Chapter Text
“So,” he says. He leans over the railing, taking a nice, long look at the flurry of suits and skirts moving on the lower floor of the decorated ballroom. “Wanna take bets on how many drinks we can get away with?”
His fellow guard steals a glance at him, horrified. “You’re insane. The duke will have our hides if we sneak anything on the job.”
Crow grins back. “Hey. Ol’ Cayenne doesn’t need to know everything. You ever have any fun over here? Heard they busted out the really good stuff tonight.”
Despite himself, the man looks mildly intrigued for a split second before he furiously shakes his head. “There are important people in attendance,” he hisses as if Crow cares about that sort of thing. “Cayenne’s peacocking more than usual. We screw this up, and we’re out. It’s your skin on the line.”
Crow sighs, loud and dramatic. “He’s always peacocking,” he says, but the man’s right. The duke is a little more ostentatious today, greeting all manner of nobles like they’re good friends instead of begrudging allies at best.
Duke Cayenne spares no expense when it comes to flaunting his excesses—easy to see in the way he carries himself, the finery he luxuriates in—and likes his stuffy parties and overwrought grandeur. But something’s up. He’s dialing it up more than usual, like he’s setting the stage for something, seeking to impress a guest who might already be out there on the floor.
Maybe the Imperial Family will show up, but Crow didn’t see any of those names on the guest list he skimmed earlier.
A surprise appearance, then? Hard to really say.
“‘Kay, well, if you don’t wanna steal a few drinks, guess I’ll take the lower perimeter without ya,” Crow says. “Seriously, though. You look like you’re gonna pass out any second. Try to relax a little. The evil noble guests aren’t gonna pester you up here.”
The guard slumps a little. “Thanks, man. Can’t keep all those social rituals in my head. If I accidentally bump into a noble lady again and have to dance, I might as well get my grave ready.”
Well then. “Shit, dude. Sounds like there’s a story there. Who’s the daring lady who asked you onto the dance floor? New money, or—” Crow pauses briefly for the effect, flashing a little smirk. “—a pretty vampire from an older family?”
“Wh—okay, look. You wouldn’t know her name.”
“So you mean you don’t wanna hit it off with someone nice and marry into money and be set for life?”
“She’s not—Aidios, no. It’s not like that!”
Crow looks at him skeptically. Yup, judging by that red face, there’s definitely more to this. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“You’re not getting anything more out of me,” comes the insistent reply and a halfhearted swat in his direction. “Just go.”
Crow dodges it with a little laugh. Bummer. With a jaunty salute, he makes his way down the extra stairwell to the lower floor. At least the poor guy’s a little less tense now, judging by the way his shoulders relaxed. Looks like the chatter got him at least a little out of his head.
All Crow really has to do now is make the requisite rounds and make sure nothing’s out of place. It shouldn’t be terribly difficult; from what he’s heard, it’s just some celebration party Cayenne had insisted on throwing.
Working security is, by and large, simple enough. Crow doesn’t often get to people-watch quite like this when his missions usually bring him to desolate corners of the nation to carry out the Black Workshop’s dirty work. A lot of quiet nights with blood on his hands and few people to really talk to. It gets lonely sometimes, but he’s used to it, lets all of those dark sentiments get buried alongside the rest in the gaping emptiness that marks the things he should know and remember.
Only the mission matters, whatever it might be at a given time.
Still, it doesn’t mean he can’t have a little bit of fun every here and there.
This time, he’s on loan to the Cayenne estate, some secret agreement in place between the duke and the Black Workshop. It’s been a nice change of pace, except for the part where he forgot how rough it is being surrounded by so many bodies without the distraction of a conversation.
Humans and vampires alike are mingling everywhere in a mishmash of varied scents. Saliva collects in his mouth as he fights against the instinct to unsheathe his fangs like some immature newborn. Every motion sends a waft of new scents in his direction, and with the ballroom teeming with noble-blood vampires, a quieter, animalistic side of him wants something to sink his teeth into. All that power sealed away in blood, locked beneath muscle and sinew, and it’d be as easy as—
Fuck. He’s hungrier than he thought he was. Frankly, he can’t even remember the last time he had a real meal, but he’s survived on less. Better not to give his handlers any reason to starve him longer for noncompliance.
Crow ducks to the side and collects himself, keeping his breaths shallow to avoid sinking into the deluge of scents in the room. It’s far from the best vantage point, nothing like the bird’s eye view from the upper level, but it’ll have to do. He stays there, surveying the bodies. The orchestra has started up the strains of some sort of waltz; the music is inoffensive enough that he listens to it more than he pays attention to the conversations people are engrossed in.
The political schmoozing never really felt like his thing anyway.
Except suddenly, the staff member handling introductions by the door speaks again, voice in a resounding boom. “Announcing the Ashen Chevalier, Warden of the Crimson Gaol, Divine Blade of Zero, Rean of House Schwarzer!”
The resounding susurration of rustling skirts and faint footsteps as people turn to look is near deafening. Suddenly, all attention in the room has focused on a single point in the room: the grand staircase where a man in white and violet is descending with steady steps, every motion lethal in its grace.
Nearby, someone swoons. Crow doesn’t bother turning to look at them, smothering a snicker behind his glove. So the guy’s a looker, and everything about him screams power. But now, people are practically tripping over themselves as they try to make a beeline in his direction. Any subtlety, at this point, is beyond them.
Another guard settles against the wall next to Crow. She sighs, wearily pushing some brown hair out of her eyes. “It never gets old seeing him, but this happens every damn time.”
“Yeah?” Crow says, gaze tracking the way Schwarzer is on the verge of getting mobbed by adoring women. “He come often to these things?”
“I wouldn’t call it often. Sometimes? But I’ve worked enough of these events to know that on the rare occasions he shows up, we have to keep an eye on him in case there’s an incident. You should’ve seen the time someone’s fledgling went for his throat. Not that we really had to do anything—Schwarzer had it handled all on his own. Even accepted the apologies from the fledging’s sire for the misstep and declined compensation.”
Huh. “Looks like that sword isn’t just for show then.”
“Nope. That thing isn’t ceremonial. Guy’s a Divine Blade, after all.”
For a moment, his handler’s voice echoes in his head. You only need to remember what we tell you in your mission briefings. Everything else is extraneous. Don’t make me submit a recalibration request for you.
Yeah, fuck that. It took him this long to develop a semblance of a personality again after the last wipe. He doesn’t want to think about the kind of brainless puppet he was half a year ago.
There are some things they don’t have to know he knows.
“Sure,” he says, “but that doesn’t explain the adoring fans. Walk me through this—this guy’s, what? A celebrity?”
“Which rock did you crawl out from under?” snorts the guard. “The Ashen Chevalier—only Erebonia’s most decorated hero.”
“Ooh, so we got a big bad soldier. Doesn’t explain why the whole flock of nobles here all conveniently decided to bring their lovely daughters and sons to introduce to him.” At this point, Crow’s picked out at least a dozen of them, all waiting like vultures for their turn. The more he looks, the more things he notices with every sweep. “The Schwarzer Barony oversees some plots of land out in the middle of nowhere. This doesn’t sound like a money thing.”
“Well, it’s—Your Grace!”
She snaps immediately to attention, and instinctively, Crow follows, smoothing out his own expression.
“Now, now, Karina,” says Duke Cayenne congenially. “No need to be so on edge today. The whole host of our security is here, and we have important players in attendance who can be trusted to intervene in the event of an incident.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
Duke Cayenne’s gaze shifts and settles on Crow. “I’m afraid your presence is needed, Siegfried,” he says.
Crow would recognize that tone anywhere. Wrapped nice and pretty underneath the easygoing affability is the expectation that he’ll obey, listen to his betters, and follow like a dog. It sets his teeth on edge.
But he bends at the hip, tucks his hand gracefully against his chest with a playful flourish.
“Of course, Your Grace,” he says.
Duke Cayenne gives him a pleased look, and then Crow’s following him at his heels. There’s a shift in the perimeter, other guards moving along the edges of the room to keep the duke and anyone around him well in sight in case they need to intervene.
So. They must be meeting the bigshot that Cayenne’s been preparing for.
And if the latest person to enter is any indication—
“Ah, wonderful that you could make it, Rean,” says Cayenne, voice only a few tones off from feeling outright obsequious.
Rean Schwarzer turns with a flutter of his coat. He offers a courteous smile. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace. I apologize for my late arrival—there were a lot of pressing matters that needed my attention.”
For a moment, his gaze passes over Crow, eyes widening for a fraction of a second, before his expression settles back into polite neutrality.
“Haha! Dear boy, we have no need for apologies here. We are always grateful for your continued service to Erebonia and the threats you keep contained on behalf of us all. If anything, I would like to propose a toast to your efforts.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
Crow stifles a snort. The waitstaff has already materialized around them to offer glasses of wine, and he sees the way Schwarzer is compelled by his own politeness to take one.
“To bravery,” says the duke. “And to centuries of Ishmelga’s continued containment.”
Docile as a lamb, the much-vaunted Ashen Chevalier echoes, “To bravery and centuries of Ishmelga’s containment.”
Crow spots the way his mouth curves briefly into a self-deprecating smile before it disappears behind the glass as he takes a sip.
Then it’s social niceties, Schwarzer and the duke swapping greetings and asking after family and work. Crow gets the gist after a few minutes of the duke’s unctuous flattery.
It isn’t so much that Cayenne planned this event on a whim as it is that the various noble families take turns hosting these celebrations, trying to curry Schwarzer’s favor. The threat that has tormented the nation for centuries is kept contained by him alone and the unbridled power that flows through his veins. His status is nearly on par with that of the Crown; he stands as their equal, a close friend to all of the royal family, bound to their bloodline by a pact.
It makes sense, then. Vampire nobility loves its share of wealth and excess, but most of all, they favor raw power, the type paid in blood. Even a drop of pure blood from one of the oldest bloodlines is a boon, a blessing of strength.
And judging by the strained smile Schwarzer wears, he’s more than used to this.
It’s getting harder and harder to stay in Cayenne and Schwarzer’s vicinity, playing at being Cayenne’s bodyguard this round. This close, Crow can smell it: the blood that runs through Schwarzer’s veins, something ancient and powerful beyond measure, the type of liquid ambrosia even the most elite of noble vampires can only dream of. His vision’s sharp enough that he can count the threads of Schwarzer’s coat, the strands of his hair, even spot the necklace around his throat, a little pendant on a black cord with a silver charm and an azure gem at its center that glitters prettily under the lights.
It doesn’t help that he’s so hungry that he’s nearly nauseous from it. Schwarzer, with his soft smile and gentle voice, is not helping in the least.
Crow’s thoughts race. Frankly, from the start, his assignment hadn’t made sense. He’s heard staff at the Black Workshop bitch constantly about the lack of personnel. Why had they lent him to a noble family for a farce of a party instead of deploying him on the usual type of mission? And they’d been stingy as hell about his blood allowance, reducing his rations like he hadn’t made it clear he needed more—
Bait then. He’s being used as a chess piece for something or other. With the purposefulness of everything, it’s hard not to think that the Black Workshop’s trying to ignite a conflict here. Trying to antagonize Schwarzer through Cayenne.
The pieces of it click together, but there’s no relief to it. Not when he can’t leave his spot without inviting Cayenne’s ire for departing in front of an important guest—not when all of that will trickle back to the report that reaches the Black Workshop. Crow’s stuck where he is, pinioned like a wingless specimen for dissection, flayed open for display.
He’s seen enough of this country to know that these noble bloodsuckers are always vying for more than what they already have, always embroiled in their power plays. He’s never had the clearance to unravel where the roots of the Black Workshop really go—who’s in charge of the whole shebang—and even now, he isn't sure where to even begin.
If only he could get the hell out of here before Schwarzer’s throat starts to look really enticing.
“—a token of your favor, then, for House Cayenne’s loyalty to you and the Crown,” the duke is saying when Crow finds it in himself to tune back in. “Just as you bestowed your favor upon the Houses Albarea, Rogner, and Hyarms. Surely you do not mean to suggest that House Cayenne has been lacking or remiss in its hospitality.”
If anything, Schwarzer’s smile goes stiffer, frosty. “I don’t mean to suggest such a thing,” he says, his voice light and controlled. “I’m always grateful to the Four Great Houses for the aid they offer in my duties, and I would never wish for that to be unclear.”
He takes a small step back, hand going to his tachi. He unsheathes it slowly with a graceful flourish, then lifts his palm, bringing his blade to it in a kiss of metal against bare flesh. In only the most precise of motions, he nicks himself, coaxing a single drop of blood from his palm, redder than rubies, before the cut seals immediately.
With a spark of mana that turns his lilac eyes crimson, the blood drop crystallizes into a gem, glittering under the chandelier lights.
The crowd around them murmurs, gasps. People crane their heads for a better look at the prize so coveted by many.
And Crow, for his part, presses a hand to his mouth as his fangs unsheathe, feeling the vicious ache in his core as hunger sears through him, beckoned by the fresh scent of Schwarzer’s blood.
“Sorry,” he manages in Cayenne’s general direction. Not that the man will look or care, finally, now that he has what he wants from Schwarzer. Everything else, all the consequences for dereliction of duty and all the bullshit that has him strung up like a butterfly in a web, can come later. “There’s a disturbance out back—gotta get a—good look.”
Then he rips himself away from the scene and retreats, away from the siren call of Schwarzer’s blood and all of its coaxing promises.
It’s easier once he’s away from all the bodies, away from the scents. Crow slumps over the railing of the balcony he’s chosen to hide out on, gasping for breath, hoping the crispness of the cold air will put out the burning sensation that’s taken over him.
He’s tired of the Black Workshop. Tired of not knowing anything. Tired of being a bloodsucker trapped by animalistic urges, lost at even the faintest hint of blood in the air.
It took months to pick up the pieces again, to remember that the last time he ran, they wiped his mind clean again, and he was back to being an obedient puppet. The formulas through which they exert their control aren’t difficult to suss out. It’s a combination of fear and hunger keeping him slave to his instincts, their instructions.
Like hell he’ll go down without a fight.
And as he senses a familiar presence, Crow turns, barely managing to restrain himself from baring his fangs.
“You were the one who was with the duke earlier,” says Schwarzer softly, gently. His eyes are nearly doe-like, the way he’s looking at Crow.
Crow isn’t about to fall for it. Not when he knows the danger that Schwarzer presents—not just for his current situation, but everything to do with the Black Workshop after they sent him here, hunger unchecked, to unwittingly start an incident. Schwarzer may have shaken off all his hanger-ons and slipped away to follow him, but Crow hasn’t attacked someone unprovoked for blood in a long time. He can’t start now.
“Rean Schwarzer, right?” he says, going for nonchalant and irreverent. “You done getting your fill of the duke’s undivided attention? What’re you doing out here in the cold?”
Schwarzer hesitates. “I was worried after you rushed off like that. Your eyes are glowing. You haven’t fed in a long time, have you?”
Jeez, the way this guy sounds so earnest, Crow would nearly think he’s being real about this. But anything that’s too convenient is always a trap. “It’s nothing,” he says, fixing his gaze out into the distance where the Cayenne estate gardens extend outward, lit softly under the glow of the moon. “Been through worse anyway.”
For some reason, that makes Schwarzer press his mouth into a thin line. “That sort of hunger isn’t the type of thing anyone should have to know or go through.”
“A lot of us aren’t of noble blood. Them’s the breaks. We make do where we can, get food from whoever deigns to let us have a sip if it isn’t totally beneath their dignity. Classism 101, kid, you probably know this already.”
For some reason, Schwarzer’s expression only turns sadder. Something about it sends a shock through Crow’s system, the way all that noble air has drained from him since he stepped out onto the balcony. “I’m aware. Despite everything, there are still a lot of wrongs in this country. People of common blood aren’t judged based on their own merits. But that doesn’t mean we can’t try to help where we witness hurt and suffering.”
Crow slants a look at him. “From the way you talked with the ol’ duke earlier, I wouldn’t have pegged you as such an idealist.”
“Haha… You probably shouldn’t make assumptions about people so easily.”
“Like you haven’t made some either, comin’ out here thinking I wanted some charity. You offering or something? After you tried so hard not to get cornered by His Grace into giving a ‘token of your favor’?”
“If I don’t ask,” says Schwarzer, “you would never have the opportunity to say yes.”
“Jeez. Anyone ever tell you you’re a total busybody?”
Schwarzer looks at him for a long moment, something wistful reflecting off his eyes. “A lot of people have. Some more than others.”
Crow lets silence settle over them. His fangs haven’t receded yet, and they won’t at this rate if Schwarzer stays out here with him. But it isn’t so bad now that he has a conversation to keep his attention tethered to instead of focusing on the raw, yawning vastness of his hunger.
Finally, Schwarzer speaks again. “What is your name?”
Siegfried. The name he’s been coached to say all these years.
But instead, another name comes out of his mouth before he has a chance to think about it. “Crow.”
Schwarzer pauses for a long moment. “Crow…?”
Shit, shit, shit. If this gets back to his handler—
“Sorry. Don’t got a last name if you wanna hear one,” says Crow, flashing a sardonic sort of grin to tamp down the spike of panic in his chest. “Long story.”
He can’t make sense of the expression on Schwarzer’s face, the trail of quiet desolation in it. Crow’s not used to dealing with complete bleeding hearts or what it’s like when someone seems to take every single one of his issues personally.
“Crow,” says Schwarzer, his voice a warm caress over the single syllable, and Crow shivers at the sound of it. “If you need to feed, I—”
Crow cuts him off, reaches out a hand that winds up patting him on the head in a move that leaves Schwarzer looking so utterly stricken that Crow has to wonder if he did something wrong. Maybe the guy hates contact, doesn’t want to be touched. Crow yanks his hand back, offers a grin that’s more casual than he feels.
He reaches for something to say, anything, to come off as more collected than he actually feels.
“Save that kind of thing for your special someone,” he says.
Then he pivots, makes a beeline right back into the ballroom. One of the other guys patrolling other areas of the mansion will probably be bored enough to swap patrol spots with him. Anything to get out of this situation.