Chapter 1: Prologue-1874
1874, Central City, Missouri
The shadow slunk into the brothel, licking his lips in anticipation. He tried not to use the same whorehouse more than once, but there was something about the one in Central City that made him want to linger.
Maybe it was their choice in product. Unlike most brothels, the owner didn’t care about what kind of company the customers liked to keep, as long as they paid. So, while there were women in tight corsets and hiked skirts, there were also young men in billowing shirts and tight pants.
He lurked around the edges of the room, carefully debating which prey looked the tastiest. Finally, he spotted the perfect prey--a young woman with bright red hair. He smiled, ready to go forth and take when a shout from under the nearby stairwell drew his attention.
The brothel was cheap, so the stairs were not grand. They were wooden, pressed against the wall with an empty space underneath. There was a man standing there, hissing into the corner at a dark figure. The figure had their head hung, fearful and scared. The man didn’t seem satisfied until he backhanded the figure so hard, it knocked them into the wall and to the ground.
When he stepped out, he realized the man was none other than the brothel’s owner, Lawrence Snart. The figure he’d been talking to dragged themselves to their feet and stepped out into the light. He’d been wrong--the woman wasn’t the perfect choice. This one was.
It was a boy, though he was dressed like a woman, with hiked shirts and corsets and a wig. He was a beautiful, perfect looking boy, and all the shadow wanted was to drain every ounce of blood from his body.
The boy noticed him watching and primped himself quickly. A fake, lustful smile stretched across the boy’s painted face. “You seem like a man that needs some company.”
There was a bruised handprint across his cheek. His mascara was running a bit from where he’d forced himself not to cry. The man smiled back and offered his arm. “Only if someone as gorgeous as you is asking.”
The boy blushed and took his arm, and for a moment, the man wondered if that was the only time a customer had spoken to him kindly. He let the boy lead him upstairs to what he considered a prison cell for the unlucky and unwanted. A brothel room.
Stepping inside, however, it looked different than what he’d imagined. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture--a bed, a table, and a couple of chairs. Stacked on the floor, table, and chairs, however, were books.
Big, small, long, short, modern and classic. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, let alone in the room of a common whore. Maybe this one, he thought, wasn’t so common after all.
“Sorry,” the boy whispered, moving a stack off the bed and sitting it on the floor. “It’s one of the few things Mr. Snart allows me to keep in my room.”
The shadow smiled. “You enjoy learning?”
A dreamy expression fell over the boy’s face. “More than anything. Books...they’re an escape.”
The shadow tilted his head and looked over the young whore. “When was the last time you were outside these walls?”
The boy’s expression fell. “Almost twenty years. Since my father murdered my mother, and Mr. Snart was... kind enough to let me live here.”
He could see the animosity that the boy held for his employer, for the life he’d been forced into. There was a darkness, a hatred behind those eyes. For the first time, he wanted more than just blood from his victim. He wanted everything.
He glided over to the boy at supernatural speeds, sweeping behind him and pressing close against his back. The boy startled at the movement, but relaxed when he brushed the hair off his shoulder to kiss at his neck.
The boy let out a shaky breath. “Usually…” he gasped, “usually I’m the one that does everything.”
He chuckled against the boy’s skin. “Then you have inconsiderate clients.” The hair from the wig tickled his nose, so he ripped it off and threw it to the floor, revealing thick, chestnut hair. He wound his fingers in it and pulled the boy’s head back to expose his throat. It would be so easy to drain him, but instead, he dragged his hand to the bodice of the boy’s dress. The skirt was hitched halfway up the boy’s thigh, and he dragged his hand down to brush against the exposed skin, and the boy shivered.
“What should I call you?” the whore whispered breathlessly. He considered, for a moment, giving him a fake name. But then, he thought about how his name would sound coming out of this beautiful boy’s lips.
“Eobard,” he replied, and he slid his hand up into the skirt. There were no undergarments, so he was instantly met with warm flesh. The boy’s breath caught in his throat, and Eobard wondered how many clients ever touched him. How many gave him pleasure instead of just taking it. He grabbed the boy and started to stroke, letting him melt into his arms as his knees gave out under him.
“Oh my god…” the boy gasped. Eobard growled, pleased with the reaction. He released his grip on the boy’s hair long enough to rip open the bodice of the dress, letting it fall to the ground. The boy dropped his head to his shoulder.
“Yes…” he whispered as Eobard stroked him with one hand and used the other to play with his nipple. When he looked down, the boy’s eyes were squeezed shut, mouth open and panting, and Eobard wanted an oil painting of how lovely he was.
A whimper fell from the boy’s lips when Eobard released him, but it was only long enough to push him down on the cheap bed. Eobard crawled over the boy, straddling his hips.
The boy’s eyes opened, and there was a moment. Hazel eyes met light blue ones. Something passed through Eobard that he’d never felt before--loneliness. He was ageless and immortal. He moved through crowds seeing prey instead of companions. Even if he found a human he cared for, they would wither and die eventually.
Running the palm of his hand up the boy’s torso, to the throbbing vein on his neck, he realized he didn’t have to feel that way anymore. Not if he had someone to share it with.
He leaned down across the whore’s body, pressing his clothed torso against his naked one, and brushed his lips against his ear.
“Do you want to live forever?” he hissed. “Do you want revenge on all of those who have abused you, hurt you, and taken advantage of you?”
He pushed up and touched the boy’s face like it was fragile glass. It may as well have been for Eobard. The boy was staring at him with a mixture of confusion and hope.
“Do you want to be loved for the rest of time? If I asked, would you turn away from everything you know and be run away with me? Become so strong and powerful that no one will be able to hurt you again?”
Smirking, Eobard extended his fangs. He expected horror, but instead, the boy’s eyes widened with awe. He could tell there was no indecision in the boy’s mind. Either Eobard killed him and he was free from this life of slavery, or he gave him enough power to never cower to anyone again.
A brief nod was all he needed. He lunged forward, plunging his fangs into the boy’s neck. He didn’t scream...no, not his boy. He moaned , tightening his arms around Eobard’s body as he drank. He thought about the beautiful creation he was making.
Strong, intelligent, deadly.
He was hard just thinking about it, and he ground down against the boy’s thigh as he continued to drink. When it was finally enough, he pulled his fangs out and leaned back on his heels. “What’s your name?”
“Henry...Bartholomew...Allen…Jr,” he gasped. He arced off the bed as the vampire venom began to do its work.
“Bartholomew…” he repeated, smiling. He sliced open his palm with one of his nails and held it out to his Bartholomew. His Barry. “Drink, love. Drink, and live forever.”
Almost immediately, Barry shot off the bed and started licking and sucking at Eobard’s hand. Both continued to hump and grind against one another, the intimacy of the Changing becoming too overwhelming for them.
Once Barry finished, they’d come together. They’d spend the entire evening together, fucking and kissing, and then, once everyone in the brothel was asleep, they would feed.
Chapter 2: Thou shalt not die
Leonard Snart had been coming to Saints and Sinners since he was three-years-old. His dad, once the big name in crime and in Vice, hung around the bar all the time, and he didn’t really believe in babysitters. It’s where Len had gotten all of his knowledge of the ins-and-outs of the crime rings in Central.
Lately, however, he’d found a new reason to hang around.
He’d started six months ago, a man he’d never seen before who only worked the night shift at Saints. He was young, pretty, with pale green eyes and thick brown hair. Len often found himself watching the bartender serving cocktails and beers to the regulars. Sometimes, the young man would pretend like he caught him and give him a playful, scolding look.
Tonight, Len sat at the bar. It was time for their nightly ritual, and all Len could hope for was that, after six months, something was different.
Barry raised up his head from the glass he’d been meticulously polishing and grinned. “Len. Your usual?”
He gave the young man a nod, and immediately, Barry pulled out a cold beer and slid it down to him. Len gave a nod of gratitude.
“So,” Len said, twisting off the top, “how about you and I go get dinner or something one night?”
Like every night, Barry rolled his eyes. “Not tonight. Ask again tomorrow.”
Len frowned. “Y’know, we’ve been playing this game since you started here, and I’ve asked six months worth of tomorrows. Is there ever going to be a yes, Barry?”
The bartender’s playful expression fell, and his focus went back to the glass. “I’m sorry. I just...I don’t think you’d like me very much if you really knew me.”
Len moved so they were standing face to face, the bar being the only thing that stood between them. “Don’t I get to decide that for myself?”
Barry sighed. “I’ve met one person in my life that’s ever wanted the real me, and we weren’t good for each other. I don’t want to ruin you, Len. I’m sorry.”
He moved down the bar to some other patrons, and Len’s entire body deflated. He’d been hoping it would be the night Barry finally said yes, but that conversation felt more like a definite no.
Len sighed and grabbed his beer, heading back over to the pool table where some Santini men were waiting to play him. Name meant everything in the criminal world of Central City, and the name Snart had been infamous since the town’s founding days. Even if he had no public crimes to show, he still had respect from everyone in the room.
He played them for information on the Santini’s operation, feigning interest in joining with the mob. The men, who had been trying to recruit him for weeks, eagerly played, and not so eagerly lost. When the eight ball sunk in the corner pocket, Len smirked over the edge of his cue stick.
“Now, boys,” he said, standing up, only to prop his hip on the table, “you were going to tell me about the pier and how Santini gets past the officials?”
The men stared, angry and confused, at the billiards table. Anger seemed to win out. The first one--big, burly, and flat faced--snarled and grabbed Len by the collar. “You cheated!”
Len wasn’t the least bit intimidated. He raised an eyebrow and scoffed. “Someone’s a sore loser. That’s what happens when you play the game. You win or lose, and this wasn’t your day.”
“Bullshit!” the other--rat faced and stick thin--shouted, pulling a switchblade from his back pocket.
They all turned to see Barry standing in front of the bar, hands on his hips like a particularly cross teacher. It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so intimidating.
“No fights in this bar, or I’ll throw you out myself. And no one here wants that.”
Barry was so small and baby-faced, it was hard to believe that he could scare even Santini’s men. But Len was dropped immediately, the knife was stashed away, and the men moved to the other side of the table.
A small smile pulled at Barry’s lips. “Thank you. Now, I suggest the three of you go about your business.”
He turned away and headed back behind the bar, where one of the workers--a young, auburn-haired girl that he knew as Snow--was calling him over. Len took that as a sign that his night was over. He put up the cue stick, grabbed his coat off the back of a chair, and headed out the door. There was a small walk in the woods to get back to town from Saints, but Len didn’t fear it. He had a Glock-22 tucked in the back of his pants if anyone decided to try something.
Once he was sure he was alone, Len pulled out his phone and dialed the same number he called every night. It barely rang once.
“Yeah?” the voice on the other end grunted.
There was a deep sigh. “Thought you said you had ‘em, that it’d be easy to get ‘em off their guard.”
Len shook his head. “Yeah, well, the Santini’s aren’t stupid, Mick. Most of them, anyway. It’s going to take a while to gain their trust.”
“What do you want me to tell Singh? You’ve been on assignment for nearly a year now. ”
Len sighed. Nine months working undercover to take down the Santini’s, and all he had to show for it was a crush on the beautiful bartender. He rolled his eyes. “Just...just tell him that I’m getting close. The Santini’s are hiding something big, and I’m close to figuring it out.”
“...you don’t need back up, do you? I can see if Singh will give you a new handler, and I’ll come in. I got a juvie record, too.”
“For arson.” Len laughed. “Not exactly grand theft auto, Mick. Besides, the whole reason I was put here was because my last name was supposed to get tongues wagging. I’ve gotten closer than anyone else, I just need time.”
“I’ll relay it to the captain. Be careful, Snart.”
The line went dead, and Len shook his head. He thought that this assignment would be a hell of a lot easier. After all, he was the only Snart besides his little sister, Lisa, who didn’t go into crime. And no one knew else really knew about his real job.
He shoved his phone into his pocket and kept walking. It was close to midnight if the inky black sky meant anything, and there was no moon out to light his way. His grandfather used to say the new moon was the night of ghouls and bloodsuckers, ones who preyed on unsuspecting travelers.
He paused when he heard a crunching behind him, like a leaf being crushed under someone’s foot. He looked back, but there was no one lurking in the shadows. Finally, he blew out a breath, berating himself for letting his fear get the best of him.
There was no such thing as monsters and ghosts. The worst thing in life was humans. They didn’t need any other horrors making life any scarier, especially for a cop.
He turned back around, ready to head back home when he was met with a fist to his face. Before he could react, there was a kick to the back of his knees, and he was face planting the ground.
Damn it. Why didn’t he listen to his instincts?
Punches and kicks broke across his body, bruising, drawing blood, breaking ribs. He tried to reach for his gun, but one of his attackers crushed his hand under their boot. A sharp pain went through his side, over and over.
“No. Good. Dirty. Rat,” the man growled, punctuating each word with another pain. A knife, Len realized. He was being stabbed to death.
He was going to die in the middle of the woods, alone.
Suddenly, there was a yelp. The pain stopped. Something struck a nearby tree. Len tried to open his eyes, but they were swollen shut. There was another scream, followed by the sound of bones crunching.
Then came the growl. It was throaty, inhuman, but not quite animalistic either.
Finally, everything went silent. Len struggled to breathe, each attempt serving as a painful reminder that he was injured and probably dying. Footsteps approached him, and someone fell to their knees at his side.
“No, no…” a voice whispered. It was familiar, but Len was too far out of it to remember who it belonged to. There was a slicing sound, and the person pressed their hand against his lips. “Len, I need you to drink. I know that sounds crazy, but I promise it will save you.”
He opened his mouth a little, just to see what he was being fed. A metallic taste filled his mouth, and he nearly gagged. Someone was feeding him their blood. He tried to turn away, but the person forced his head to stay in place.
The person sighed. “Leonard…” their voice went smooth and melodic. Len relaxed at the tone. “You have to drink. Be good and drink for me.”
He wanted to be good. He wanted to drink and make the person happy. He opened his mouth and sucked on the wound, filling him with such warmth and comfort that he didn’t even feel any more pain.
After about a minute, the hand disappeared and was replaced by a quick peck of lips. “Sleep…” the voice commanded, pressing another kiss. “Sleep....and you will be safe the next time you awaken.”
Len let his eyes fall shut, and while he slept, he dreamt of hazel eyes and blood red lips.
Chapter 3: Thou shalt not kill
*WARNING* There's some mention of gore, murder, and implied sexual slavery. You have been warned.
He slunk into the main bedroom of the mansion.
Mansion. Just that word made him sick. It wasn’t a mansion. It was a whore house, a brothel, a prison for slaves forced to take abuse and rape and molestation and pretend to enjoy it.
His owner was laid out in his grand bedroom, across his king-sized bed. Around him were all his favorites, the ones who chose their clients and got special rooms and treatment because they let him fuck them any way he wanted. They acted better than the rest, but they were slaves, too. Just like him.
He approached the bed slowly, a soothing warmth at his back.
“Enjoy, my love,” the warmth whispered, and a soft kiss was pressed to his cheek. “The more you feed here, the stronger you will become.”
Then, the warmth was gone and the door was closed. He smiled to himself, considering how to get his revenge.
First, he took care of the other whores, one by one. They were mercy killings, to be honest. He drained them in their sleep and threw their empty corpses to the floor. They didn’t even wake up.
Lawrence Snart wouldn’t be so lucky.
Licking the blood off his lips, he crawled up the bed and over Snart’s body.
He leaned down to whisper in the man’s ear. “Time to wake up.”
His eyes blinked open. When he saw who was over him, he frowned. “Henry...where’s…?”
He shushed the man, pressing a finger to his lips. Then, he ground his ass down on Lawrence’s flaccid cock, bringing it to life. The brothel owner’s eyes rolled back into his head, and a shuddered breath fell from his lips.
“Knew you’d start seein’ things my way,” the man grunted. He started pulling at the back of his partner’s pants, but a hand stopped him.
He leaned down and kissed Lawrence sweetly. “Close your eyes and let me take care of you.”
There was something in his voice, something that compelled Lawrence to obey.
He couldn’t help but grin at the bastard’s stupidity. His fangs elongated, his nails sharpened, and before the man knew what was coming, he lunged...
Len shot up with a start. He was lying in his bed. It was morning. He tore off his pajama shirt—why was he wearing the ugly pajamas Lisa bought him for Christmas? Usually, he just slept in his boxer briefs—and searched his torso for some sign of his attack the night before. Stitched knife wounds, bruises, hell even a scar , but there was nothing. No sign that any of the night before had happened.
What was that dream? And ‘Lawrence Snart’? He vaguely remembered the name, but why would he be dreaming about killing him?
His phone rang, dragging him from his thoughts. Mick’s name flashed across the screen.
“What?” he answered the second the phone was to his ear.
“What the hell happened last night, Snart?” Mick demanded.
Len frowned. “What are you talking about? I checked in. By the way, I think my cover’s blown. Those two Santini thugs followed me out of the bar last night—”
“They’re dead.” Len nearly dropped the phone. “ Some joggers found their bodies in the woods this morning. Their bodies were hanging upside down from trees, their necks broken.”
It wasn’t a dream. The attack was real. Someone really did pull them off of him and saved his life. How was he still alive, though?
Len shook his head. “Yeah...sorry, what?”
“I said, did you see anything? Was there anyone suspicious hanging around the woods last night?”
Len scoffed, trying to sound as worry-free as he could. “Mick, Saints is right by the woods. All kinds of suspicious characters hang around there, and those two were douchebags. They probably just pissed off the wrong person, who ended up being a total psychopath.”
Mick hummed thoughtfully. “Fine. Keep a sharp lookout, though, and call me if you hear something.”
“ Got it.” He snapped the phone shut before Mick could say any more. As it was, he was on the verge of a panic attack.
Before he could second-guess himself, he jumped out of bed, threw on an old shirt and pair of jeans, and ran out the door. His feet carried him the long way to Saints, around the woods, which were swarming with police. It was a crime scene. One that Len was involved in. With his evidence everywhere .
He didn’t know why he ran into the bar, frantic and out of breath, but luckily, Snow was the only one there. When she saw Len, her eyes widened for a split second.
“Mr. Snart. You’re here early. Are you...feeling okay?”
Len frowned. Now that she mentioned it, he felt great. All the aches and pains from his childhood injuries were gone. The back pain he usually got from the cheap mattress on his bed was gone. And when he lifted up his shirt, all of his scars were gone. Not just the marks from the fight. How did he miss that?
“Uh...yeah…” He stumbled back a step, questioning why he’d even come to the bar. What was he hoping to find? Answers to a dream he wasn’t sure he had?
Snow moved around the bar and approached him slowly, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. The second their skin touched, however, a pain shot through Len’s head. When he opened his eyes, he was in a dark apartment. There was a boarded up window directly across from him, and a silhouetted figure was visible through the cracks of light between the boards.
“You did what?” he demanded. The figure sighed and shook his head.
“I didn’t have a choice. He would’ve died if I hadn’t done it.”
“And if he turns?”
“He won’t.” The figure glanced back, but Len couldn’t see his face through the shadows. “Trust me. I have some self-control.”
Len snorted. “None that I’ve seen. What if he’d seen you?”
“Trust me, he couldn’t. He was so close to death...I almost couldn’t save him, Cait. I had to use my powers.”
Len raised his brows in surprise. “You haven’t done that in years. Not since the night we met.”
“He wouldn’t drink any other way. That’s not the worst part, though.”
Len stepped closer, and the figure turned back to the window. “For a moment, I wanted to drink. I felt the power rush through me…”
“What stopped you?”
The figure sighed. “Even Eobard didn’t turn me without permission. I swore to myself I would be better. I have to be better, or why did I leave?”
Len reached out and took the figure by the hand. This time, when he looked back, Len could see the figure’s pale green eyes...
Len pulled away, tumbling to the floor of the bar. Snow frowned. “Mr. Snart?”
Len didn’t hang around he ran for the door, but when he touched the door, he was taken back again. This time, however, he felt like an observer more than a participant.
The bar was gone, replaced by an old, wooden mansion that could only be some kind of bordello. Len gagged at the sight.
There were bodies strewn everywhere—over the banisters, on the floor, one even hanging from the chandelier. Blood spattered the walls, the floor, the corpses, and their throats were ripped out.
He screamed and ran out the door, leaving a confused Caitlin Snow behind.
Chapter 4: Mourn the Past
The world was spinning around him. He couldn’t breathe. What was happening to him? Was he hallucinating? Wasn’t that a bad sign?
He collapsed, his hands clawing at the ground.
“Snart?” a familiar voice called. He couldn’t actually be there, though. No one knew where he ran. But sure enough, Mick dropped to his knees in front of Len and grabbed his face.
“Snart, you gotta calm down. You’re having a panic attack.” He pulled Len against his chest, just like he did when they were teenagers. “Breathe with me. In slow, hold, out slow.”
Len couldn’t. All he could think about was all the things he’d just seen, things that couldn’t be there. He grabbed Mick’s hand, and a strange wave of calm washed over him. Another image appeared, but this wasn’t gore or terror.
He was looking down at his younger self. Somehow, Len knew he was seeing things through Mick’s eyes, through his memories. Len had a black eye and a busted lip, and fresh, uncontrollable tears were dripping from his eyes.
He took his younger self in his arms, a possessive and protective feeling burning through his stomach. He was never going to let anything happen to him. Mick would never let anything happen to him.
He hadn’t even realized his panic was fading until he became conscious of the strong fingers brushing down his back.
He swallowed hard. “I think I’m losing my mind.”
Mick frowned but helped his best friend to his feet. “Let’s get you home, and we’ll talk about it, okay?”
Len shook his head. “No, there’s somewhere else I gotta go. Someone I need to talk to that has some answers I need.”
Iron Heights hadn’t changed in years. The guards were still big and stupid, the halls were still painted grey and dreary, and there was still a crack in the glass of one of the visiting areas from where one of the Mardon brothers tried to bust it to punch their lawyer. Good times, good times.
Mick flashed his badge and got Len a private visiting room, one usually intended for lawyers and their clients. He used the excuse that Len was an undercover cop and he was talking to an informant. It was all bullshit, but Len was grateful. He didn’t want an audience for this.
He took his seat at the metal table in the center of the room, Mick standing at the door to give him the air of privacy. When the door on the other side of the room opened, Len shot up, sitting as straight and stiff as possible.
The man who walked in was short, round, and balding. When he looked at Len, a greasy smile stretched on his face. “Well, the prodigal son returns. You’re the last person I thought would visit. Here I thought I was seeing my lawyer to talk about an appeal. This, though…”
Lewis Snart took a seat across from his son. “This is much more interesting. I see you brought your guard dog.”
Mick grunted, but Len ignored them. “Who is Lawrence Snart?”
All amusement faded from Lewis’ face. He stared, shocked at his son, who squared his shoulders, trying not to seem like the same scared kid he remembered. Lewis narrowed his eyes. “And where’d you hear that name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Len snapped back, clenching his fists on his thigh. He didn’t want to touch anything. Didn’t want to risk it all happening again.
Lewis noticed, though. Lewis always noticed. “You started seeing things, haven’t ya?”
Len didn’t even have to answer. Lewis sat back in his seat and scoffed. “Too much like your damn mother. That’s the problem. Never shoulda had kids with someone like her. Already cursed enough as it is.”
Len frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Lewis crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You don’t know nothin’, do ya?”
“Well, I had a stunning role model when it came to intelligence.”
He expected anger, but instead, Lewis just laughed. “You think you’re so smart. You don’t even know what’s comin’.”
Len rolled his eyes. “I would if you’d tell me.”
Lewis mirth faded to satisfaction. Len knew what he wanted. Knew exactly what his dad needed to hear, as much as he hated it.
He sighed. “Please, Dad. I need your help. You’re the only one who knows what I need to know.”
Pleased with himself, Lewis grinned smugly. “That’s more like it. I don’t know much about your seeing thing. That was from your mother’s side, but Lawrence Snart was your great, great grandpa. He was a respected business owner, one of the first to settle in Central and build the town.”
“Meaning he was shady, like the rest of your family,” Mick interjected. Lewis scowled at him, and Len rolled his eyes.
“Enough,” Len said. “The whole truth.”
“And what will I get for that?” Lewis’ eyes went to Mick. He knew that Mick was a police sergeant, but he didn’t know the truth about Len’s career choice. There’s no way in hell he would trust his father with anything that important to hold over his head.
Mick sighed. “I’m not gettin’ you outta here. But maybe I won’t tell the Santini’s that the reason you’re livin’ cozy here while they’re sitting in gen pop is cuz you ratted on them.”
Lewis’ eyes widened, and for a moment, Len wondered why he’d never fallen in love with Mick. Then, he remembered who he was talking about and got over it.
Lewis sighed deeply. “Fine. He owned a brothel.”
Ice struck Len’s heart. “Was it where Saints and Sinners is now?”
Lewis furrowed his brow but nodded. “One and the same. The original building was burned to the ground about fifty years ago. That was decades after Lawrence Snart and the massacre, though.”
The dead bodies that scattered the floor...Lawrence’s throat being ripped out...
It was enough to get even Mick’s attention. He came over and sat next to Len. “Whoa, there’s a massacre in this story? You didn’t tell me that part.”
“I didn’t tell you anything, Mick,” Len reminded him. “Is that what I saw?”
“How do I know what you saw?” Lewis asked. “All I know is that Lawrence owned the brothel. One night, something came into the house. Something dark and twisted. The next morning, everyone--whores, customers, and Lawrence Snart--were all dead. Most of them were drained of their blood. No one ever caught who did it, but that’s where the Snart Curse comes from.”
Len frowned. “Snart Curse?”
Lewis nodded. “Same thing happened in the ’20s to your great grandpa and his entire gang. Same thing to your grandpa in his prison cell. Every male Snart has been murdered and drained since Lawrence, ‘cept you and me. It’s the reason I hooked up with your mama. She was special. She knew things that no one else knew. I always thought she could warn me when my time came around. Then, she had to up and die on me.”
Len rolled his eyes. Yeah, because she could avoid cancer . “So, there’s some monster out there picking off our family one by one, and I get crazy visions because you knocked a woman up to get ahead in life?”
He rose from his seat and shook his head. “We’re done here. C’mon, Mick.”
“I didn’t say it didn’t work.”
Len paused before he could walk too far away. He glanced back at his father. “I don’t believe you.”
Smirking, Lewis held out his hand. “Only one way to find out if I’m lying. If you’re anything like your mama, it works with touch.”
He hesitated. On one hand, if his father was telling the truth about whatever powers he had, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see anything his father had to show him. On the other...it was answers. Answers to what happened.
Clenching his teeth, Len reached down and took his father’s hand.
He was standing on the street. A beat cop running in the night shift. There was some gangbanger he was shaking down, trying to get protection money from. The kid was quaking, practically peeing himself with fear.
Len let him go as he shoved the kid’s drug money in his pocket. Proud of himself, he started walking back up the street, towards the red light district. There were all kinds of opportunities for him there. When he rounded the first corner, he saw the perfect victim.
It was a young woman, early twenties at most. She was wearing fishnets under a skirt that hung just low enough to tease what was underneath, high heeled boots, and a fur coat over her sequined cropped tube top. He couldn’t see her face through her long, red hair, but he knew he wanted to shake her for everything she had.
Adjusting himself, he approached the whore. “What a shame I have to carry something as lovely as you back to the station,” he said, stepping up behind her. “Maybe you and I could make a deal?”
He grabbed the girl by the hips pressing against her back. She still didn’t turn or say yes, but when did that ever stop someone like Lewis Snart?
He ground his hips forward against her backside. “Whaddya say we take this somewhere else, and you get to stay outta jail tonight?”
“Wow, you’re a charmer.”
Lewis startled, spinning around to face the newcomer. It was a blonde man in a black leather jacket and jeans. He was leaned against the wall nearby, watching them with interest. He narrowed his eyes. “You the pimp?”
The man raised a questioning brow and pointed to himself. “Me? No, no. I’m just here for the show.”
Lewis had no idea what he meant until he turned around and realized that the prostitute in front of him was gone. In her place stood a young man--pale green eyes and thick brown hair on his head. He was wearing the same outfit, though.
Before Lewis could say anything, the kid’s eyes turned practically black. Long teeth grew from his gums.
Lewis stumbled back, but the other man stopped him. “Can’t leave now, you’re part of the show!”
He seemed so giddy, so excited that the younger man was going to kill him. Neither expected Lewis to pull out his gun and shoot the man blocking his way. There was a screech, like an animal, but Lewis didn’t wait. He ran for it, out of the red light district and back into the downtown city areas, where people were still lingering and bustling back home.
Len yanked his hand back. It was impossible. Either his father or his vision was wrong. There was no way that was true. No way Barry Allen was alive in the 1970s, much less that he was a deranged serial killer.
Chapter 5: Once you go dead
The windows of the apartment above Saints were boarded shut to protect him from the Sun. If there was one thing Barry missed about his life before, it was the sunrise. He took each one for granted in life, always assuming the next one was around the corner until that fateful night he met Eobard.
He wanted to hate Eobard, but deep down, he couldn’t. They were lifemates, after all--two vampires joined by choice and blood magic turning one’s turning. Besides, he’d agreed wholeheartedly to being turned. No coercion or manipulation. Eobard didn’t tell him he had to kill people or that he had to enjoy it. It was just how it was then.
Things were different now. It was nearly sunset, and Barry had barely gotten a wink of sleep. His mind raced with thoughts about Leonard Snart--the latest in the Snart family and last surviving heir of Iris West. He hadn’t meant this all to escalate the way it had.
He remembered Iris. Beautiful, smart, cutting wit. If he’d been human, Barry could’ve loved her. She was the first human he told about his vampirism, and she’d accepted it as part of him, in a way he’d never expected anyone other than Eobard to.
Eobard let him ‘play’. Iris and Barry spent every moment of his nights together, laughing and getting in trouble together. It was the first time Barry felt alive.
Iris worked as a fortune teller at a carnival on the Central City Pier. In the early 1900s, occultism was all the rage, so Iris’ business was never slow. She knew things no one else could know, predicted things that would almost instantly come true, and gave people advice that, when taken, changed their lives.
Barry would’ve given his immortality to be with her always. But Iris told him their time was temporary, and she married another man and bore his children. It didn’t keep Barry from loving her, or from making an oath on her deathbed that he would protect her heirs for as long as he lived.
Which was why Leonard Snart was such a conundrum. The great-grandson of Iris West and the great-great-grandson of Lawrence Snart, the man whose name he swore to wipe from existence.
He rose from his bed and shuffled over to the freezer in the kitchen. Caitlin, being a med student, was able to procure him some bagged blood without being too suspicious. He grabbed a bag of A+, opened the top, and started to drink.
“That’s just sad.”
He choked on the blood, rounding on his unexpected visitor with fangs out and claws drawn. Eobard leaned against the entryway, an insufferable smirk on his face and arms crossed over his chest. He drew his fangs and claws back in, but stayed on alert.
“How did you find me?”
Eobard pushed off the wall and strode into the kitchen. “I never lost you, Barry. I’ve just been waiting for you to grow out of this and come home.”
Barry rolled his eyes and sat his blood pack on the counter. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.” When he looked back, Eobard was inches in front of him. There was a time when he would’ve been startled. He was too used to Eobard’s dramatics for that now. “Look at you. Feasting on blood bags and low-level criminals. Have you really dropped that low?”
He brushed his fingers against Barry’s cheek. The second their skin touched, Barry couldn’t resist the shiver down his spine. “You were a vengeful god all your own. Stronger and deadlier than anything I’d ever seen. When you killed and fed, Barry…”
His fingers slipped down his face, his thumb catching on Barry’s bottom lip. “You were beautiful. And now, you’re dwindling. You’re dying. I feel it each day.”
He dragged his thumb across Barry’s lip, sopping up some of the blood, and then sucked it off. Barry’s breath caught in his throat. “You know what has to be done. What you have to do to survive.”
“No…” Barry whispered. “I won’t do it. I can’t.”
“You have to, Barry,” Eobard reminded him. “You swore an oath with Lawrence Snart’s blood. You swore to end his name, to kill every male Snart until there was none left. If that oath is not fulfilled, you will die.”
“Then I’ll die.”
“You selfish, ungrateful…” Eobard grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the fridge. “You would rather die than break a promise to you made to a gravestone? Do you think that a promise overrides a blood oath? Do you know what will happen if you don’t kill Leonard Snart?”
“I don’t care.”
“You will die . You will wither up and disintegrate into ash. Is that what you want? Is Iris West or Leonard Snart worth that?”
Barry squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know. He honestly didn’t know. What rules and morals applied when you were immortal? Did promises hold as much water when you outlive them by generations? Did humanity matter when you were no longer human?
Lips pressed against his, and Barry relaxed into the familiar embrace of his sire. His lifemate. His comfort. He could have this for a moment, couldn’t he?
How could he say no to decades of loving? Through the West, the turn of the century, the wars, the new millennia. Eobard stayed with him, helped with his curse. Was this any different?
A knock on his door tore him away from Eobard and back to reality. He couldn’t let Eobard deter him. “No. I can’t.” He stepped out of Eobard’s grasp and moved across the room. “You need to leave.”
Eobard raised an eyebrow. “Scared of how your pet will react if she finds me here?”
“Go. Now.” He tried for intimidating, but Eobard just snorted.
“I’ll leave for now. But know, you can’t escape me, and you can’t avoid this.” He stepped back, further into the darkness, until he disappeared completely. Barry blew out a sigh of relief.
There was another knock at the door. “Barry, open up! I know you’re awake!”
He moved to the door, but not before Caitlin used her spare key to barge in. She was frantic and wide-eyed. “I’ve been freaking out all day, Barry. Leonard Snart came in this morning. He was acting weird, and he kept freezing and zoning out before running out the door.”
If Barry’s heart still beat, it would’ve stopped. Leonard had inherited the West gift. The gift of Seeing.
He pushed past Caitlin and ran for the door. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to find him!” he shouted back. He ran out of the bar, following his nose to find the young Snart.