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Krolock forgot the willow, the lapping of the water, the brisk way the air had started to stir. Sliding a hand into the Poet’s hair, cradling the back of his head, he lowered him into the grass, slipping fingers between the ruffles at the front of his shirt to caress his chest. His nails scraped against warm skin and the Poet gasped against his lips, arched his back and clutched at Krolock’s shoulder.
He had arrived just after sunset, when Krolock was still asleep in his coffin; Koukol had answered the door, left the lovelorn guest sitting in the dilapidated parlor while he fetched the count. The remains of last night’s meal still stained his jabot and he had rushed to change it, to clean the last smudges of blood from his chin before going upstairs to greet his lover.
But the Poet was patient, staring vacantly as always into an upper corner of the room, his lips moving just so in silent composition. “Good evening,” Krolock had said, and the Poet had jumped up, rushed to his arms. Krolock had been glad of the blood still warming his veins — the blossom of warmth, the flush in the Poet’s cheeks were not so tempting as they usually were.
“Darling,” said the Poet. “Take a walk with me.”
And Krolock had obliged, and after some time they had decided to sit down by the pond, and Krolock had lain his head in the Poet’s lap, listening to him murmur his latest poem, the sweet words and the rustling of the willow and the hushed sound of the water the gentlest music he could wish for. Soft-spoken verses had given way, after some time, to wandering hands — the Poet had pulled Krolock up, kissed him, his lips as lovely as the words he spoke.
Krolock had a hand on the Poet’s face, running his thumb tenderly over his cheek. Their movements had grown more languorous, no less hungry but so slow and gentle he was beginning to be aware of the world around him again. The willow’s whispering. The quiet chirping of crickets.
A rather loud and alarming splash from the edge of the pond, not far away on their left. At first they both ignored it, the Poet tangling his fingers in the lace at Krolock’s throat to pull him back when he began to move away curiously; but after a moment there was an irritated, wet gulping sound — rather like a frog attempting to cough — and at that the Poet let go and they broke apart.
It was, in fact, a frog, and from the way it had raised its webbed green foot to its face it looked as if it had indeed been attempting to cough. “Excuse me,” said the frog, blinking its large yellow-brown eyes in slow motion. The Poet gasped, a soft awed sound, and the frog only hopped closer, landing in the grass beside them and staring up at Krolock. “Are you quite done making love on my doorstep?” it asked in a dramatic whisper.
Krolock frowned. “I would not say we were making —”
“Hush, hush.” The frog flapped a little green hand impatiently. “This little wordsmith is making you far too concerned with semantics.”
“Do you know this amphibian, my love?” asked the Poet. “And will you tell it I do not consider semantics of the utmost—”
“Please,” said the frog severely, “be quiet. I am trying to communicate a matter of utmost importance to his Excellency.” It turned back to Krolock. “Your Excellency,” it added, and bowed its head in a passable gesture of froggy respect. “I am a cursed king.”
Krolock raised an eyebrow, glancing at the Poet with some curiosity and amusement. He was affronted by the frog’s rudeness, but even so — such things could not help but be intriguing. The Poet met Krolock’s eyes and he could see that he felt the same. “Are you?” said Krolock, taking his time returning his gaze to the frog’s exasperated stare.
“I am. I have waited in this pond for a long time, but you have never lingered long enough for me to catch your attention.” Krolock felt a bit of remorse at that; perhaps it was his fault the long-neglected creature was so very impatient. “The curse upon me can only be broken, good sir, by one thing.” It paused dramatically.
Perhaps the creature was a hypocrite. “And that thing is…?” asked Krolock, itching to return to the Poet.
“A kiss,” said the frog. “A mere press of your noble lips will restore me to my former state, and then …” it hopped a little closer, raising a foot in mock-secrecy, eyes darting disdainfully to the Poet. “You may find, your lordship, that a beautiful and rich king is a much more worthy companion than this penniless poet.”
That was quite enough. The count was more than willing to hear all his visitors out and aid them when he could, but this frog seemed determined to slight Krolock’s lover at every opportunity. And Krolock would not let the Poet — sweet man, lyrical wonder — sit by and be abused.
“No,” he said, flatly, and before the frog could react he moved, caught the slimy creature in his hand, raised it to his mouth, and bit it. What could he say? It was instinct.
Tragically, our best-honed instincts do not always serve us well. The frog tasted terrible, like copper and pond water and impudence, and the instant Krolock’s fangs sank into its soft back and its cold blood flooded his mouth he knew he had made a mistake. In his very hands, the frog was changing — and he pulled away quickly, hissing and stumbling back and letting go of what was now decidedly not an amphibian, allowing the Frog — the king with his wide sunken eyes, his mass of blue-green curls and tattered garments — to land with a splash in the shallows he had come from at the edge of the pond.
The Poet had let out a cry, scrambled away as well, and Krolock’s eyes went to him first. His hair was dishevelled from the kiss, his face stricken, and Krolock, mouth still open, knew his lover had seen his long fangs, the amphibian blood staining his lips. Watched the way his eyes lingered on them, the way his brow furrowed.
“My, my, my,” said the Frog. Krolock, ignoring the way his unbeating heart was still finding a way to break, turned back to watch him pick himself up from the pond, brush himself off and stand looking down at the count and the Poet where they sprawled in the grass. “Good heavens. Did you just turn me into a vampire? Why, thank you ever so much, your Excellency.” He bowed, curtly, a hungry smile curling his lips. “Now I’m a king and immortal. However will you get rid of me in these conditions?”
The count was horrified. This was terrible, this was not what ought to have happened at all, and the moonlight mocked him with how sweetly it danced on the water, the willow laughed as the breeze ruffled its hair. “My treasure,” he said, his voice breaking as he turned back to the Poet. The Frog, who had struck a self-important pose and was admiring the pond scum under his fingernails, was of no concern to him. Was nothing to the devastated love lying just beside him, who had dedicated so many words to Krolock’s worthless, treacherous devotion. “I am so sorry.”
The Poet glared at him. “You very well ought to be,” he said, tremblingly, and Krolock nodded. It was what he deserved. “You drink blood ?” Krolock opened his mouth to say yes, to say that he knew it was a violation and a cruelty beyond imagining, that every day he was tormented by his own insatiable greed and that the Poet should go now, should leave here and never look back, that the count would gladly starve to ensure his safety. But he did not get a chance to say any of those things, because the Poet went on in high, strident tones — “ and you cause immortality? When, pray tell, fire-of-my-stars, my tempest, mon amour, is it my turn ?”
Krolock blinked. The Frog scoffed. “It … it is a terrible curse, dear Poet.”
Rolling his eyes, the Poet came closer, took Krolock’s face in his hands and held his gaze even as he tried to flinch away. “Let me spend immortality with you,” he murmured, his voice low and a little hoarse. Krolock shivered in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that the Frog was still gloating over his endless life and the Poet was asking for the same and clearly the count was surrounded by the mentally insane.
“A … a terrible curse,” he repeated, really not sure what more was needed to get through to him.
“Imagine how many poems I could write in an eternity, you fool,” said the Poet fondly, leaning forward to press his forehead to Krolock’s. “I will dedicate a thousand sonnets to the sharpness of your fangs if only you give me the pleasure of feeling them in my throat.” He spoke in a fervent whisper now, and the words were warm, so close to Krolock’s bloodied lips, unbearable. And the hunger, no matter how much he sated it, never had an end. “Please, love,” said the Poet, barely a breath now.
Who was the count to deny a plea? Ducking, placing a hand as he did on the Poet’s back, he pressed his lips to his neck — admiring how readily the Poet arched it, tormented by how eagerly he gasped. Oh, he should not. But the Poet’s pulse was strong against his lips. And he could hear the Frog babbling protests a meter away and love and spite and hunger were so strong in him that he opened his mouth and sank his teeth deep into the Poet’s delicate throat.
There was a hand in Krolock’s hair. Again he forgot the willow, forgot the pond and the Frog and the ceaseless murmuring of the night as he lowered the Poet to the ground, lost in him, lost to the richness of his blood, as subtly, richly sweet as his sonnets. When he felt the man go limp in his arms he let go, pulled away in a blood-drunk haze — so hot on his lips, his tongue — and left him gently on the ground, his eyes closed, asleep.
Krolock turned to the Frog, still crouched over the Poet, his teeth bared. The Frog looked more than a little alarmed and more than a little flustered. “I am still hungry,” he snarled. The Frog smirked, took a step forward. “No, arrogant thing. I will not sate myself on you.” He did nothing to disguise the contempt in his voice, and the Frog faltered, stopped.
“You may change your mind,” he said after a moment, twirling a lock of bright hair around his finger. “I can wait. I have all the time in the world now.”
And the stars reeled, and the Poet stirred beneath Krolock, and the Frog walked proudly off over the grounds.