes widening, and her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating trout. A bizarre grating squeal fled her throat, and she seized.

         He gave a reassuring smile, and asked, “Am I interrupting?”

         She continued her ‘fish out of water’ routine a little longer, and, to Kiyrown’s shocked amazement, slapped herself. The sharp clap echoed, the surrounding buildings reverberating it back in a hollow sound. Stergi’s head whipped about as the self-inflicted blow connected. Slowly turning her gaze resettled on Kiyrown. Another strangled sigh escaped, and she laid her head in hands murmuring softly. Kiyrown, unsure of how to proceed, sat on the bench watching. With a final shake of the head, Stergi pulled her hands away, and Kiyrown could see a growing welt where the slap had landed.

         “Are you well?”

         Stergi’s eyes locked onto her own feet. Sitting, she didn’t appear so tall. Most of her extra height appeared to be gangly legs. “No…yes,” she forced an intake of breath, “No, Lord, you aren’t interruptin’.” She spoke in a thick, plainly uneducated, Northern accent, “Yes, Lord, I be well.”

         He smiled, trying to catch her look, but was rebuffed by eyes that remained locked. Not wanting to make her more nervous Kiyrown drew an air of nonchalance about him, laying his head back. “I’m glad to hear you reciting that tune,” he said, a coy smile rising on his lips. “I was afraid our ‘Southern’ entertainment wouldn’t be of much interest here.”

         Stergi somehow took a more rigid posture, as if slapped again. “Oh no my Lord,” her voice almost sounded pleading. “I never saw a thing like it. Ma’ Granpap told stories of a Performer that come through his town long ‘go. Best stories I’d ever heard were his, before tonight. Those stories were nothing like yours”

         Her words continued on in a hurried rush, “I know people ‘round here will be talkin’ about this fer’ long time to come. Heh, almost lost ma’ job tonight, but wouldn’t have minded. Been worth it. As sure as Nallia, that’s my horse, poops brown. I wouldn’t minded a bit.” Hearing her rambled words, she went pale white, and again mimicked the well-known sea dweller.

         Kiyrown was quick to speak up, afraid she might slap herself again, or worse. “The song you were humming when I arrived, was it your favorite of the night?”

         Coming out of her stupor, eyes still wide, Stergi shook her head. “The last song, Lord. It’s something that’ll stick with me ‘til my ashes are spread in the sea,” her voice was wistful, far off.

         “The piece was your Performance,” Kiyrown said. Before she could go into another of her fits, he spoke on, “Everyone has a Performance, Stergi. A certain tune, the right words, and a deep place within you can be touched. Many share the same Performance, but each is touched in a different manner.” He was surprised to hear those words pouring out. Words Kiyrown had long since been taught, but had forgotten until just that moment. “I simply begin a Performance, find the person it belongs to, and perform it for them as if we are alone.”

         Stergi, teetering on the edge of control, gave him a confused look. “If yer’ only doing it for one person, wouldn’t everyone else be bored?”

         “The tune you hummed when I arrived was not a song in your Performance. Why were you singing it?”

         Stergi spoke in an almost breathless gasp, “It was such a catchy song. It made ma’ heart race, and I felt…strong. You seemed so wonderful with your strange stringy sound maker, swirling about the fire. Yer’ feet stamping to yer’ music, yer’ voice calling out the words….” She stopped, as the sun seemed to rise on her meandering thoughts. Just because it wasn’t her Performance, didn’t make it any less powerful, or entertaining. Stergi smiled, a horse receiving an apple.

         “Everyone has a Performance?” Stergi asked, voice thick with wonderment.

         “As sure as Nallia poops brown,” Kiyrown said, keeping his face straight, and voice level as possible. It wasn’t long before the ridiculousness of the statement struck, and though he tried to resist, he was overcome by fits of laughter. Stergi joined in his gales of mirth.

*

         The two talked for little over an hour. Kiyrown was quite curious of the nervous girl, but the conversation, unsurprisingly, revolved around him. Stergi didn’t speak much of herself, and had many questions about lands outside her own experience. Happy to oblige Kiyrown spoke of many places, and she was delighted when he went so far as to tell a little of his homeland, and the People of the Night. She was a pleasant girl, and a wonderful listener.

         In the middle of explaining to her the intricacies of the Performers Guild (Stergi had asked, and he was using simple words), another jolt passed through her. This time her eyes went very distant, and she stopped breathing for a moment. “What time is it?” the words came out slow, and worried, in a trembling voice.

         Kiyrown couldn’t see the moon any longer, but one thing he (all of his people, for that matter) was good at judging was how much time remained before the sun rose. The moon just made the task easier. After a moment he said, “We still have a little under three hours of darkness.”

         Stergi’s strange, distressed cry found its way out again. “Oh, I’m in it now,” she said matter-of-factly gathering her dress, and standing. Kiyrown watched her ascent, his mouth in the middle of forming a word. He blinked a few times, mystified.

         “What?” Kiyrown finally managed to ask, in a gentle tone.

         Stergi moaned, distressed, “Ma’ Pa’s ganna’ skin me when I get home. Shoulda’ been in hours ago. Curses!” She went rigid, and stared down at Kiyrown, now towering above the sitting man. “I don’t mean this hasn’t been the greatest thing ever. When I was a wee girl I dreamt of being a princess, I think this night beat any night I woulda’ had as a princess.” She gave him a shy grin; her teeth didn’t seem to jut out so much when you looked at her straight on. Suddenly, something dawned on Kiyrown. This young, very tall, girl standing in front of him was captivating.

         Stergi didn’t arouse him, no human could, but as he looked upon her he saw something he hadn’t seen before, or hadn’t looked out for. Her freckles were many, but there seemed to be a pattern to them. Not an uncontrolled accident of genetics, the freckles seemed to line her eyes and nose perfectly. Her skin was smooth, and although sun burnt, was quite lovely. Her eyes accented by the freckles were small, yet exotic, and alight like a soaring eagle when she smiled.

         Standing in a smooth motion, Kiyrown fell into an elaborate bow. In his lands this type of bow was reserved exclusively for ladies of the High Court. He doubted it had been offered to a human in many centuries.

         Delicately balanced, and still deep into his bow he said, “The Lady honors by her presence and attentiveness alone. One could ask no more, yet more is what has been received. More than ever expected. Though it pains she must go, a hope stands, she will remember us, for all time to come.” It was a formal, if not an ancient, parting Performance, among his guild it was considered a ritual. It was almost never done by one Performer, and was only used in Grand Performances the likes of which hadn’t been seen in far too long.

         Stergi had no way of knowing this, yet was stunned all the same. She knew it was a marvelous thing, and, most importantly, it was directed at her alone. She was speechless, but wouldn’t know what to say if she could speak. Kiyrown was still committed in his graceful bow, his head and eyes downcast. Stergi turned as if to leave, hesitated, and turned back. Looking down at the robed man for a moment, she knelt offering him her hand, palm up.

         Kiyrown’s spirits rose, though he was taken off guard at the same time. This bumbling, confused, homely yet beautifully exotic girl in front of him was completing the ritual. Kiyrown didn’t hesitate. Falling to his knees he took her hand gingerly. He parted his lips, revealing fangs quite obvious, when extracted. Looking up at her he said, “More than ever expected.” His fangs sank quietly into her flesh.

         Kiyrown did not Feed. It wasn’t part of the ritual. Though he could have Fed off Stergi, showing amazing willpower for one of his race, he didn’t. What was done was best described as ‘Tasting’. When a Person of the Night Fed, it was indistinguishable to any other Feeding. When Tasting, the uppermost emotions and feelings of the ‘victim’ poured out like an ocean wave. No Feeding could compare, no amount of overindulgence could come close to the empowering satisfaction of even a little Taste. It was counterfeit sustenance. A toxicant, and a drug, Tasting couldn’t keep him alive. Never Feeding, and only Tasting would cause him to die starving, never realizing his doom. At times, it was oh so tempting. He had Tasted of his own people, as he had been Tasted on himself. Before that night, Kiyrown had Fed of many humans, but had never felt the desire to Taste.

         Fear, confusion, adoration, nervousness, and pleasure all poured from her. Those were just the strongest. A jumble of emotions slammed into Kiyrown, and he felt devoured by the alien pain of it all. How could this girl in front of him breathe? How could she live with all of that inside of her? What caused it all? A palate of emotions too strong to contain, Kiyrown wanted to pull away but couldn’t. Wouldn’t. It was wonderful, and even in anguish he relished in the pleasure of it.

         Caught up in the ecstasy of Stergi’s Taste, he almost didn’t register the sound of screaming on the edge of his consciousness. He pulled away from the strong current of emotions carrying him adrift. Realization was slow to set in. He watched rivulets of blood running down Stergi’s freckled skin, staining her dress. Not Feeding from her, the blood had flown freely. Stergi, by her pale look, was not taking it well.

         He tore away, and Stergi’s wound rapidly closed, the bleeding stopped. Stergi pulled back; losing her balance she fell to the grassy earth, a groan rolling out with the fall. The wound he on her wrist had disappeared without a trace, a convenient side-effect of a Southerner’s bite. The blood on Stergi’s arm and clothes remained. Staring at the blood soaking into her dress, eyes wide, face statuesque terror, Stergi seemed about to pass out.

         “Stergi…I,” Kiyrown said moving towards her, his fangs retracting. Stergi backpedaled a guttural snarl coming to her lips. Tears streaming, she clawed the grass as a handhold to push further away, sobs choking in her throat.

         “Stergi, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” He couldn’t get another word out. Quick as he’d ever seen a human move she lurched unsteadily to her feet, and ran. Kiyrown chased after her. They ran for sometime, through building surrounded streets, and trash cluttered alleyways. He could have ended the dash, but let her elude him. After a time, he stopped chasing all together. It was clear Stergi would run forever if she must, to escape.

         Under a burning street lamp, Kiyrown stopped. Ashamed for what he’d done, he couldn’t help but think he’d like to Taste of her again. Maybe even a time after the second, so he could Taste of her for all eternity. He gave disgusted, mocking laugh.

         Kiyrown walked away from the street lamp, a sigh following close behind. Maybe once more, but another after two? I would be hunted down, as well as she. He decided a long walk might help clear his head, at least his blasphemous thoughts.

*

         The walk did little for his head, but the blasphemous thoughts had yet to resurface. Kiyrown had walked for a long while. With shuffling steps he moved among the empty streets, mind reeling.

         “What caused her to react like that?”

         “She finished the ritual, she had to have known what would happen.”

         “How can I be sure she was completing the ritual? These humans are fond of kissing as a sign of affection, perhaps she expected I kiss her…

         “…palm?”

         “…hand. If she didn’t know, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

         “Exactly.”

         “But, why would she react like that? She must have know. It was too exact.”

         “Bah,” he called out into the night. Frustrated by thoughts, which had hours past, become an unbreakable circle. Consciously pulling away from the indulgence, he studied the night sky, and was, somehow, not surprised by what he discovered.

         Kiyrown had little under a half hour to find shelter. He was thankful to have had the presence of mind to keep a bearing. The wandering had brought him almost full circle, to the park where Stergi had fled (“…why?”). He’d hoped to find accommodations other than The King’s Retreat, but at the moment there was no choice.

         Turning at specific streets, and alleyways he found himself at the park again. The King’s Retreat stood across the way. The lights in the inn were still dim, but Kiyrown figured it wouldn’t be long before it was stirring.

         As he approached the grotto of the park, a deep voice called out it the fading darkness, “Vampire!”

         Kiyrown stopped dead in his tracks, wincing at the word. In a time of peace, it was a derogatory name for his people. Following the sound of the voice he saw, among the branches, a man. Dressed in a suit of leather armor, that bulged grotesquely over the man’s girth. The armor itself bore no markings, but was dyed a garish yellow. A helmet, decorated by a dented nose guard, sat atop his pudgy head, and long greasy gray-brown hair poured from the helm. He had a thick beard, and haggard appearance. Dark brown, bloodshot, eyes scowled down.

         “Ma’ daughters in a coma. She come home pale as a ghost, covered in blood. Passed out. Had to get a doctor, and that’s sure not going to be cheap. But, ma girl’s face, Vampire. I fought in the wars; I know the look! I been searchin’ for you.” The man leapt from the trees, landing nimbly. He was taller than Kiyrown, though only so much, and his upper body was grossly disproportionate to his legs. They seemed inadequate and stunted, as if wrongly attached. Though odd, they gave him no apparent handicap.

         Kiyrown raised his hands. “Please, let us not do this. It was a misunders-”

         Stergi’s so-called father (who apparently had little to say when it came to the family gene-pool) pulled a thick bladed knife, and made an uncompromising gesture.

         Kiyrown gave an exasperated sigh, falling into a crouch. Fangs extracting so slow it was barley noticeable, his eyes becoming a deep crimson. Muscles in his face seemed to spasm and contort, giving him a feral look. Thick purple veins stood out on his once smooth face. His robes bulged, as corded muscles expanded underneath. Kiyrown’s words came out a dangerous hiss, “I will not die over something I cannot change. I invite you to turn about at anytime.”

         A sharp yell pierced the still air, and the armored man charged.

*

         Fiur was awakened by the battle cry. He leapt up, and was to the window in a heartbeat. The portal gave a magnificent view of the park, the reason he’d claimed the room as his own, and through it he could see the dangerous scuffle.

         Turning away grabbing a thick wool robe, and wrapping it about himself, he ran down the spiraling stairs connecting the floors of The Retreat. In a flash he was out the door, across the street, and into the park.

         It didn’t take him long to find Kiyrown and the man. When he’d seen the two in the window; they had been stalking each other. Now wrestling, Kiyrown wrapped about him like a snake. His fangs were sunken into one of the man’s stubby legs. A very small rivulet of blood ran, clashing with the yellow breeches. Fiur knew by the position, and the inconsiderable amount of blood he saw, the Performer was Feeding. The man had stopped struggling, and just lay there, his dark eyes glossing over, and a bit of clear drool running into his unkempt beard.

         “Master Kiyrown you must stop!” Fiur bellowed, and ran at the grappling men. With all the strength a large, ex-solider turned innkeeper, could muster he swung a large fist into Kiyrown’s forehead. A sharp snap, the sound of a bending, dried, sapling reverberated through the park. The impact threw Kiyrown off his victim. Rolling a few feet, he nimbly somersaulted into a crouched position, fangs exposed, blood dripping; leaving red stains in the pristine grass. He hissed vehemently, dark purple veins on his face protruding grotesquely. There wasn’t a mark on the, once, delicate Southerner, but Fiur knew he’d felt the blow. Fiur also knew his own hand was likely broken in many places.

         “Master Kiyrown, please. It’s me. You must stop, the sun lord. It be comin’ soon.” Fiur said, as soothing as he could muster. Gauging the distance from where he stood, and the dagger lying in the grass.

         The small Southerner was still crouched hissing a dangerous cadence, but his eyes seemed to soften, much to Fiur’s relief. After a moment they began to lose their blood coloring, red stained fangs retracted, and his face seemed to lose its predatory edge. “Fiur, I’m sorry. This man attacked me because-”

         Fiur interrupted, “I don’t think ya’ have time. Of all the things I didn’t need this morn’. Get inside. I’ll deal with it, and the Guard.”

         “But he had a reason to-”

         “Get, I said! I’ll handle it one way or another. Unless, would you like to spend tomorrow evening in a dungeon? No? Good, Explain it to me later,” Fiur said going to the garishly armored man, kneeling beside him.

         Kiyrown again tired a meek protest, but his words fell on deaf ears. Sparing a forlorn glance at the injured man, he turned and fled to the inn.

*

         The following night Fiur sat at a table in the common room. The inn was packed again, though nothing like the night before. Every person in attendance had a seat, and with good reason. Each was a high standing Noble or Craftsmen of Jerbalt. All of them seated, spiraling around a silken dressed focal point. Cradling a large glass of strong ale in hand, Fiur drank deeply. His other hand was bandaged, and not much use to him. It had been a hard day.

         Fiur was amazed to be sitting here preparing for another Performance. Kiyrown had told him of his adventure, and Fiur wasn’t surprised to find Stergi involved. The girl was more trouble than she was worth. The man had escaped while Fiur had run to fetch the Town Guard. He had been unconscious, and Fiur figured had been in no state to move. Though the guards searched, they found no trace of the dirty man in flamboyant armor. Fiur took that as a blessing. It left no one to refute his, rather embellished, story. Stergi hadn’t been brought up to the Guard. If the man who had accosted Kiyrown truly was Stergi’s father, there would be hell to pay when the Guard found out. Fiur decided to deal with that when he must.


         Kiyrown had given no indication of wishing to postpone the Performance. He simply said, “The show must go on.” The rest of the day had been hectic as Fiur prepared to host the Princess of Jerbalt, and likely the entire Royal Court.

         The Nobles began to arrive after sunset. It took some time for them all to get settled. Even without Stergi, Fiur didn’t have to serve that night, and he was grateful. Kiyrown had come down a short time after most were sipping their first drinks, circling about the room greeting each person in turn, before coming to his present position in front of the fire pit. Everything was in place, ready, and perfect. Except one thing, Princess Fae had yet to arrive.

         Most in The Retreat, by the time Fiur emptied his most recent glass, had been on their third round of drinks. Fiur had finished his seventh, and knew one more would push him over the edge. The crowd murmured. A feeling of discomfort, the strain of impatience, was thick in the air. Just when Fiur figured he would have to say something, the double doors slammed open. Edurum came through the crowd, straight for Kiyrown, as if no others were present.

         He placed a hand on Kiyrown’s shoulder, and the two conferred in whisper. After a time, Kiyrown made a gesture to Edurum, and spoke aloud, “After you.” The two walked back through the crowd, out the double doors, and into the summer night.

         The crowd exploded into conversation. Fiur was stunned. He looked back over the crowd seeking a serving girl, and was quick to spot one. A comely girl, she always had a pleasant smile, was returning with a tray of empty glasses.

         “Sehn, girl, get me another of these,” he said holding up his empty glass, voice tired.

         The girl nodded, offering a sympathetic smile, and made her way to the kitchen.

*

         “Why does she wish to speak privately?” Kiyrown asked of Edurum as they crossed the street into the small park. He could see many armed guards, some mounted, all brandishing torches, standing watch.

         “I’m not sure. She has spent so little time with anyone but a dying father, may he be blessed. I think large crowds make her nervous,” he answered in an uncertain voice. “She may want this opportunity to meet you alone.”

          Nearing the fountain Kiyrown could see two figures now. One was a large, fit man. He wore ornate metal armor, worn as another skin to him. No helmet sat atop curly blond hair that hung about cold hazel eyes. Kiyrown could see he was a very dangerous man, even with no visible weapons.

         Shorter than Kiyrown, Princess Fae stood beside the large man, watching them approach. She had chestnut brown hair cropped short and porcelain white skin. Her facial features were delicate and well formed. She was dressed in a flowing multi-layered cotton dress, and wore white gloves covering dainty hands and arms. The dress was cut low, accenting the curve of her neck. A thing of beauty, Fae wore a pleasant, well trained, smile in contrast to the large man’s near scowl. Her large green eyes reflected the pale moonlight.

         As the approached Edurum spoke, “My Lady Tsuinsri, may I present Master Kiyrown Fan’tahblar.”

         Kiyrown smiled, and gave a deep respectful bow. “It is an honor, your Majesty.”

         Kiyrown was pleased when she offered him a petite curtsy, and said, “It is only such because the honor flows both ways.”

         She turned to Edurum. “You may leave us now, Uncle,” Fae said in a lilting voice. Kiyrown imagined it would be magnificent raised in song.

         Edurum hesitated as if to say something, then; giving a bow he turned, and walked back to the inn. Fae watched his trek, even after disappearing through the double doors of the inn.

         “I thank you for coming to me, Lord Fan’tahbar,” Fae said his name in a perfect accent, where Edurum had butchered it, her gaze locked on the round, wooden inn.

         “Thanks are unnecessary, I was happy to. I would say the inn was quite boring without a Lady such as yourself present.” At his words, she gave a mediocre, sad, laugh. “I’ve also been recently told the Lady has had much theater training. Which would make you quite qualified to critique my Performance this night.” She blushed prettily at the statement, though still not looking at him.

         Kiyrown, growing perplexed by the silence, asked, “My Lady?”

          “Master Bard, I am concerned,” Fae paused, taking her gaze from the double doors, and looking up at him. Kiyrown felt himself lost in a green gaze that made the grass’s luscious color pale in comparison. “This is your true title? Among your people?”

         Kiyrown could only nod, a bit stunned by her knowledge.

         “I am concerned this night’s show may not be all I hope it can be,” she finished.

         “My Lady I can promise you something of which you’v-” She rose a hand interrupting him.

         “Your talents are obvious, your lack of knowledge, of me, a hindrance. Is such not custom in your lands? A Bard to Taste of a person they are to Perform for? Does it not help the Performance?” she asked, her eyebrows rising quizzically.

         Kiyrown really didn’t like this park; his mind was drifting to the night before. He began to protest but, again, she cut him off. “Please. It’s all I ask. It would be an honor to me, and an agreement between us both. A Taste of me, and you try to give me the grandest Performance a Master Bard can offer.”

         Kiyrown thought for a moment, looking into her hypnotic eyes. She stepped close, head tilted to one side, repeating, “Please,” very soft.

         He looked upon her porcelain neck, and nodded in acquiescence, dazed. His thoughts drifted to Stergi, and the Tasting she had given. How might this compare? The Princess in front of him was so different, and not just physically. She had a sharp mind, and spoke intelligently. Not just that. By all appearances, she also had stronger desires than the bumbling, yet intriguing barmaid. His fangs revealed, Kiyrown moved closer. The man, who hadn’t been introduced, shuffled forward, and Fae spoke rebuking, “Captain.”

         Kiyrown hesitated only for a moment, and then his fangs sank into Fae’s perfect skin. He had prepared himself for another onslaught of raw emotion and vowed not to be carried away by it this time. As Kiyrown’s fangs cut through her flesh, he opened himself…and tasted only blood. His own confusion was the only emotion felt, as Fae’s blood flowed through his mouth.

         He was aware of Fae’s trembling, and pulled the dangerously sharp fangs from her throat.

         “My Lady, I don’t unders-” a sharp pain exploded in his chest. Staggering backwards Kiyrown looked down, and saw the butt end of a vicious silver spike adorning his silken robe. The initial pain had only lasted a moment, but he knew the barbed tip had delivered a fatal wound. Kiyrown fell kneeling, hands encircling, but not quite touching the protruding weapon. The Captain pulled another barbed spike from concealment, preparing to use it, if need be. Kiyrown ignored him, his eyes melding with Fae. Her chest rising and falling rapidly, she stared back.

         Kiyrown watched as veins became pronounced in her face, and blood began to rush into the whites of her eyes. He watched her life fading away, being replaced by one much different. “No,” he whispered, a stream of blood making a macabre waterfall, running out his mouth and down his chin. “It can’t...” He stopped as invisible hands, representing the inevitable, compelled him to the ground. Fae, also losing strength, soon slumped beside Kiyrown. She quivered on the fertile grass, in a pain wholly new.

         As his blood poured onto the grass, he could hear his Masters Voice, a past lecture, rebuking his final mistake, “It is not for our guild, or any save the Blood, to decide who is Turned. If one person makes that decision, than any single person could make it. Soon enough, we are all of the Night, and then how would we survive? Three simple bites, and the consequences could lead to the destruction of us all. It is our secret, and if too many of the Humans discover it, we all will be doomed. If you Taste ‘nothing’ of a human, it must be reported, and they must be dealt with.” He felt the last of his life spilling out. “How? You mustn’t,” he pleaded, voice weak and full of anguish.

         Fae placed a hand on his cheek. “I have no choice,” she said, voice equally feeble. Kiyrown hadn’t heard her rationalization. His own were the last heard words of his existence. A tear ran down Fae’s pristine skin, a sob of guilt spilling out. She laid her head down and closed her eyes. Another pain, agonizingly different than the others, started in her chest. Rapid breaths became shallow, and black rings encircled her vision.

         “You must take me to the Palace.” The exhaustion of speaking was apparent, and her teeth chattered as if freezing. “You must take me home.”

         The Captain, never taking his eyes from the Princess barked out orders. The surrounding soldiers snapped into action, taking away Kiyrown’s lithe remains. Before long a carriage arrived, and soon enough it was tearing down the streets on a short trip to the Palace. Fae’s heart stopped before they arrived.

*

         Fae was reborn, and found herself in her own room. Head spinning, she ached all over. She sat up as if a hundred years old, draped her legs off the bed, and stood. A servant had dressed her in nightclothes (The woman, who thought the Captain mad, and her Princess dead, had done so reluctantly).

         It took a moment, but her head stopped spinning. Fae made her way to the large washroom in the corner of the room. It was decorated simply. A mirror, which stood on a large desk in the middle of the room, was surrounded by all kind of exotic makeup’s, and prosthetics from far away lands. She sat before the mirror. Staring into it she saw…a bumbling barmaid. The wig was atrocious, and the stilt shoes hard to maneuver in. She knew the vampire would be more enticed by something unique, but these false teeth chafed the gums, and made her jaw sore.

         The dizziness returned, and she jerked spasmodically, as if losing her balance. A tub of water, which had been home to a pair of false, buck, teeth, sitting on the desk was knocked over.

         As Fae watched the spilt liquid flow quietly across the desk, a movement in the mirror brought her attention back. She looked up into it… An overly large gruff man, far past his prime looked back. The prosthetics had taken hours to apply, but had worked out well, Fae looked nothing like a woman. The platform shoes were comfortable, but the bulky yellow armor was not. She held an eyedropper above her eye, about to apply. It was the second time that night Fae had to use the painful dye that changed her eye color. She could see the Captain of her personal guard’s reflection in the mirror. Scowling down at his charge.

          “He might kill you,” his voice was full of worry.

          “I have to take that chance,” she said. Voice trembling as the drops made their torturous descent into her eyes. Fae screamed as a large, brown, glob of a drop made contact…

         The memory faded, and the dizziness returned in full force. Fae’s body contorted as if trying to balance itself before she slumped forward onto the desk. The world behind her closed eyes became a kaleidoscope of lights, and the three separate puncture wounds on her body burned with unbearable intensity. Then, without warning, it all stopped. Fae fell back into her chair, breathless, as all the memories of the previous night came rushing back. Showing the reluctance of a small rabbit scouting its territory, Fae opened her eyes. The mirror reflected back an empty chair.

         It worked, she thought, stunned. Before another thought could cross her mind, Fae was back on her feet, and running through the Palace halls at a speed only a ‘Southerner’ could achieve.

*

          The King’s room was the largest of the Palace. Depressingly simple, it was decorated in only white tapestries, a bed, and a few chairs. The windows were always kept closed, for fear of something blowing in to further debilitate the sick King. The bed was large, covered in many pillows, and thick woolen blankets. The King lay engulfed by magnificent comfort, asleep. The harsh sound of his strained breathing echoed through the room. His face was pale, and only a few wisps of gray hair remained on his head. He had been a muscular man for his age, though not tall. The sickness had left him a hollow, sunken-in, shadow of his former self.

         Fae had crept into the room, a specter, and laid beside her father, staring at him her large green eyes welling with tears of blood. Pain was evident on her face, and the crimson drops soon flowed free. She laid her head close to his, looking upon the side of his face, staining the white pillows red.

          “I couldn’t, Father. I couldn’t let you die. I can’t. I told you I’d found a way, and I did. You don’t have to die, and leave me like Mother,” her voice trembled, “I couldn’t, but it’s well now. You will be well.” She moved close to him, burying her face in the nape of his neck. “I love you,” she said, her voice muffled. “I’m sorry.” With a final pain filled cry, she sank extracted fangs into the bluish, sickly skin of her dying father.

**