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Quackity steps into the ballroom and is hit instantaneously by the strong smell of expensive perfumes, strong liquor, exotic tobacco, and money.
He’ll admit, it’s not the usual scene he finds himself walking in on during these missions. A client will give him an assignment and he’ll end up nine times out of ten in a greasy warehouse, a dingy cottage in the woods, on the rare occasion a nice house or a mansion, but never has he seen a vampire nest like this.
Mansion is not the right word to describe his target’s nest. Palace is far more fitting.
Classical music swirls around the room and couples of rich aristocrats sway to the tunes, making idle conversation and chatter, drinking gallons of costly wines at a time, and Quackity is admittedly out of his element. It’s simple enough to hunt and kill a vampire in a lair that resembles little better than a drunkard’s studio apartment, harder then to track down a bloodsucker in their mansion, but between crowds of exquisitely dressed men and women, all with money enough to pull off a sire’s luxurious lifestyle—that’s not something Quackity is familiar with.
In ten years as a vampire hunter, you’d think he’d have encountered a powerful vampire’s lofty accommodations before.
The room is packed and teeming with activity and nowhere near an easy environment in which to pick the odd one out and easily dispose of a crucifix. He has to play this one smart. He has to mingle with the crowd, act like he belongs, lay low and drink disgustingly expensive alcohol and laugh at gloriously unfunny idle chatter.
So he makes his way into the crowd and begins to survey.
His first two conversations yield nothing. One, a rich woman making heart eyes at him, and her daughter wearing a disgusted expression. The next, a couple with thick, posh English accents that make Quackity want to scoff. Of course accepting an assignment at an estate in the English countryside he’d expected some pretentious manners of speech, but the sheer lengths to which the couple goes to show off their distinguished and obviously purposefully cultivated accents are frankly embarrassing.
It’s not until a third conversation that he gets a clue.
“I’ll have to find a way to give my compliments to our host before long,” he says to a stout older man holding a nearly empty glass of champagne, who returns:
“He’s truly outdone himself. Why, I believe I saw him just moments ago if you’d like to be acquainted.”
Huh. Well that’s easy.
“That would be perfect, actually,” Quackity replies, and the old man laughs heartily.
“Follow me, follow me. I saw where he went.”
And that’s how Quackity finds himself face to face with the most obviously vampiric vampire he’s ever met. The creature doesn’t even bother to try to hide his monstrous attribute, blood red eyes and sharp fangs on proud display.
But of course, it could be easy to disregard those things when considering his… everything else…
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Beautiful voice, first. Charming demeanor second.
“Just to give my thanks to you for organizing such a lovely event,” Quackity feigns sincerity. The vampire looks him up and down and Quackity feels smaller. That’s without mentioning the full head’s height difference between the two of them.
And if the vampire’s height is imposing, his stature is doubly so. He stands tall and proud, arms crossed with undeniable authority.
But that’s not nearly the worst of it. It barely takes a glance for Quackity to be struck by how gorgeous the creature is. He has a strong jaw and fluffy brown hair, and deep eyes that though red as blood swim with confidence. His suit is expertly tailored to the curve of his waist, his broad shoulders and chest, and long legs in perfect straight line pants.
Or, in less professional terms: he’s hot as fuck.
Pardon Quackity for his language.
“You’re very welcome,” the vampire speaks. He studies Quackity. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“I’ve just moved to the area,” Quackity lies, and the vampire nods.
“That explains the accent,” he says, and Quackity musters up a laugh.
“I do stand out a bit, don’t I?”
The vampire smiles, flashing sharp fangs, that though Quackity knew were there, are always startling to see displayed so fearlessly. The vampire seems to know what Quackity’s thinking.
“Not as much as me, I’m afraid,” he says with a breathy laugh. Quackity shrinks.
“I commend you for your bravery, living as you are so openly,” he says, and the vampire raises a brow.
“Well, bravery would imply I have anything to be scared of,” he says. Quackity smiles.
“Which I’m sure you don’t. You seem, in my little experience, to be a strong pillar of this community,” Quackity continues. But the vampire doesn’t seem particularly flattered. His eyes continue to sweep Quackity’s form up and down.
“It’s such a shame that honest men like myself live in fear.” The vampire’s tone takes a dark note. “Though some may not call me particularly honest, now would they?” The vampire’s gaze is intense.
“You’re a good man in my eyes,” Quackity lies. The vampire’s lip doesn’t so much as quirk in response.
“Which is why you’re here, of course,” the vampire growls, and Quackity’s demeanor shifts. His stature becomes defensive almost against his wishes and the vampire smirks. “It’s a shame. You’re certainly the prettiest would-be assassin I’ve had to dispose of.” The vampire approaches and Quackity steps backwards. “I hate to make that beautiful body a stain on my carpets.”
“You don’t know who you’re up against,” Quackity threatens. He unbuttons his suit jacket, giving himself access to his weapons.
“And neither do you,” the vampire returns.”
“Eat your heart out, bloodsucking bastard,” Quackity bites, reaching for the dagger at his waist before being pulled into the vampire’s chest harshly and pressed against his body. The vampire stares down at him, sudden delight swimming in his eyes. Almost entertained.
“Careful, dear,” the vampire leans down to whisper in Quackity’s ear, “you’re surrounded.”
Quackity’s brows furrow. He looks up, eyes scanning the vast ballroom, and his blood goes cold. As if on cue, on by one, pairs of red eyes stationed all around the perimeters of the room rise to meet his own, and he can feel the vampire’s smile from behind him.
“Bodyguards,” he says happily. Quackity sneers. “You can’t touch me.”
Quackity turns back around to look at his target, and the vampire gives him a beautiful, sharp-toothed smile. “You bastard,” Quackity grumbles. The vampire’s smile turns to a smirk.
“Precisely,” he says. He stops a waiter walking past and takes two glasses of red liquid from a tray, holding one out for Quackity who grimaces. “Care for a drink?”
“I don’t drink what you do,” Quackity jabs, and the vampire raises a brow.
“Red wine? Ah, more of a fan of whites. No matter, I have a killer Riesling,” he says.
“I don’t doubt that,” Quackity mumbles. “Just give it to me.”
“Oh my, he does like reds. Well then, you can’t have possibly thought this would be something else, could you?” the vampire says sarcastically, handing over the glass. “Rather prejudiced of you. I’d never bring my vices to such an event. I consider myself a classier sort of monster.”
“Not the word I would use.”
“Then clearly you just don’t know me,” the vampire goes on with a grin. He takes a sip of his wine and Quackity follows, not taking his eyes off of him. “Say hunter, do you have a name?”
Quackity glares. “Not a chance,” he says. The vampire shrugs.
“If I wanted to hurt you I wouldn’t need your name to do so. Humor a poor sinner,” he says. “It’s simple manners, really. You may call me Wilbur if you like.”
Wilbur. Quackity shouldn’t be surprised he has a name like that.
“Quackity,” he returns. Wilbur drinks his wine.
“Rather unique name.”
“Rather worn-out observation.”
“You’ve got some fire to you, hunter,” Wilbur comments. Quackity stares. Because the fucking audacity of the vampire to trap him in a crowded ballroom just to taunt him. How long does he even intend to keep him here?
From where the quartet stands a final eighth note echoes off into the air and the guests give scattered applause across the ballroom as the musicians turn their pages. The vampire’s brow furrows and he takes a step, beckoning Quackity to follow him, which he reluctantly does. They come to the musicians and the vampire leans to whisper something to the pianist, who grins and nods at him.
On a stand by his piano is a thusly untouched classical guitar with a smooth lacquered redwood body. The pianist takes his hands off the keys and picks up the guitar, settling it between his legs facing his string trio, mouthing a word Quackity can’t decipher. Upon four taps of his foot the guitarist begins to pluck out isolated staccato notes in a tune that Quackity almost feels he recognizes.
After a few measures of the same sequence of notes, a violinist joins in, elongating the notes. The cello joins in underneath as the final violin begins to bow out the familiar main melody, and Quackity clocks the tune.
“Piazzolla?” he mumbles to the vampire, now standing back by his side. “Don’t take you for a tango type.”
Wilbur raises his glass to his lips, but takes only a shallow drink. “Libertango is a masterpiece,” the vampire says with a smile. “Anyone with a brain can feel the beauty of the break from classical tango to nuevo.” Wilbur’s Spanish carries a disgustingly obvious European accent which makes Quackity roll his eyes.
“Nunca vuelvas a hablar mi lengua,” he bites. From the corner of his eye, he sees the vampire smile.
“Can you dance, Quackity?”
“Absolutely not,” Quackity returns between his teeth. He feels Wilbur’s fingers brush his own and pulls away as if burned.
“Oh, come on,” Wilbur mutters. “A man who can recognize the art of Piazzolla but resist the urge to dance is a greater monster than I, certainly,” he goes on. Quackity shoots him daggers with his eyes. “Besides,” the vampire continues, “it’s very romantic, don’t you think?”
Quackity turns his head to glare at the vampire who gives him a dazzling smile that Quackity wishes he didn’t think was gorgeous. “I do not.”
The vampire is unaffected by his fiery stare. “One dance,” he offers his hand, “and then you may live to die another day.”
Quackity glances to the grand ballroom doors, which two vampire guards move to stand in front of. He frowns. From behind him; “I’m afraid that’s not exactly a request.”
Quackity turns around. “Fine,” he obliges. “One song.”
Wilbur smiles. Just as Libertango begins to fade out, he takes Quackity’s hand and leads him out to the center of the ballroom, where Quackity begins to feel eyes following his every movement. He curses himself. Lay low, he says: one of the pillars of a successful mission is not to draw attention to yourself, yet here he is being stared down by legions of affluent aristocrats with the host of their gala.
Because that’s what stealth means, Quackity grumbles to himself internally, taking the hand of the richest, most attractive person in the room can’t possibly draw attention to yourself.
When Wilbur turns to shoot the guitarist a smile and the first notes of the next tango begin, Quackity sighs, and the vampire grins. “You said one song,” he notes.
“That did not mean seven and a half minutes of one.”
But despite his protests, Quackity still allows the vampire to take his position. An arm snakes around him as the vampire’s hand threads into his own, and at the feeling of Wilbur’s fingers tapping rhythmically at his waist, Quackity finally begins to consider the hot water he’s gotten himself into. He swallows, and it seems the vampire sees his sudden change of demeanor.
“Don’t worry yourself, beautiful,” he says, “just let me lead.” Wilbur gives Quackity a breathtaking grin and the shorter feels the room get warmer.
Despite the dichotomy to the music, Wilbur begins in waltz steps, and smiles knowingly at Quackity’s deadpan expression. He knows it doesn’t match, but somehow Wilbur makes it work. He moves like nectar, slow and deliberate.
“I know it wouldn’t have been your choice,” he whispers into the electric air between them, “but I do so love this piece.”
“Is that so?” Quackity asks, though he doesn’t really care for the answer. As Wilbur continues to pull him around in a waltz, he tries his best to match the taller’s steps, but finds himself out of practice.
“Oh yes. I listen to the slow build up of the cellos into dark, dissonant chords. It’s like a story to me,” he says. His fingers grip the curve of Quackity’s waist tighter and Quackity bites his tongue. “The romance of a violent lover,” he goes on. Quackity rolls his eyes. “Long fermatas note our protagonist first laying eyes on the object of his affections. Watching them from across the room. Their every snakelike move enchanting.”
Quackity doesn’t say a word as he listens to the long notes drag out into the air and hang like a fog. He doesn’t mean to picture Wilbur’s scene in his mind as he follows the vampire’s movements, but he does.
“And then he’s joined by the violin. Short, staccato, and like the war inside his mind. The violent desperation of his want yearning to break free.”
And just as he says, the violinist joins the melody and Quackity presses his lips together.
“And our protagonist isn’t in love, no, no, he lost that ability long ago. But any miniscule reminder of that wanting feeling sets him alight. That’s how it feels to be alive once more. And so the guitarist runs his fingers down his frets, climbing higher and higher in pitch—” and exactly as Wilbur says, the musicians play, “-until he breaks,” the music cuts, Wilbur stops abruptly and uses the hand around Quackity’s waist to drag their bodies closer together. In the brief moment of silence they stare into each other’s eyes and Wilbur’s gaze is alight. “And maybe being hunted can feel the same as wanted,” Wilbur whispers, and the violinist picks up the melody, quietly and slowly with care. As does Wilbur with his dance, leading Quackity back into the rhythmic moves, bodies still close, and Quackity’s heart beginning to beat in time with the steps.
Wilbur starts to hum along to the music and doesn’t say anything else, leaving Quackity drowning in his words and fighting flush crawling his face. And then the vampire begins to sing.
“Todo lo que quieras,” he mumbles, and Quackity raises a brow. None of Piazzolla’s works have lyrics. Wilbur’s pulling this out of nowhere. “Aquí delante de ti, si tan solo te acercaras.” Quackity doesn’t know what he expected of Wilbur’s singing voice, but it wasn’t this. He’s more akin to a siren than a vampire the way Quackity sees it. And several hundred years have certainly given the vampire time enough to perfect his Spanish. Quackity’s cheeks heat and he feels like melting.
“Then my favorite part comes,” Wilbur goes on quietly, “as the violin swells,” the vampire speaks with a beautifully threatening lilt on his tongue, “and with it haunting discontent. Romantic, but love that is dangerous. Isn’t that beautiful?”
Quackity grimaces. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he musters. Wilbur smiles. The song reaches its climax and the vampire’s hold on Quackity is tighter than ever before. Wilbur spins him around and dips him to the varnished floor as the volume begins to decrease, and a calmer melody takes its place. Wilbur holds him there for a moment.
“And our inamoratos’ eyes meet,” he whispers, “and desire takes hold of our violent, lonely lover.” Wilbur lifts Quackity back up, eyes locked together, not letting him go even as the music dissipates. “And he’s doomed to cling to this fantasy affair until they meet again.”
Quackity prides himself in his career on never cracking under any circumstance. But when his target leans down and presses a featherlight kiss to his cheek, his winning streak may be over. He already knows he’s leaving this mansion tonight without a kill, but he’d at the very least expected his dignity to follow him out those ornate doors.
“You’re free to go,” the vampire whispers into his ear. “And I do hope that the next time I see you, your intentions for me will have changed.”
Quackity breathes deeply and says nothing, which seems to communicate his inner turmoil to Wilbur far better than speaking it into reality ever could have. The vampire smirks and finally, finally lets him go.
“Good night, my dear.”
Quackity doesn’t get a word in before Wilbur is turning and walking away, melting back into the crowd of elites. Just another one of the masses yet again, and still, so much more.
Quackity lets out a heavy breath and leaves out the now unguarded doors with a buzzing feeling through his veins.
And something about the sudden goodbye and the vampire’s knowing smirk presses imprints of Wilbur’s voice into Quackity’s mind. Something that sounds like eat your heart out, loverboy.