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Saint Mischa’s Academy is the most prestigious school for dhampirs in the world. It trains its students to think critically, negotiate brilliantly, and fight excellently. It demands the best of its students and, in return, often secures them good placements with vampires of noble or royal blood who will pay very well for a skilled bodyguard. The standards are high, the expectations higher, and the consequences for failure the highest.
Naturally, therefore, a fight is not out of the ordinary.
What is out of the ordinary is a fight that takes place outside of the fighting ring and draws blood. Lots and lots of blood.
So of course Hannibal decides to turn his stove to low, wash his hands, and go investigate.
As a founding master, he has some of the best living quarters on campus. The windows have excellent views overlooking the grounds, he has plenty of rooms to indulge in many of the varied interests he has cultivated over the centuries, and most importantly, the soundproofing is top notch. Which is to say that the second he steps out of his room, the sound level increases dramatically – jeers, insults, protests.
Not just a fight, then. A full on no holds barred attack.
Hannibal follows his nose and his ears to the chaos. His quarters are in a rather isolated area, so that he isn’t badgered day and night by nosy students, which unfortunately does mean that he is quite far from the fight, but he is also a vampire; speed is no object to one with enhanced reflexes.
Perhaps this is why he arrives before any of the teachers, or perhaps some of them are turning a blind eye to the bloodshed.
Either way, Hannibal is greeted by a strange sight when he does arrive. There are two students tussling, as expected. They are surrounded by a throng of jeering students, which is also expected. There is blood and bruises and ripped clothes, the travesty that results from brawls when the blood gets too hot.
But it is also a fight that seems to have mostly ended, for one student is sitting atop another and brutally punching him in the face. And most importantly – the throng does not seem to be in favor of the winner, for they are still hissing and spitting insults.
Strange. In Hannibal’s experience, most students will side with the winner. Vampires – and by extension, their dhampir offspring – naturally defer to the strongest. It makes Hannibal almost curious enough to not interfere and see what the winner does once he has finished beating his opponent halfway to death.
Almost.
Saint Mischa’s Academy, after all, has a pristine reputation for no deaths among its student body.
So Hannibal clears his throat and starts walking forward. The students immediately fall silent and melt away, for even those who have never met him or do not know his name know enough, at least, to back away from the real predator in the room. Even the students at the center of the fight hesitate as he draws near.
Or, rather, one of them does.
The other continues to ruthlessly let his fists fly, face twisted in an angry snarl, eyes so focused on his opponent that he doesn’t notice Hannibal until Hannibal catches his arm and prevents him from unleashing another barrage.
That makes the student wheel on him. He has beautiful reflexes, even if he has poor manners. Hannibal cannot fault how fast he flips off his opponent and bears his teeth at Hannibal. Nor can he fault the way the student holds his ground, even as Hannibal can see the realization of who he has attacked fill his face.
Courage, strength, and stubbornness. Very interesting, indeed.
“Now, then,” Hannibal says calmly into the hushed silence, “what’s this all about?”
“Graham just went crazy and attacked me,” blubbers the other student. He cups his nose with one hand as he inches away from Graham with the other. “He’s insane, sir, he’s halfway to feral!”
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Feral? That’s a heavy accusation indeed.”
After all, if a vampire goes feral, they are, by definition, lost to the bloodlust and beyond saving, willing to attack even kith and kin, unable or unwilling to stop themselves. Feral dhampir are less common, but they’re no less lost, and are cut down with the same unyielding determination. That being said, one can fall into bloodlust and yet come out again; it’s why there is a lot of evaluation and discussion before one is declared feral and a bounty is placed on their heads.
“Haven’t you heard?” the student demands. “He was already mad when he got here; almost killed his nurse. He’s dangerous, sir.”
Hannibal looks at Graham. Graham still smells of rage and blood, and he is still vibrating with the urge to tear his opponent apart – but he isn’t fighting Hannibal’s grip. There is no clawing, no biting, no pulling. He isn’t attacking Hannibal mindlessly as an obstacle to continue the fight. All he’s doing is glaring with all of his heart and soul.
Also: “The semester is almost halfway done,” Hannibal comments mildly. “If he had been halfway to feral status when he arrived, I imagine he wouldn’t have waited until now to beat you, Mister . . . ?”
“Chilton, sir. And he’s challenged me before!”
“Challenges are part of the academy. If you cannot defend yourself, then you cannot defend those you might swear to protect.”
“Yes, sir,” Chilton says begrudgingly. “But he still almost beat my head in! That’s beyond what’s allowed!”
“He did,” Hannibal acknowledges. He looks at Graham. “Would you care to explain why you had an unsanctioned fight in an area that is not part of the training grounds?”
Graham works his jaw, but he says nothing.
Hannibal tightens his grip. Not his full strength, to be sure, but beyond what any human or dhampir could muster, just enough to demonstrate that he is not to be disobeyed. If intimidation is not enough to make a dhampir yield, pain is usually a sufficient follow up.
That earns him his own glare. And what a beautiful glare it is – Hannibal almost wants to bask in the heat of that fiery rage.
“What he said,” Graham says, and his voice is low and raw, as if he has been screaming. “Lost my mind. Attacked out of nowhere. Just what happens when you admit an outsider, isn’t it?”
The words are clearly targeted at Chilton, who smirks before he remembers he is meant to be in pain. They are also quite clearly a lie – Hannibal can tell as much without even needing to rely on his enhanced senses. It’s like Graham already expects that Chilton’s word will be believed over his, no matter what he says, and so he has chosen to roll over now instead of continuing to fight and potentially irritating the person who decides his punishment.
It is, to say the least, a very interesting reaction, given that five minutes ago he was willing to jump on Hannibal himself so that he could continue beating Chilton’s face to a pulp.
“And what, pray tell, caused you to lose your mind?” Hannibal asks.
“Didn’t you hear? I’m insane,” Graham says, and gives him a brittle smile. But it is not brittle as in weak and delicate china; no, this is the brittle smile of one who has been smashed and yet has glued themselves together and is willing to slice others to bits with the sharp edges.
“You seem fairly sane to me.” Hannibal looks to Chilton, who is still sniffling and trying to stem the blood from his nose. “Well, I suppose if neither one of you is willing to tell the truth, then the only option available to me is to punish you both. After all, you both did disturb the very nice afternoon I was having.”
Chilton protests; Graham does not. Hannibal gestures to the guards – who have, at last, finally decided to make themselves known – and two escort each student down to the cells in the basement.
There is a reason, after all, that Saint Mischa’s has a pristine reputation.
As they are escorted away, Hannibal clears his throat. “Let this be a reminder to you all,” he announces, “that while challenges are permitted, they must be delivered correctly and carried out properly. Those who resort to backhanded treachery and those who do not control their temper will both be equally punished. We are not raising rabble here; we are raising warriors. I expect that none will need such a reminder again.”
“Yes, sir,” the students chorus obediently.
“Excellent. You’re dismissed.”
No one is eager to stick around after that. There are classrooms nearby, but everyone chooses to disperse into the farthest corridors. It isn’t exactly what Hannibal wants to see – the students of Saint Mischa should be willing to go face to face with anything that frightens them – but if they wish to subject themselves to more exercise simply so they do not have to walk near Hannibal, then so be it.
Just as the last students are filing away, someone starts clapping. Hannibal smiles.
“That was quite a show, Hannibal,” Headmistress Bloom says, stepping into the courtyard. “And here I thought your time giving students guidance was long past.”
“Dear Alana,” Hannibal says, kissing her hand in greeting. “In truth, it is past, but one should not resist taking an opportunity provided so neatly. There are some lessons that our students should know in their very bones.”
“They’ll remember this one, for sure,” she laughs. “The founder himself descending to deliver a reprimand and punishment!”
“Following your example, of course,” Hannibal demurs. “You’re a much more capable administrator than I could ever be.”
“Well, yes,” Alana says with a wink. “That’s why you made me headmistress. Beer?”
Hannibal is a vampire, and therefore can only derive actual nutrition and strength from blood. But he still can ingest human food and beverages, can still roll their rich flavors around his palate, can still take pleasure in the excellent quality and judge the poor quality, so there is no reason to turn down Alana’s invitation.
Plus she does have excellent taste in beer.
Hannibal offers her his arm, as a true gentleman should. “Lead the way, my dear Alana.”
“So,” Alana says, handing Hannibal a beer and settling down with her own, “you have met Frederick Chilton and Will Graham.”
Hannibal makes a carefully neutral noise. Alana has been trying to get him to mentor a student for the last fifty years, and after all this time, she no longer bothers with subtlety. He understands why, of course; most the teachers at the school do take at least one student under their wing to guide personally, for such a student becomes a very attractive candidate for contracts after graduation. And given that each contract includes a modest cut for Saint Mischa’s as part of the benefits, it’s not an opportunity easily cast aside.
“Don’t be like that,” Alana scolds. “It’s only natural for me to ask about your opinions on our students. Even if you won’t mentor them, your instincts are second to none.”
“Well, in that case,” Hannibal says, “I think a lot of work would have to go into Chilton. And even then, he might not be suitable.”
“Yes, that’s in line with what his teachers are saying.” Alana tilts her head. A sly light enters her eyes, although she tries to cover it by sipping at her beer. “And what about Will Graham?”
The downside, Hannibal reflects, of having trained an excellent student who can read their teacher very well and carry out their wishes is that then said excellent student knows how to read their teacher very well. Alana mostly finds his interests either vaguely interesting (his mastering of the theremin) or acutely bizarre (his determination to cook and bake), but never let it be said that she is unable to guess when he is interested.
He sighs. “From the way you phrase the question, I think you already know.”
“Well, I could be wrong. After all, sometimes the brightest stars can turn out to be disappointments.”
“So he is bright then?”
“His aptitude tests were off the charts,” she confirms. “Oh, there was some common knowledge he was missing – it’s to be expected when one isn’t raised in our world – but his ability to problem solve was second to none. And he’s Gifted.”
“Saint Mischa’s does not play favorites for those with Gifts.”
“Of course not. But,” she says coyly, “they do allow for special training to assist with mastery of said Gift.”
“You have hired many excellent mentors and teachers here, Alana. None are able to assist him?”
Alana sighs. “To be honest? I don’t think any of them would be able to help him.”
“To be Gifted is hardly unique – ”
“But to be Gifted and grow up in ignorance of our world is a combustible combination,” she interrupts. Setting down her beer, she stands and makes her way to the wall of bookshelves behind her desk. A thousand file folders live there, containing the records of each student under the care of Saint Mischa’s, and Alana runs her finger over the edge of the shelf before she selects one and returns. “Will Graham’s file. You’ll understand after the first page.”
A picture is clipped to the front of the file; its standard procedure. Hannibal can see Will’s blue eyes, his soft curls, the sharp edge to his jaw, yet the picture is but a pale imitation of what Hannibal in the courtyard.
He takes the file.
Speed and strength are not the only things enhanced for a vampire. Reading and comprehension abilities are significantly increased, so Hannibal is able to devour Will’s entire file in under a minute. And, well, Hannibal is gracious enough to know when he’s beaten.
“Well, well,” he murmurs, tracing the curve of one curl in the picture. “It appears I will be taking a mentee this year, Headmistress.”
Alana smiles and drinks triumphantly from her beer.
The punishment cells in the basement were built to contain everything from untrained newly inducted dhampirs to full strength and fully feral vampires, so consequently they are oppressive, fortified, and rather dark. Hannibal does not need light to see, but he does feel a flicker of regret for his decision to have the torches placed at far intervals.
Not for the sake of those in the cells – few things can convey the seriousness of a punishment more than darkness – but Hannibal does wish he had a little more light to get a better look at Will.
Currently, Will is curled up on the stone slab that serves as a bed, knees pulled close to his chest and hands serving as a makeshift pillow. His chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm, and with his eyes closed and his limbs still, he looks as angelic and harmless as a sleeping child.
Of course, appearances in Saint Mischa’s are often deceiving.
Hannibal steps into the cell, the doors parting instantly to give him access, and Will sits bolt upright, scrambling for a weapon he doesn’t have.
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, so that Will can focus on him.
Will squints. “It has not been a full punishment cycle yet,” he says suspiciously. “Why the hell are you here?”
“I still wish to know why you attacked a fellow student. I had hoped that, now that you have had time to yourself, you would be willing to explain.”
“Yeah, you’re wasting your time.”
“Only if I leave without an answer.”
Will makes a sweeping gesture towards the door. The mocking smile on his face makes it clear what his opinion is, even if he’s a little off about where exactly the door is, given the pitch black darkness. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out, then,” he drawls, moving to lie back down with his back to Hannibal.
Hannibal sighs. He had hoped Will would be reasonable, but then again, he has read Will’s file. He is not at all surprised that Will skipped reasonable and landed on defiant.
That doesn’t mean he has to leave without answers.
Fast as the blink of a human eye, before Will can fully lie down, Hannibal darts forward and grabs his shoulder. From there, it’s the work of a second to lean down and brush his nose to the warm skin at the back of Will’s neck, which allows him to inhale a delicious lungful of Will’s scent.
Will yelps and flails, but Hannibal’s work is already done; he’s out of range before Will can even fully process what has happened.
In his mind’s eye, he see the confrontation between Chilton and Will: a barrage of sneering insults from one classroom to the next, ranging from the banal what did you to do your hair, style it with a beaver to the truly outrageous no wonder your mother abandoned you; the “accidental” foot placed in Will’s path to make him trip and almost fall; the first punch, aiming for the sternum to knock the air out but clumsily landing on the soft belly.
And, of course, the rage that erupts in Will like a dormant volcano finally awoken, leading him to drop his own books, charge forward, and beat Chilton into submission.
“Did you just sniff me?” Will demands, every syllable dripping with anger, bristling like a feral cat.
“How else was I to procure answers?” Hannibal replies. “Besides, did you not see me coming?”
Will goes cornered rabbit still, as only one with vampire blood in their veins can. Wariness creeps into his scent, layering the beautiful woodsy moss-and-firewood with bitter smoke. “ . . . You spoke to the headmistress.”
“I was her mentor. It’s not uncommon for us to share thoughts.”
“Oh yeah? And did she share the Tattlecrime article?”
Tattlecrime is an online blog of ill repute, even amongst the humans who think it merely fun conspiracy theories and are not aware of the rather more explicit articles that lie beyond the special members club. It is more gossip than truth, more speculation than fact, more gleeful destruction than calm fact. There is not a single vampire of Hannibal’s acquaintance who does not sniff in disdain at the mere mention of Tattlecrime.
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “You think I would read from that?”
A flash of white catches Hannibal’s eye; Will, grinning like a cat who has caught the canary. “I see that you do,” he says.
“And how does the Sight make you feel?”
“How does the Scent make you feel?”
It isn’t that impressive for Will to figure out that Hannibal is Gifted. There’s only one reason for someone to smell another person that deeply, for Hannibal’s vampire nose can tell him everything he needs to from the polite distance away that he stands. Plus, Will’s Gift gives him a distinct advantage in diving Hannibal’s purpose.
And yet Hannibal finds himself charmed all the same. Few would dare to snarl at Hannibal; fewer still would dare to mock him and turn their back on him. And he has never met one who dared to challenge his Gift.
“The Scent makes me feel,” Hannibal says with a smile, “that you require feeding. Come.”
Hannibal presses a hand to the door and pushes. It swings open with a grinding creak, echoing in the dark basement, and Hannibal steps outside and waits patiently for Will to follow.
Will, of course, does not follow.
“I said come, Will,” Hannibal repeats, with a trace of impatience, because even defiance can only be amusing up to a certain point.
Will slides off the stone slab. His fingers twitch at his sides like he wishes he had a weapon. Good instinct, but it’s one he won’t need. Hannibal has no intention of hurting such an intriguing student.
Well. No permanent harm, anyways.
“Why?” Will asks warily.
“Because before I had to come and end your fight, I was cooking dinner. And it would be nice to have someone to help me finish the food. Follow me.”
The wariness does not leave Will. Hannibal is a perfect polite host and offers Will a seat, sets down his plate and utensils, gives him a water and a tea. He serves him a fine if not overly fancy dinner of mushroom and chicken risotto, allowing Will as many helpings as the boy dares to ask for. He even turns a blind eye when Will sneaks a sip of coffee, yet when Hannibal returns bearing dessert, Will goes stiff and wary all over again.
“Is there something wrong with the panna cotta?” Hannibal asks politely, when Will plays with his first bite instead of eating it.
Will hunches his shoulders, as if he expects a blow. “No,” he lies.
“Generally,” Hannibal notes, “most students can find room in their stomachs for dessert even when they’ve eaten more than they should have for dinner. Do you have an aversion to sweets?”
“ . . . No.”
Not a lie, that one. Hannibal sets his spoon down and dabs at his mouth with his napkin, eyeing Will thoughtfully. Will had taken his first few bites of risotto as though he had been expecting poison or some sort of test, but after the taste had hit him, he’d finished his serving in rapid time. Hannibal had expected to see the same sort of slow and then speedy consumption of the dessert as well. How delightful, that even in such a minor thing Will can defy expectations.
“Then?” Hannibal prompts.
Will raises his chin, his scent going sharp and lemony with defiance. He looks about ready to conquer the world, with eyes like that. “There’s blood on the top,” he says.
And how delightful that Will can surprise him. Hannibal blinks. “Yes.”
“Fresh blood.”
“I am aware that you were not raised in our world, but surely the knowledge that vampires – and dhampir by association – require blood for sustenance has not escaped you. That, or I need to have stern words with your teachers.”
“Dhampir do not require blood. We can survive off of human food alone.”
“And a wolf can survive off of bone marrow instead of the meat around the bones, yet that does not mean such a wolf could truly live. Do you have an objection to living?”
“I have an objection to blood harvested from the unwilling.”
It’s not the first time Hannibal’s heard such an argument. There are many, young dhampirs and newly turned vampires alike, who protest at the idea of humans who are bled under the power of glamor, because they get it in their heads that the humans cannot truly consent in this manner and that this is abhorrent and unnatural. Which isn’t wrong – humans cannot give consent when under the power of glamor – but it is not abhorrent or unnatural.
“They are well compensated, in both the monetary sense and in the nutritional sense,” Hannibal says, because the humans utilized to feed the students and staff of Saint Mischa’s are provided an ample salary and ample food. “In the old days, they would have been kept in pens and slaughtered whilst screaming for the enjoyment of those who were hungry. I would like to think we are rather more humane.”
“But they do not know.”
“No, nor will they ever. I am not inclined to face the wrath of the Emperor and Empress for breaking the covenant of silence.”
“And I,” says Will, “am not inclined to further the tradition of harvest. I can survive without it.”
“This conviction of yours will put you at a disadvantage,” Hannibal warns. “You will heal more slowly, require more sleep, and even your reflexes will be dulled.”
Will shrugs. “And yet, I remain at the top of the class. I’ve seen no disadvantage that I cannot overcome.”
It’s a pity, but Hannibal can always eat the panna cotta later. He rise and takes away the plate, ignoring Will’s flinch, although he does note it, for such a thing will be one of the first he trains out of Will. He returns a moment later with a generous slice of pound cake, topped with handmade whipped cream and strawberries.
If anything, that makes Will even warier.
“Go on,” Hannibal says, when it becomes clear Will is not going to take a bite. “There is no blood in it, I promise.”
Will takes the tiniest nibble Hannibal has ever seen, more fit for a mouse than a growing boy. As the taste fills his mouth, he realizes that there is no blood and promptly consumes the rest with flattering enthusiasm, all but licking the plate clean.
Manners, clearly, will need to be something he trains into Will.
“Why did you end my punishment?” Will asks. Apparently the sugar has made him brave, or perhaps Hannibal’s easy yielding to his desire.
“Chilton overstepped his boundaries. While I do not approve of where you chose to challenge him, you were within your right to do so. Therefore, he will serve his time, and you will return to your dormitories.”
“And then?”
“And then,” Hannibal says, “you will report here after class for dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because Headmistress Bloom feels you are in need of a mentor, and I have come to agree with that decision.”
“I don’t need – ”
“Your Gift is powerful, but you lack focus. I would not leave you to flounder on your own.”
That beautiful defiance returns to Will’s face. It makes his eyes blaze as he stares Hannibal down. “I can sail on my own.”
“I can smell that. But an extra pair of eyes never hurt.”
“And if I refuse?”
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. He stands up and picks up his glass, carrying it carefully around the table. A human might mistake the deep red color for a particularly dark wine, but Will knows what it is from the scent alone as Hannibal approaches; he tenses in his chair like he means to bolt when Hannibal sets it down in front of them.
“Then, Will,” Hannibal says, leaning over the chair so that Will cannot flee, “you will need to drink this. After all, I can make an exception for a student I am mentoring. I cannot be so lenient with everyone else.”
Will’s scent takes a nosedive into rage – delicious, delightful, ravenous rage, full of ocean salt and ozone after a lightning strike and bitter hemlock. Hannibal doesn’t need his Gift to know that Will is contemplating slicing his throat open, but he enjoys it anyways, breathing in deep to immerse himself in Will’s scent.
For a moment, he wonders if Will truly will attempt to murder him, and he revels in the uncertainty of not knowing.
Then Will tips his head to the side, just enough to bear his throat. “I don’t like mushrooms, for future reference,” he snaps, and shoves his chair out and stomps out the door.
And Hannibal laughs.
It is a shame to have to cook without blood. Hannibal has long since mastered how best to incorporate it, whether he wants to flaunt its inclusion or hide its flavor beneath others, and he regrets that some of his best dishes – the ones truly elevated by the addition of blood – are ones that he cannot serve Will.
But Hannibal mastered cooking long before he became a vampire and needed blood, and so he goes and dredges up old memories and even older recipes to feed his temperamental student.
Will does indeed have a quick mind and a quicker tongue. When Hannibal hands him an old tome, Will does not protest the added work, but instead devours it and then shows up at the crack of dawn demanding more. Their debates are lively and fiery, thanks to both Will’s acerbic nature and his charming insistence that humans are meant for more than harvesting. And their fights, well . . .
“Again, Will,” Hannibal says.
Will, who is currently laid on the mat where Hannibal tossed him, gives him a glare. “I just landed, you can’t even give me five seconds?” he demands, even as he pushes himself slowly to his feet.
“I am preparing you for true combat, where no one would even give you a second chance, never mind wait,” Hannibal says mildly, and then he darts forward and strikes again.
Will blocks his first blow, but when he dodges the second he leaves his stance wide open, so Hannibal sweeps his legs out. He slows down, out of consideration for Will’s human and therefore more easily bruised legs, but Will still hits the mats hard enough for pain to bloom in his scent.
“Again.”
“I’ll never beat you,” Will says, after the sixth time Hannibal has knocked him down. He lies on the ground, panting, as surly as a wet cat dunked in a tub for a bath, and glares up at Hannibal as though he wants to cheat and yank Hannibal down by the ankle. “I know that and you know that.”
“True, you’ll never beat me in a fair fight,” Hannibal concedes. He holds out a hand. “But first you must learn to fight fair before I can teach you how to fight dirty.”
“Or,” Will says with a sly grin, and when he takes Hannibal’s hand, he uses it as leverage to swing his legs up and kicks Hannibal as hard as he can in the knees. It’s the momentum and the unbalancing more than the raw strength that makes Hannibal’s legs buckle, and honestly he could withstand it – he’s been hit worse – but he allows himself to fall to the mat. Will uses his downfall to pull himself up, neatly swinging himself around so that he gets Hannibal in a headlock. Feisty little thing even pulls out a dagger, just to emphasize his point.
“Clever boy,” Hannibal says, because he can admire Will’s daring even if they both know that in the middle of a fight, a vampire would not be so easily knocked off balance by a single kick. “I assume your father taught you how to hold your own?”
“We got picked on a lot,” Will answers. “Are you satisfied with my fighting ability now?”
“I’m afraid you still have yet to learn an important lesson.”
“And that is – ” Will starts.
Which is when Hannibal breaks the hold and snaps Will’s arm.
The pain takes a moment to register for Will. He actually tries to move with Hannibal, shifting forwards and up, trying to get a good angle with his dagger, before his face goes grey and he falters and his scent goes bitter with pain. Yet even in that state, he still wrestles as Hannibal pries the dagger away, a fighter until the end.
Hannibal leans over him. “The lesson,” he says, “is that you should never hesitate before the killing blow.”
“I didn’t want to kill you,” Will gasps out, clutching at his arm.
“And that is why our training sessions will continue,” Hannibal says simply.
Will has the killing instinct, certainly; he would never have made it this far if he didn’t, and Hannibal can smell the violence in him. But he keeps holding himself back, hesitating before that last moment, pausing over the finish line like he needs permission – and that Hannibal cannot allow. A true graduate of Saint Mischa’s must always be able to get the job done, and without the slightest moment of hesitation.
Hannibal kneels on the mat, taking Will’s broken arm with firm hands and ignoring Will’s angry snarl. “A clean break,” he pronounces, after feeling along the bone. “Shouldn’t take long to heal.”
“For you,” Will bites out. “For me, this’ll take months. I’ll be well behind my class then. Is that what you wanted?”
Hannibal tsks. “There’s no need to be dramatic,” he says. “A bag of blood and you’d be on your feet by morning.”
Will goes stiff. “Absolutely not.”
“Will – ”
“I will not,” Will hisses. He tries to pull away from Hannibal, obstinate even despite the pain. “I’ll learn to fight one-handed, I’ll learn to write left-handed, I can – ”
“And those are all admirable skills, but you do not need to learn them at this junction. Will. Will – Will.”
“What?!”
“Are your morals truly more important than your healing?”
The rage boils over then. Will struggles against Hannibal’s hold like a feral cat, hissing and scratching and even biting. Hannibal bears it all, curling his arms around Will and locking his legs around Will’s until they are as close as lovers, waiting patiently for the pain or exhaustion to make Will stop.
Eventually, Will goes limp, panting with the pain, although his tone is unchanged when he says, “I will never feed on someone unwilling ever again.”
The bouquet of scents that rise off of Will is absolutely intoxicating. Hannibal has seen the photos, both the clinical and cold ones from the police and the lurid and suggestive ones from Tattlecrime, and yet they all pale in comparison to the memories that drift into Hannibal’s mind as he brushes his nose to Will’s neck.
The joy of being alone with his father, out in the ocean with nothing but the waves and the fish and the wind.
The mild concern, transforming into fear as the engine failed to start and the wind picked up.
The desperation, as the storm rolled over them and left them stranded.
The confusion, when his father – weak with hunger and dehydration – told him that his mother was not human, that vampires existed, that both of them could die or one of them could live so long as the other died. The nausea, as his father shoved his wrists in his face and demanded he drink. The aching, burning despair, as the light in his father’s eyes dimmed, as his father’s voice said yes, my son and his father’s mind screamed no, you monster.
The vow, formed by a half-delirious boy mad with grief and rage and hunger.
“My dear Will,” Hannibal sighs. “There is no need to torture yourself so.”
“There’s nothing you can do to change my mind,” Will says defiantly.
He isn’t wrong. Even now that Will has fully come to terms with the fact that his arm is broken, his conviction remains unchanged, cold steel in his scent.
Of course, a human host isn’t the only way a dhampir or vampire can get blood.
Hannibal looks at the dagger he wrested away from Will. It’s a small thing, more of a knife really, probably meant for gutting fish or cutting line. As a last resort, it would certainly work, but it’s certainly not fancy. Something that Hannibal would never pay to own, but also something that Will would likely never agree to give up.
A perfect tool, then.
He takes up the dagger and slices open his forearm. It takes a great deal of strength to pierce vampire skin, but even the dullest blade can harm if used correctly, and Hannibal knows the precise amount of pressure needed.
His blood wells up, ruby red under the lights, and Will’s eyes snap open.
“What the hell?”
“I am not unwilling,” Hannibal tells him calmly. “I am not under a glamor, nor have I been tricked into giving this under false pretenses. You may drink freely without fear, dear Will.”
Will’s tongue darts out as he wets his lips. Vow or no, blood is as appealing to a dhampir as it is to a vampire. Especially an injured one.
“I can’t,” he says weakly. “You – I can’t take from you.”
“Why not? I know what I am offering.”
“You’re the founder of Saint Mischa’s Academy,” Will hisses. “You’re older than half the staff combined, and more powerful than all of them! I’m just a – you can’t possibly let someone like me drink from you!”
“Someone like you,” Hannibal muses, and he strokes his free hand over Will’s curls, luxuriating in the feel. “You are brave, and smart, and strong. You are Gifted, in mind and magic, and you do not back down from a challenge. You might be the greatest student I have ever taught. Why not let someone like you take strength from my veins?”
Will wavers. “But you’ll be weakened.”
“You’ve not got a stomach big enough to drain me,” Hannibal says. “All you need is enough to heal your arm; that much, I can easily spare. Go on, dear one. Taste what it truly means to feed without fear.”
Perhaps it is the hunger that gets Will, as he has not eaten. Or perhaps it is the temptation of being healed and free of pain, for the agony of a broken arm cannot be understated. Or maybe Will desires to make an honest attempt at drinking Hannibal dry.
Either way, he concedes, and bends his face to cut on Hannibal’s arm, and laps at the blood that has welled up there, as gentle as a kitten.
“More, darling, you will need more,” Hannibal says, shifting to allow Will better access.
Will makes a disgruntled noise, but soon his instincts take over. His careful light grip on Hannibal’s arm goes tight and rigid, and he abandons the licking for ardent drinking, his rage and pain forgotten as Hannibal’s blood surges through his system. For a dhampir, human blood is a boost, giving them extra strength, better senses, clearer minds.
Human blood that has passed through a vampire’s veins, however – that is far more potent, for it is laced with the venom that dwells in their bodies. Even a little can be enough to make a dhampir drunk; too much, and their very hearts can stop.
Therefore, Hannibal keeps a careful watch on Will as he drinks, monitoring his heart rate and his arm, and when the former creeps up too high, he clears his throat.
“Enough, Will, your arm is healed,” he says. Will ignores him, of course, too busy sucking blood in desperately, so Hannibal grasps the back of his neck and pulls him away, as a mother cat scruffs their kitten.
He’s met with unhappy growling and glazed, fever-bright eyes. Will’s far too high on venom to properly coordinate his limbs, but he bats at Hannibal to show his displeasure.
“A good night’s sleep is due for you,” Hannibal tells him.
Will makes a soft noise of confusion. It transforms into a startled yelp when Hannibal scoops him up into his arms, bearing his weight easily, but Will settles eventually. He even tucks his nose into Hannibal’s neck, breathing in his scent as though his Gift is the Scent and not the Sight. It makes warmth rise in Hannibal’s undead heart.
In his quarters, Hannibal lays Will to rest in his bedroom. He doesn’t need to sleep, but sometimes he likes to, so there is a comfortable and sizeable bed, with plenty of pillows and blankets for Will to curl himself into.
Hannibal tucks him in, and he has to smile at the disgruntled whines he gets when Will flails, probably looking for the familiar twin bed his dorm room has.
“Hush, now, your pillow is over here,” Hannibal reassures him. He layers another blanket on top of Will after he settles; when the high wears off, Will is likely to feel chilled, and Hannibal would rather that he sleep through the night. “Sleep, dear one. That’s it, sleep.”
Will eventually fades into slumber a few moments later, his breathing evening out and his body relaxing, as beautiful in sleep as he is with a dagger in his hand.
So of course Hannibal fetches a sketchbook. And a glass of bloodwine, to replenish himself.
Will stomps into his kitchen the next morning. He looks absolutely adorable, with hair sticking up on one side and a blanket pulled around his shoulders for warmth and his bare toes curling up on the cold kitchen floor, which detracts significantly form the glare on his face.
“You,” Will accuses, “got me drunk.”
Hannibal hums. “Vampire blood has a more potent effect, yes. I will note, however, that had you been consuming a regular diet of human blood, the effect would have been lessened.”
“How the hell are you this smug at seven in the goddamn morning.”
“Practice,” Hannibal says. “Also, breakfast. Do you have any objection to sausage or eggs?”
“Is there blood in them?”
“But of course. I would not leave you unnourished. Don’t worry,” he says, and shows Will the healing slice in his wrist, “it is my blood, and no one else’s.”
Will gives him a look that expresses his ardent desire to scratch Hannibal’s eyes out. He does take the sausages and eggs, though. He cleans the plate in record time, and even returns for seconds.
The tenth time Will shows up unannounced at the crack of dawn to demand a new book, Hannibal gives him two things: a key, a catalog, and a tour. He would have given it all at the start, but Will is twitchy and dislikes being handed things, so Hannibal waits until he can frame it as being less of a burden on him.
“You’re just . . . giving me a key,” Will says warily, eyeing said key as though it’s a serpent about to bite him.
“Are you planning to let someone into my quarters to kill me?”
“No!”
Hannibal shrugs. “Then why do I need to worry?” he asks, and ushers Will into his library with a hand at his back. “The histories are over here, and further down are the encyclopedias and journals. Over there is the nonfiction collection, sorted by author. And up there is the fiction, sorted by genre.”
Will gapes at the books, his scent as stunned as his expression. Hannibal’s library is indeed enormous, bigger than most, but he suspects Will’s amazement is more at the free rein Hannibal gives and less at the size.
“How – ”
“I ask that you take no more than five books at a time, because you still need to focus on your schoolwork,” Hannibal says. “I also ask that you put things back where you found them, although you can always ask if you’ve forgotten.”
“You have a fireplace,” Will says blankly, as they drift pass one of the many seating areas.
“Sometimes it is nice to sit by a roaring fire with a hot drink,” Hannibal says mildly, and when he sniffs Will, he sees nothing but daydreams of curling up in a comfy sofa by the fire with fuzzy blankets as a cocoon.
So of course he ensures that a very nice comfortable chair arrangement has been made by the fireplace by the next day, complete with an ottoman stuffed to the brim with every assortment of soft and warm blanket that would appeal to Will, a table to hold drinks or food, and a cabinet containing writing supplies for notes.
“You,” Will says, when he catches sight of it, “are so not subtle. Now hand over the next book in this series.”
Will grows ever more comfortable being in Hannibal’s quarters with each day. He joins Hannibal for most dinners and some breakfasts. He does his homework at the table in the main sitting room, brow creased in concentration as he does research and writes papers and scribbles out math equations and. On weekends, he curls up in the library, reading whatever catches his fancy, and Hannibal takes to checking on him late at night after the first few times he falls asleep there.
Not that Hannibal dissuades him, of course. There are few things sweeter, he finds, than carrying a slumbering Will to bed and watching over his dreams.
Alana gives Hannibal a lot of smug looks, but most of the students are too afraid of Hannibal to pick fights with Will now that he is officially under Hannibal’s mentorship, so the number of challenges decreases. And Will, nourished at last by blood, grows faster and stronger and more powerful with each meal.
He grows more beautiful too, but Hannibal keeps his hands to himself.
Will has the Sight, and is well on his way to mastering it. If he wanted to know, he could surely divine Hannibal’s interest in him. As he has not, Hannibal is content to let things stay as they are, with Will eating from his hand and drinking from his wrist and sleeping in his bed. No sense in trapping his beautiful, vicious, courageous little mongoose; far better to woo him, and let him come to Hannibal on his own.
Then comes the day that Hannibal returns to his rooms bloody and filthy and limping. He pushes the door open with a wince and shuffles slowly to the kitchen, where he keeps chilled blood bags for this exact reason, and is about to pour one into a glass when Will drifts in, nose in a book and hands reaching towards the plate of cookies Hannibal left out after lunch.
Then the smell registers, and Will drops the book.
“What the – are you bleeding?” he demands, horror bleeding into his face and making his scent go rancid. “Did someone tear your leg off?!”
“They certainly tried to,” Hannibal says wryly.
Will hurries to his side, grabbing his arm as though he thinks he could support Hannibal’s weight all on his own. Still, Hannibal isn’t one to ignore an opportunity, so he leans some of his weight on Will while using his free hand to take deep pulls of the blood. He lets out a quiet sigh as his leg begins to knit back together.
Then he pets Will’s hair to calm him, because Will is about vibrating out of his skin.
“Peace, dear one,” he says in amusement. “Even I can be challenged, and I must obey.”
“But you’re hurt.”
“Yes, but I also won. All’s well that ends well.”
“I hope you ripped them apart,” Will mutters darkly, helping Hannibal to limp to the sitting room. He then disappears to the linen closet, returning with a bowl of warm water and some towels, and helps Hannibal begin wiping away the dirt and blood. “Who was stupid enough to challenge you anyways?”
“Tobias Budge.”
Will freezes. “He’s one of the old Families.”
“Yes.”
“That means you had to leave him alive.”
“The rules are very clear,” Hannibal says. “We are not so numerous that we can afford to descend into feral savagery and kill everyone who dares to offend us. I left Budge with his life, and he should be grateful for that.”
“You should have torn off his head.”
“Vicious little mongoose,” Hannibal laughs. “I have no desire to start a blood feud. And besides, Budge won’t challenge me again.”
“You don’t know that for sure. As long as he breathes, he’s a threat.”
Will is not technically wrong, of course. Hannibal removed Budge’s leg and arm, but he did not burn them, so they can be reattached, even if they might not work perfectly until some time and a lot of blood has gone by. Budge was properly humiliated by the removal and, since it was a formal challenge, a lot of vampires saw his humiliation, but a grudge can be nurtured for centuries in the dark where vampires are concerned.
Still: “He is a threat that has shown his hand, and so I know to be on guard,” Hannibal tells Will. “I will keep an eye on him, you needn’t fear.”
Will bristles. “I am not afraid,” he says indignantly. “I am angry.”
He smells it too – like burning hot metal from the forge, and the ozone of a lightning strike, and the salty air of an impending storm. Hannibal takes Will’s hand and sniffs at the wrist, and Will is unusually complaint in allowing him to use his Gift. A series of images file into his mind: Hannibal, tearing the head off a faceless vampire; Hannibal, burning the limbs as the mouth screams; Hannibal, draining the blood for a slow, agonizing death by exsanguination.
“You know I cannot,” Hannibal says with a sigh. “Although your imagination does you credit. But vampires from the old Families do not kill each other.”
Will grumbles, but he knows as well as Hannibal that the law is the law. Breaking it is asking for a fate worse than death.
Hannibal twists his leg. After a few careful flexes, he deems it fully healed, and so he turns his attention to his wrist, where Budge’s sharp claws got him. The wound there is still bleeding, albeit less with each passing second, but he sees no reason to let it continue at a snail’s pace where he has the cure on the table next to him.
He reaches for the blood bag – and then stops, because Will has pinned it to the table with his dagger.
“Will,” he reprimands. “This is mahogany.”
“So what? You can afford to replace it.”
And Hannibal absolutely will, but he sees no sense in conceding that. So he switches to a different tack. “I am almost healed. Are you still angry enough to keep me wounded and weak?”
“No,” Will says, glowering, but he puts more weight on the dagger when Hannibal tugs at it.
“Will.”
“No.”
“Will – ”
“No!” he snarls, and pushes until the hilt sinks fully into the table, so that the bag is a complete loss. Hannibal cannot free it without spilling its contents all over the table. “You will not drink anymore of – of that.”
“I am not like you, sweet boy,” Hannibal says. “I need blood. I cannot heal through human food alone.”
“Yes, you do. So take mine.”
Hannibal blinks. He’s smelt Will’s blood before, of course, and he knew from even the slightest whiff that it would be a thousand times more delicious than the sterile chilled blood harvested from their glamored humans, but even though Will has fed many times from him, he has never once indicated he might be interested in returning the favor.
Not that Hannibal minds – he cherishes most of all the times when Will is plaint and drowsy in his lap, suckling absently at the arteries in his neck, safe and calm in his arms – but it’s certainly unexpected.
“What?” Will says. “I have blood. You need blood. It seems rather simple to me.”
“Well, you haven’t quite offered before.” Hannibal smooths a hand down Will’s spine and leans back to regard him with a critical eye. “Why now, Will?”
That lovely snarl comes back out. Will bears his teeth, and they’re sharper now after so much exposure to Hannibal’s blood and venom. “You’re mine,” he says, and it would be petulant on anyone else, “and if you’ll heal through anyone’s blood, it’ll be mine.”
“It will hurt.”
“And breaking my arm didn’t?”
“You yourself will be weakened from it.”
“Like you’d let any harm come to me,” Will scoffs. “I found your sketchbook.”
Which leaves only one more thing. “When two people drink from each other, it causes . . . interesting side effects,” Hannibal says. “Some describe it as an addiction.”
Will leans down, throat pale and beautiful and tempting, and he says, “Good.”
And, well. Hannibal only has so much control.
He tightens his arms around Will, bears his own fangs, and bites right into Will’s neck. Will struggles instinctively, and he is no longer as weak as he was when Hannibal first met him, so Hannibal must truly strain to control him. But he is a vampire – he thrives on the challenge, he lives for the struggle, he enjoys biting with fang and wrestling with his arms until his prey is subdued under his venom and strength.
In the end, Will is a dazed and purring limp pile in his lap, not even flinching when Hannibal withdraws and licks the wounds closed, careful to lap up each and every droplet of Will’s precious, sweet, delicious blood.
“My sweet mongoose,” Hannibal says, reveling in the contentment radiating off of Will. “How gallant of you, to offer your blood.”
“Mine,” Will says, the intent clear even though the syllables are hazy. “Mine, mine, mine.”
“Yes, dear,” Hannibal says, and sweeps his precious beloved off to bed.
A week later, Hannibal awakens to find their bed empty. The sheets are cool and neat when he reaches out, and although they smell of Will, the scent is faint, as though he has left hours ago. As it is the weekend and therefore classes cannot be the reason for Will slipping away, Hannibal frowns.
He presses his nose to the sheet and inhales. Snatches of Will appear in his mind – sleepy Will, cuddling against his chest; fierce Will, biting at his wrist to sate his own hunger; beautiful Will, posed on the bed in naught but his own skin for Hannibal to sketch. He pushes past those past memories and searches for the most recent scent, but all he finds there is determination and quiet confidence.
“Oh, mongoose,” Hannibal sighs. “What have you got yourself into now?”
Then he rises and goes to cook a big breakfast, for when Will is determined, he often skips meals. Waffles, for Will’s sweet tooth; sausages, for protein and salt; and eggs, for fluffiness and creaminess. And of course his own blood, stirred into Will’s drink to nourish him.
Will returns just as Hannibal is plating everything up, and he smells of the cold winter air and, somewhat alarmingly, fire.
“And where did you venture on this fine morning?” Hannibal asks.
Will smirks at him. He unwinds his scarf, kicks off his boots, and drops his coat, leaving a messy trail of clothes on the way to Hannibal.
“Darling, we have discussed the proper place for – ”
“Smell me,” Will interrupts, eyes bright. “You know you want to.”
Hannibal suppresses a sigh, but Will pushes the edge of his shirt down to bare a tempting shoulder, so Hannibal dutifully lays a kiss on his beloved’s skin before he unleashes his Gift upon him.
And, oh, the memories that come: Will, stalking through the dark with silver daggers; Will, gleefully carving at a shrieking vampire begging for mercy; Will, patiently feeding limb by limb, organ by organ, bones and heart and all, to the fire, until all that is left of Tobias Budge is a pile of ash.
Will, the terrible minx, bats his eyes and says, “Do you like my gift to you?”
And Hannibal has been trying to behave. He’s ignored Will’s increasingly terrible pick-up lines, he’s kept a gentlemanly distance when Will comes to bed naked, he’s not laid a hand upon Will when Will wakes hard and wanting and tries to pounce. It is not proper, after all, for a vampire to fully claim a mate without first providing a well thought out and well executed courting gift, and Hannibal has been rather busy, what with healing from Budge’s challenge and fending off Alana’s teasing and threatening.
“You are a terrible person, mongoose,” Hannibal informs him.
“But I’m your terrible person. As you are mine. Aren’t you?”
Hannibal sighs. He sets down the plate. He takes off his apron. “Mongoose,” he says pleasantly, and is gratified when Will goes cornered rabbit still.
“ . . . Yes?”
“If you do not run, I will have you in the kitchen.”
“I mean, you do have a bizarre attachment to your kitchen,” Will muses, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Sometimes I honestly feel a little neglected and second-best to – ”
Hannibal pounces.
The food grows cold, but Hannibal has to throw it out anyways, because the kitchen is an absolute disaster when they are done claiming each other. There’s shattered wood all over the floor, splattered food on the walls, and many of the appliances are cracked or have dents. Hannibal will likely have to replace all of it.
“You,” he tells his grinning mate, “are a menace.”
Will preens. “You love me that way,” he says smugly.
“Of course,” Hannibal agrees, because there is no doubt in his mind. He nips playfully at Will’s neck. “But now I will need to find you actual breakfast.”
“Cuddling first, food later.”
“Yes, mongoose.”
FINIS