Blood from the bloodful, blood for the bloodless

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she perished before she arrived at the clinic," doctor Desmond said as he pocked the dirt under his nails with the decorative dagger I kept on my desk.

I couldn't look at him now so I turned to the window, at the blazing sun raining on the hills. Such a beautiful spring this would've been...

"What about the parents?" I asked. "And the police?"

"The parents are not an issue. They're simple folk — quite dense, these ones. They will believe anything I tell them and even if they don't, they have a great litter left. The mom's about to pop out another. And I wouldn't worry about them going to the authorities. Their kind would first visit the church, than the police. And speaking of the latter, I made sure they had no interest in this."

"Good."

"But sir, it's worth to note that I portray the situation in an easier manner than it happened. I'd rather not bother you with the difficulty of this ordeal. Although, it kept me so preocuppied that I didn't have the time to harvest anything the past few days. I'm afraid I'll miss the weekly quota. Under normal circumstances I would've harvested from her, but she's been sucked dry." He let out a chuckle.

So he couldn't harvest anything the past few days, despite this happening last night. If he wouldn't be the only solution to my problems and demands, I would've slapped him. Regardless, I pushed the anger away.

We've been having this conversation in the study. Of course it was the study — that's the place where I receive bad news. I finally turned to face him. His greaseness lounged in the armchair across my desk. And God, did I dislike laying my eyes on him — all the patches and scars that marred his skin. Wars were going on and the closest battlefield was in the room with me, staring back.

Doctor Desmond permanently held an expectant look. I have no doubt he came out his mother with the same expression — big bleary eyes that asked for anything, for everything, but mainly money. I fetched a bundle from a drawer and set it in front of him. I’ve seen an animalistic urge to sniff it rise in him, but he stopped himself.

"For your trouble," I said. "And make sure you burn the body. You may come with an excuse as you see fit."

Like a trained hound that's just been given order, he lunged at the money, shuffled it and shoved it in his vest pocket as if it'd dissappear if he wasn’t fast enough.

"You may leave now," I added. "I must figure out how to arrange compensation for her family."

"I can do that for you, sir," he added hastily.

"No need. You've helped enough. After all, it's my kin that caused this. There are some matters I must attend to on my own." What I omitted was that I wanted only the family to be compensated, not the doctor's pocket.

I walked him to the door but before I could bid him farewell a knock came. On the other side stood my butler with a chair in hand and my son in tow.

"Well then, doctor. It seems the matters have shown up. I wish you a pleasant day."

Desmond looked at Christian and reached to pat his head. The kid leaned back, yet not enough. "Don't worry, little one. Accidents happen. It's up to adults to fix them. No matter the cost." He laughed as he clapped the vest's pockets with both hands.

"It's up to adults to make sure accidents happen only ONCE," I corrected.

The doctor grimaced as if I just strangled his golden goose. He tipped his hat to us all and sulked down the hall.

I plucked the chair out of Vincent's hands and handed him two bundles of cash with instructions to deliver it to the church. Thanks to the doctor I had a solution for delivering the money in a incospicuous way. After all, the congregation is quite charitable in cases like these. No one would suspect it.

Once the butler departed I set the chair in the middle of the room. It's blood patched coloring and burnt spots brought back memories I long wanted forgotten. The top of the backrest saw the brunt of the scars, the wood charred, cut and chewed throughout. 

"Sit, Christian," I said. "Not that way. In this chair you sit with your chest leaning on the wood."

He did as told, without not even one word about the disheveled lumber. When I was his age I thought that rats had their way with it, and told my father so. I soon found out, as Christian shall, that it wasn't the rats at all.

The boy was as silent as I’ve ever seen him, but his hands fidgeted, grasping at anything to fill his palm, eyes darted around the room, from the portrait on his right, to the window, from window to the desk, from the desk to the dagger. I picked the dagger up and pointed the soiled tip back to the portrait. Christian's great grandfather was in the painting, proud and tall and clad in royal attire.

"It all started with him," I said.

As if my acknowledgment popped the bubble of emotion in Christian's heart, his eyes watered and his voice wavered as he said "I'm so sorry, daddy. I know it was my fault, but I couldn't stop. I- I tried to, but I just couldn't stop..."

I put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "It's okay, son. The same happened to me when I was first struck by the urge. What's important is that we manage it and never let it happen again." There was no point in shielding him from the truth anymore. I hoped he could’ve lived a normal life, away from our family secrets and history, but it just wasn’t meant to be. I had to tell him the things he ought to have known. 

"It all started with him,” I continued. ”Your great grandfather became one of the most powerful men throughout his life. And he found the same life too short to make real change or to savour it all. In his folly, he struck a deal with beings men should only fear. And at great cost, he gained eternal life."

I wiped the dagger on my trousers then ran the blade over the length of my palm. Blood gushed out, hot, boiling and as I squeezed it on the gnawed chair, it sizzled until the smell of burning wood smoked the air.

"Our blood is potent, powerful, poisonous. It scars us from the inside, like magma in a vulcano, it eventually erupts if left on its own. It’s not a pretty death, but it might be the death we deserve. And to avoid such death or any death, for that matter, we seek another's — it's the only way for us to stay alive. Your brother had more luck than you. He was born with your mother's blood so the curse left him unmolested. I hoped it'd be the same for you, alas, your fate was written in different ink."

I crouched in front of him. His face was wet with tears, snot clung to his upper lip. "You realize what you did was wrong?"

He nodded.

"Although our power is great, bringing her back is reserved for a higher power. What's still in our power is to repent. Do you wish to repent, son?"

The words came out hiccuped and heavy: "Please... I'll do anything."

"I'm glad," I said, and I felt it, furthermore I was proud. Maybe there was hope for our bloodline yet. Still, his words made what was to come harder to bear.

I walked to the portrait and turned it aside on hidden hinges and out of the safe I pulled out a barbed whip which had Christian flinch at its sight. Despite that, he remained braver than I was at his age. Instead of pleading and begging he only hardened his grip on the chair.

It always starts with a chant. "Blood from the bloodful, blood for the bloodless."

There were no screams. Only tears, fangs pierced on wood and fresh paint on an old chair.