Seduction After Dark | Lysander & - [Open Para]
The measure of how long he’d been walking, or how deep into the Forbidden forest he now was, was unknown to him. The intimidating aura the dark woods seemed to exude to certain students was completely lost on him, though it was hard to blame him for his overconfidence judging by the way the very trees seemed to shy away from his path. Lips stained a raw red from a recent feed, contrasting almost garishly against the porcelain skin and the glacier blue eyes, and knuckles bruised from knocking into a withering ribcage, the boy must have appeared the polar opposite of approachable to the forest and its creatures. Still, he gave no notice to the acromantula which scurried behind trees and bushes, or the sound of hooves growing fainter; his eyes were focused on the path ahead. He’d be waiting, and while the vampire tended to derive immature pleasure from making the dark lord wait, Lysander had no patience to hear the lecture which was sure to come after. There were moments when high pay was the only thing keeping the rogue from lunging forward and ripping the Romanian noble’s throat out. Maddocks would be proud to know how much self restraint he’s built up since their last meeting, he mused absently. At the thought of the blonde, that scarlet-tinged mouth twisted with disdain. He wondered what was worse, not having her, or thinking about her, desiring her in the first place. The girl who both made the hairs at the nape of his neck stand at attention, and caused that exhilaration to turn into acid almost instantly afterward. In a drugged manner, his view consisting of damp tree roots and webs the size of sails seemed obscured by the imagination of the heart-shaped face, cupid’s bow pout and powder blue eyes. Abruptly halting in his steps, he reached up to rub his temples, willing himself to eradicate any thought of the woman from his mind.
The kiss of his eyelashes fluttering close against his skin felt as soft as the fingertips which used to trace his cheekbones, and he felt the edges of that strawberry sweet mouth pressed against his so vividly that they shot open almost as soon as they’d shut. Vicious irritation laced his mood, which had been previously pleasant with elation from sating his bloodlust. Since he’d come to live at this wretched castle, kills had been few and far between. After all, he knew how important covertness was to this job, so beyond the occasional villager he tore up against the walls of alleys, and the even rarer specimen Atanas would permit him to entice and execute, he refrained from harming anyone. The alabaster skinned male forced himself to continue walking, resisting the urge to hum along drinking songs with the wind as it brushed up against his arms. He wondered if it was a cold night; his own skin was subzero in temperature, in almost aching incongruity with the white-hot rush of blood streaming through his veins. The result was feeling neutral, almost as though lukewarm was the only degree celsius his nerves could detect. Even the warmth of another body was a foreign concept to him. He felt other things, shocks of feelings he couldn’t seem to put a name or face to, but could attempt understanding. Even then, he remained colder than those around him, unable to fathom loathing as fiercely as his enemies loathed, or loving as passionately as his friends loved. Human emotions, he supposed, though the very thought of feeling fully-fledged mortal feelings was absurd.
The sensation of swamp-water wrapping itself around his ankles like two murky fists crept on his nerves almost without warning as he stepped past the legs of the last tree. The forest floor had previously been covered in thick tree roots, solid as bones and grave like a wooden cemetery. Now it had extended into a marsh; shallow, ominously obsidian water which wasn’t translucent in any way except for the glowing lights swimming below the surface. Unafraid of anything the forest might throw at him, the fair-haired male trudged through the bog carelessly, not focusing on the groans and wheezing beneath the water and instead on the cloaked figure at the other end of the swamp. Quickening his pace a notch, it didn’t take him much longer to reach the end of the trail, stepping into the clearing where his client awaited him.
Lysander stood only just below two inches taller than the man, though he had broader shoulders and a far more brutish build. The makeshift disguise felt unnecessary this deep in the dark forest, though the vampire knew not to question the deranged noble’s methods from previous experiences with the closet cannibal. Silence hung in the foggy air between the two men, and the faux-student decided to make the first move in breaking it, assuming dominance from the beginning. Reaching up and wiping a coat of vintage red blood off his lower lip with the edge of his thumb, his lips twisted into a grin. “How lovely to see you again after such a long time, dear. You look utterly ravishing. What do you call this look, Niqāb for Necrophilists?”
A bark of humourless laughter tore into the atmosphere, rough and worn with age. “I believe you’ll find it in your luck that you are of use to me, Harvey, else I would have cut you down for that inappropriate quip of yours,” the Lord returned in a gravelly voice, attempting to sound threatening, but as soon as Lysander grinned wider, flashing his offensively sharp canines, he could practically smell the fear off the old coot in waves. A fear that came from mortality, which, while not a feeling he was personally acquainted with for obvious reasons, was one he recurrently utilised in his hunts. “On the subject of my need for you,” the older man continued smoothly, “have you performed what I asked of you?”
Licking his lips swiftly, his stomach twisting with something akin to longing at the taste of rusted metal against his tongue, he dragged his fingers through his hair slowly, pretending to be in deep thought. “Hm, now, what could you be referring to?” He teased, amusement settling in his gut at the sight of the man’s clenched fists, the way his body was tense with acute irritation. “The book perhaps?”
The book in question belonged to neither of them, naturally. It was a simple thieving job, something Lysander would never turn down as theft provided a massive platform for entertainment. Plamen’s object of desire was a basic, moleskine A4 notebook, battered with use and burnt at the edges, belonging to a housemate of his, one could say. Amycus Blakely, closet genius. Of course, he doubted the tall Ravenclaw’s tragically blind friends would take notice of his strangeness, but Lysander caught it straight away as though it had been streaked on his forehead in bright letters. After careful and clandestine observation, the reprobate male deduced Blakely’s darker hobbies, taking a particular interest in his affinity with dark magic and potioneering. The boy spent his time concocting all sorts of evil brews, and took the extra measure of recording all his creations into one book. The ramblings of a mad scientist, Lysander should like to call it. Still, the immortality-obsessed malefactor who’d commissioned him seemed inordinately interested in this silly little notebook and had asked him to acquire it.
“Yes, the book,” Plamen snapped impatiently. “Were you successful?”
“Of course,” Lysander responded smugly, without hesitation. “Walk in the park, as it were.”
Though Plamen’s face was obscured by the charcoal hood he’d pulled over it, he could imagine the ecstatic look on his face rather clearly since he’d been given the pleasure of witnessing it on many an occasion. Mostly those which involved a severed limb or two being offered up to him on a platter, garnished like any legal meat. “Well,” his client began breathlessly, “Where is it then?”
“Oh. Decided to keep it,” Lysander deadpanned with a shrug, keeping his voice low though the other man was sure to destroy the inconspicuousness of their rendezvous in a minute.
Unsurprisingly, a bearish bellow shattered the quiet conversation and seemed to shake the trees and cause the ground to rumble beneath his feet. “What do you mean you decided to keep it?! I asked for it, did I not?!”
“How terribly sweet,” Lysander drawled, unimpressed. “Your feelings are hurt. Collateral damage, I suppose. - However, no, it’s useful, so I’m going to keep it.”
The other man’s mouth fell agape, white teeth visible even while the face was concealed with dark cloth, lit by the moon. The vampire fought to keep his expression neutral, resisting the urge to laugh at the dramatic reaction. “You work for me,” Plamen hissed, on his last nerve.
“I work for myself, you commission me.” The statement was blunt and laced with acerbic acid. “Did being groomed to take over a psychotic guild deny you from an education, sweetheart?” He enquired cruelly. “This entire conversation feels rather tedious. Besides, you-”
Words cut off abruptly like a snapped cord at the sound of footsteps approaching some considerable distance away. The footfall was unlike the previous sound of hooves and acromantula, but the basic left-right rhythm of a human being. Casting a glance over his shoulder he sought relief in the fact the person, whoever it was, was not yet visible. Snapping his gaze to Plamen once more, he cautioned carefully, “You ought to be leaving now, don’t you think?”
The angered leader looked like he desperately wished to stay, but knew he could not. With heated determination, whispered, “We will talk about this later.”
“It’s been decided, don’t be childish,” Lysander managed to cut in, earning one last scathing look from his (former, he supposed) customer before the older man retreated into the shadows.
Exhaling with closure, Lysander turned to face their would-be intruder, barely seeing the silhouette over the dense mist, at the other end of the bog. Walking to the edge where land met water, he called out smoothly, “Who goes there?”
