CHAPTER 1: PREY TELL

“Are you comfortable, my lord?” she asked with her eyes filled with worry to the brim, “We can stop if you wish.”

The voice interrupted the trance Chris had put himself in listening to the lullaby of the carriage. He knew she meant well since they had been on the road for a couple of days already, but every time she asked this question, it made his skin crawl. He might have been vulnerable, but he did not need the constant reminder.

“No need. I can hear the town in the distance; it should be another ten miles or so,” he responded blankly staring into the woods they passed by, “Do pay attention to your addresses, Abigail.”

He had told her time and time again that Lord Christopher Bahng was no more—he was priest Gabriel Adams as far as the rest of the world was concerned. Thank goodness, her frequent mistake was contained within the moments they were alone, but even after all these years, Abigail seemed to be having a hard time getting accustomed to it.

Or…

He couldn’t blame her for the force of habit, of course. Once a débutante herself, she must have had the proper ways of addressing engraved into her brain. Nevertheless, Chris’ façade was only intact by the stitch of her lips, however loose or tight it might be—one slip of the tongue and it would crumble like paper shoes in the rain.

And he couldn’t afford that.

“Of course, Master. My apologies,” Abigail immediately bowed her head in remorse, “I only wanted to ask since you’re touching your necklace again.”

And that would be his force of habit.

Every time he felt nervous, Chris would unwittingly touch the moonstone pendant, a gift from his late mother and his most valued possession in the world. He found infinite consolation in the lore she used to tell him about the clear, indigo gem. It made him believe in the small possibility that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t destined to die alone. He was still going moonbathing on full moon nights. To cleanse his soul and replenish the delicate pendant’s essence so that it could call out to his fated mate louder just in case it existed.

“My apologies for being stern,” he slightly nodded.

Abigail had been the only constant in his life for the past several years, but even she was going to leave one day. She had to. 

Everybody took their last breath at one point. 

While he was eternally grateful for her loyalty, the vermin called guilt was gnawing at Chris every time he looked at her. He wished he could forget what he had seen, but much to his dismay, it was not among his abilities. Remembering every minute detail in crystal clear images was the curse he had to live with till the end of his days.

She was called Theodora when they first crossed paths. Theodora Lockhart who had barely crossed the threshold of the delicate age of twenty. Even though she denied it, Chris knew in his heart of hearts that she had so much to look forward to back then—so many places to see, so many people to meet, and a whole fulfilling life ahead of her where she got to be loved, something he would never be able to provide. Even though she said she couldn’t be any more content, Chris knew she deserved much better than to be chained to him like this.

But you shouldn’t tempt fate.

One night, instead of going towards Cape Constance like he always did, he decided to go to the quiet riverbank for a stroll, permanently damaging his memory when he saw a beautiful flower about to be picked even though spring wasn’t supposed to arrive for another three months.

Kill threat.

She was terrorized out of her mind, shakily walking backwards towards the river with a dagger in her hand, attempting to intimidate the three men slowly approaching her, and failing miserably.

Kill threat.

But flowers were not supposed to be picked. They were meant to bloom in their beds and be admired only from afar, and anyone who even dared to think otherwise deserved to perish.

Kill threat!!!

He blacked out.

When he came back to his senses, Chris found himself panting over three still bodies dyed crimson all over. The young woman was frozen solid in one corner, naturally way too stunned to move after witnessing lord knows what.

Flower scared.

His mother had tried to warn him about this very instance, that there would come a day when he was no longer going to be able to restrain himself, but Chris had protested it with all his might. He wasn’t like that. He was the one in control of his body, not some goddamn barbaric urge. People lived with all kinds of hereditary maladies. He could be a survivor, too!

But even he had to admit three at once was too compelling of evidence for the dormant monster that inhabited him all along.

Flower scared. Hide.

He could feel his heartbeat everywhere. In his ears, in his throat, on his fingertips, at the soles of his feet… Even in the middle of a violent denial fit, all he could think about was that she was safe and that nothing had happened to her—whereas he had managed to change the course of her life in an entirely different way. There was no coming back from this. He wished he could offer some words of consolation to soothe her, but his blood-soaked state was standing in the way, let alone all the words eluding him. Without a shred of rational thought in his existence, he fled into the night. 

But fate was fate.

One Sunday morning, their eyes met again at the crowded prayer house, and if he physically could, Chris would die an instant death due to that acute onset panic. It wasn’t because there was an open triple homicide case with no leads, but rather because Master Kent was the only person alive privy to the nature of his condition—and by extension also Her Late Ladyship’s—and it simply had to stay that way. 

Priorities. 

Chris knew what humans were capable of doing when faced with ‘the unfamiliar’ — he had lost both parents to it even though his father had no fault in the matter other than falling in love once upon a time.

Curiously enough, even though the young woman seemed to recognize him, her gaze was painted with something much warmer rather than dread. She smiled at him from afar with a slight nod acknowledging his presence, but that wasn’t enough of a guarantee for Chris.

“Good day, miss. May I have a word?”

Taking advantage of the post-sermon crowd in the hall, he led the young woman to a corner far enough to have a conversation away from the prying ears, yet close enough to still be in plain sight in case her chaperone looked for her. Before he could open his mouth, however, she took the reins herself.

“Theodora Lockhart, my lord. Allow me to express my eternal gratitude to you,” she gracefully bowed before him and spoke in lowercase cursive letters, “I am forever in your debt with my life.”

Chris was convinced he was dreaming wide awake. He was prepared for a lot of things, even half expecting her to scream bloody murder in a room full of people, but gratitude? For becoming an utterly unhinged barbarian right before her eyes?

“I know this is asking too much but,” he began with his eyes on the marble floor, “It is I who would be most grateful if you did not divulge my… ailment.”

“Please rest assured no soul shall hear about it,” she quickly responded and bowed again to take her leave, “We shall meet again, my lord.”

It would be a lie if Chris said he never thought about the possibility of Theodora being his fated mate, but he knew she wasn’t. His mother had elucidated all the telltale signs to him, the scent being the most paramount of it all.

“But most importantly,” she would say, “You will just know, my sweet boy. You will know it in your heart without a shred of doubt.”

Not only was Theodora simply odorless to Chris, but he also felt nothing other than thankfulness towards her for keeping her promise to him. 

They indeed met again. They met many times. Almost every day, albeit unplanned. Theodora was not religious whatsoever, but she was frequenting the prayer house like it was a tea garden in the hopes that she would find him there. And she did every time without fail. 

Without knowing Chris had nowhere else to go.

Sometimes she wouldn’t even walk up to him to announce her arrival. Instead, she would sit on a stone bench at the very back of the large hall, just quietly watching him from afar. She had no idea where his interests lay for Chris was a man of few words. He seemed fond of books and quills, writing and writing for hours on end sometimes. What was he even scribbling this fervently? Tales? Poetry? Letters?

It was none of that. He was just trying to unjumble a knot on stacks of straw paper.

Christopher! Kent! Mast… Kent! Hide!!!

Those were the last words Chris heard his mother scream on the night of the fire. Out of complete instinct, he dashed to the prayer house and banged on the back door of the minister’s rectory as hard as he could to wake him.

“Master Kent, please!” he begged in tears, “If they find me, they’re going to kill me! Please open the door!!!”

The second that bolt was slid open, Chris threw himself into the old man’s arms and let out a wail that reverberated throughout the entire town.

“Quick,” Master swallowed all his tears and urged the young man to hold it together just for a little while, “Help me gather my belongings. We are leaving.”

Years had passed since the night he took refuge with the minister, but something was refusing to leave Chris’ mind like a splinter buried deep. A small portrait he found in the attic collecting dust shortly before the night of the fire. It depicted his mother in her usual elegant blues and another lady he had never seen before in a dark crimson gown. Her raven-black hair with the faintest iridescence cascading off her shoulders was in stark contrast to his mother’s soft caramel locks, but they both had the same pale complexion. That wasn’t even the detail Chris found most intriguing. 

It was the moonstone ring the nameless lady was wearing.

He didn’t care that this was the biggest leap of faith that promised nothing. Constantly feeling out of place was eating Chris alive, and if he had one chance at having a sense of normalcy with someone who was like him, he would much rather take it than waste away doing nothing.

“You knew my mother, Master Kent,” he asked the minister one day, “Certainly she must have told you something.”

Unfortunately, she hadn’t. Until meeting Her Ladyship, even the minister himself thought it was a myth, some spooky tale to scare children into good behavior. Nevertheless, he did cite several towns where Chris could go looking, places merely whispered in rumors with no guarantee to find anything.

But still better than nothing.

There wasn’t much to leave behind in this town. Not much to miss. If anything, the decision to leave came with a side of relief and a throat-burning hope garnish, which he was trying his utmost best not to hold onto. Yet, there was still one person to bid farewell to before he set out.

“Thank you for your companionship all this time, Theodora,” Chris bowed his head as he was seeing her off one last time, “I will miss having a presence around me.”

“Are you going somewhere, my lord?” the young woman leisurely asked as if her life was not flashing before her eyes. 

“Yes, I’m leaving town tomorrow,” he acknowledged, “To see if I have anybody left in this world I have blood relations with.”

“For quite a long while, I suppose.”

“For good.”

Her marvelous performance of dexterously hiding the way her heart sank to her stomach deserved all the praise. Brava, indeed. But she only received this minuscule short notice? After all this time? After all they shared?

No matter. Theodora Lockhart was nothing if not a quick thinker on her feet.

“Surely you’re not going alone,” she posed a pseudo-question she already knew the answer to.

“Why yes, I am.”

“Then I would like to join you.”

Much like the very first time they came face to face, Chris was looking at her utterly dumbfounded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This journey of yours will certainly be tiresome,” she began arguing her defense, “I would like to volunteer myself to be your companion along the way.”

You can’t go, Christopher. You can’t leave without me.

“I think there might have been a misunderstanding,” Chris picked his words as straightforwardly as possible, “I was never courting you, Theodora. I have no interest in such matters, nor can I overtake the responsibility of someone else.”

“I’m aware. Thus the term volunteer.”

She wasn’t taking no for an answer, looking at him like he was the one out of his mind reacting so strongly to a mundane request.

“Let me make this quite plain,” he placed his hands on her shoulders, “I am not about to knock on the Viscount’s door and ask his permission to take his daughter with me with no marital bond between us.”

It didn’t matter if this was in the middle of a dispute. Time stopped. Her heart was about to give out for this was the very first time her prince charming was touching her. She could die today and she would die happy.

“I’m not asking you to,” she replied with perfect poise instead.

“Are you hearing how highly inappropriate this is?!” he started laughing hysterically.

“Father shall have no say in what I wish to do with my life,” she firmly stood her ground, “I’m the one who has to live it.”

“You are a well-versed woman of sound mind, Theodora.” 

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell are you doing this?!”

“Because the burden you put on me is weighing too heavy on my heart!” 

Never once did she raise her voice at Chris before, and she hated doing it, but the outburst seemed to have the intended effect. It was slowly disarming his guard, allowing her to seep through the cracks. She had to play this just right to secure her place in his life.

However long forever might be.

“Don’t you understand, my lord? This is fate,” she took one careful step towards him, “I’m destined to serve you.”

“Serve me?” his face immediately contorted, “N–no such thing is necessary.”

“Just allow me to repay my debt. This is how you will set me free,” she held his hands, almost teary-eyed in make-believe agony.

“There is no debt to be settled.”

“But there is!” she raised her voice again, “You will be all alone, and I’m the only one who… who knows you. I can help you with whatever you need. I promise I don’t want anything from you in return. Just what can I do to convince you?”

A fantastic question Chris never had to answer before. Nobody ever asked him what he wanted. As long as he’d known himself, there was always a set of rules to follow, and free will was never an option. Now there was this woman in front of him, asking him, begging him to let her accompany him just to take care of him. Just so he would not be alone in his quest for… whatever was ‘not hate’.

“Do you understand what you’re giving up?” he asked in an eerily calm tone, “You will never have a family.”

“I know what my wish entails.”

“You can never have a life with me,” he emphatically declared, “I’m taking a different name. I won’t have any money. I have to live in the shadows.”

“I am aware.”

“I will be living as a priest, Theodora. Any company I might have will have to live accordingly, as well.”

“I understand.”

Chris was about to lose it due to utter exasperation. How come everything was a yes? What was so hard to understand about what a despicable creature he was?

“I live with venom inside me,” he clenched his jaw hard and started spitting his words through his teeth in a fast, crescendo voice, “My heart rots with murder. I will hurt you one of these days. I’m eternally doomed with this ailment. Why are you not SEEING THIS?!”

Theodora was expecting to be struck in the face, but the most beautiful man she ever laid her eyes on just fell on his knees and broke down crying. She knelt in front of him and found the courage to hug him for the first time as she offered her shoulder to literally cry on.

“Because I care for you,” she caressed his hair, deliriously happy, “Please do not call it an ailment. I wouldn’t change who you are for the world.”

She let him cry his heart out on the cold marble floor, not moving an inch for fear that he might let go of her. Once Chris calmed down, she gently wiped the tears pooling in the corners of his big brown eyes with her silk handkerchief.

“I shall leave my name behind as well then,” she resolutely affirmed, “Today onwards it’s Abigail Langdon. You would agree the name Lockhart is too telltale anyway, would you not?”

“This is too much, Theodora.”

“It’s Abigail, and I made up my mind,” she helped him rise to his feet, “I will be ready to depart whenever you deem appropriate.”

In the blink of an eye, this woman assumed the role of a minister’s aide, left her entire life behind, and disappeared into nothingness with him as if she never existed.

Chris had said ‘too much’ that day, and years later it didn’t change. There were days it almost felt like he trapped himself in a loveless arranged marriage. There were days he was infinitely glad Abigail was with him. There were days he wanted to be far, far away from her, and there were days he wished he could be a little closer to her. 

Dedicating your life to somebody to that extent for absolutely nothing in return… For years. 

That kind of devotion was indeed too much.

It took years for Chris to finally admit that his position in Abigail’s eyes was nowhere near a dear friend, and as time passed by, it seemed to be devolving into something even more unsettling. Almost as unsettling as his true colors. She was agreeing to quite literally anything Chris asked for, even when he was saying utterly outrageous things to test the waters. A true friend should have been able to tell it to your face when you and rationality were miles apart, however…

“If we cannot find food for you today, you might have to share a kill with me.”

“Of course, Master.”

“Are you quite alright, Abigail?”

“Yes, Master. Why?”

Why? Why?!

The address was meant to convey ‘master of knowledge’, a characteristic all priests simply had to possess, yet somewhere along the way, she seemed to have misattributed it to mean a master-servant bond between them. It was his fault. The things she knew about him, the things she was witnessing day after day… He was to blame for her slow descent into a state of apparent delusion.

If only he saw the sinister smile on her face when he wasn’t looking. If only he knew how much pleasure she was taking in abusing his blind spot with all the steps she was meticulously calculating. His trust. His kindness. His agony.

If only…

Abigail knew full well that Chris despised having to kill and would avoid it for as long as he could. There were days he would wait until he was parched. Until it was unequivocally necessary for him to… 

To feed.

It was the perfect opportunity for her to volunteer herself yet again, as his very own thrall this time. She was always with him, wasn’t she? If he fed on her reasonably often, he wouldn’t have to wait for days on end to eventually kill. It made so much sense!

That first time Abigail’s heart was about to jump out of her chest.

It hurt, yes, but it was supposed to hurt. There was supposed to be blood. He was so gentle with her, careful not to inflict any pain besides a sting that would hopefully turn endurable.

She didn’t care for any of that.

After a certain threshold, he was moaning against her skin, his fingertips sinking into her supple flesh, and Abigail could swear she noticed a strain in his crotch. He liked this. He loved this. He was aroused by this, and it was all because of her.

The reason did not matter one bit — in her head, Chris did break her in that night, and it was everything she ever pictured it to be and then some. Now she was going to spend the rest of her life losing her virginity to him over and over again, and that was a lifetime’s worth of bliss by itself.

She had offered it many times. To permanently change her so that he would have someone of his kind with him. That was what he set out for in the first place after all, but Chris couldn’t bear the thought of making her endure his personal hell, certainly not when he was the enabler of what he believed was the biggest mistake of her life. And also…

Well…

Abigail had tagged along to allegedly pay her infamous debt, but Chris felt like he was the one paying back in spades for some reason. It was getting a bit taxing, but unfortunately, it seemed too little too late to break himself free of these chains now.

The sky was already painted pitch black when they arrived at the rectory. A young man was sitting on the stone windowsill with his legs stretched and a thick book in his hand. He finally put it down when he heard the horses approaching. 

“Welcome, Master Adams!” he greeted the newcomers, “We have been looking forward to your arrival.”

The second they got off the carriage, Chris’ nostrils were fully invaded with a sweet smell. Either a passerby lady had indulged in too much perfume, or somebody was planting an entire flower field in that very second.

“Not much is going on in Luneborough I presume,” he quipped with tired eyes, “What is this scent in the air?”

“Moon vines, Master. These beauties are where Luneborough gets her name,” the young man touched the large green leaves that hugged the iron fence, hiding lovely white flowers under them, “And we call those over there Lady of the Night. They are night-blooming jasmines.”

“What’s your name, my good man?” Chris asked the way too awake fellow at this godforsaken hour with a fond smile on his face.

“Jeongin, sir.”

“Please, anything more than my minister title and I’m walking to the Duke’s chambers to complain,” Chris threatened semi-jokingly, “Say, where can I get the best whiskey in Luneborough, Jeongin?”

“Whiskey?” he furrowed his brows seemingly to browse his memory, “Well, the gentlemen at our establishment always praise the house whiskey, so I would say La Pleine Lune.”

“Is that a gentlemen’s club?”

“Well, you could say that,” Jeongin’s features morphed into three kinds of mischievous, “Do ask for a glass of Cinq Étoiles. Our Madame Maxime makes it herself.”

“Duly noted,” Chris discreetly handed the man a generous tip for his troubles, “Thank you very much for waiting for us this late. Much appreciated.”

After the trunks were carried inside, Chris and Abigail sent Jeongin on his way and entered their new residence for the foreseeable future. It was quite late, and a good night’s sleep was long overdue, but Abigail hesitantly approached Chris’ door frame instead of heading to her own room.

“It– It has been three weeks, my lord,” she informed him, “Should you require sustenance…”

Chris briefly listened to his body, and only after he was convinced he would feel sickly faint the next morning did he silently nod. He didn’t like talking about it, much less bringing it up himself, so if Abigail didn’t remind him, he wasn’t going to feed, period. He knew it hurt her, and he hated hurting her.

He opened his trunk to find the little tin of ointment first, then carefully applied it on her neck. She wasn’t entirely sure whether the goosebumps were because of the cold soothing balm, the anticipation, or simply Chris’ touch.

“Look to your right,” he soullessly instructed and gave his hand for her to hold, “Squeeze if I hurt you too much.”

The pattern never changed throughout all the years that he was doing this. First, he would slowly graze his teeth on the skin to let her get used to the feeling, and once his fangs were fully out, he would slowly sink them into her flesh and start feeding, extremely mindful to go slow both to prevent an accident and not to get too lightheaded too fast.

That particular night, however, just one sip was enough to send a shockwave to his head like a sudden headrush. Chris had no idea he had starved himself to a state of aridity just to avoid causing hurt, very much hurting himself in the meantime.

Abigail, on the other hand, was about to combust with what she was experiencing for the first time.

His sounds of fulfillment while feeding were not unprecedented, but never like this. Never this uncontained like something in his soul masterminded a spectacular jailbreak. He was moaning so loudly that Abigail was convinced this was indeed what fucking Chris would feel like if he sneaked into her room one night. She would welcome it. God, she would embrace it with open arms and never let go. With each grunt getting louder, she was surrendering a bit more, holding onto his shoulders for dear life.

But the moment her nails scratched his skin, a rabid urge awakened within Chris.

Kill thrall.

He sank his teeth deeper and started sucking harder, holding her in place with a firm grip around her waist. She was desperately grinding against his leg for a bit of friction. Just a little bit. He didn’t have to do anything; she could get there herself. No matter.

“It’s alright,” she egged him on, “Go on. Satiate yourself.”

Kill thrall.

The nightscape of a riverbank suddenly appeared behind his closed eyes. Three men were walking towards a dagger with almost scorning smirks. His ears were maddeningly ringing, blocking every other sound in the universe, and his palms were getting sweaty.

“Hurt me more, Christopher.”

Kill thrall!!!

He shoved Abigail away to barely save himself from blacking out again. Bloody fangs still out, eyes lost color, panting like he ran all the way to Luneborough, and looking like the corporeal manifestation of all the nightmares seen by everybody that night.

It had been such a long while since he heard that maniacal voice inside his head, even a more unwelcome visitor than the lynchers of his parents, and Chris found himself on the verge of going properly insane.

“Leave,” he instructed Abigail with a whisper-like voice.

“My lord…”

“LEAVE!”

She scurried out of the room with drops of fear in her eyes for the first time. Something she should have exhibited all along like the rest of her kind. Chris dragged himself to the lavatory to his right and dunked his head under cold water until his sanity came back.

No matter how far he traveled, how many masks he wore, and how much he pretended to blend in, some truths about him were never going to change. 

Before he was a priest, he was a nomad. 

And before he was a nomad, he was a monster.

‧☽⋅☆⋅☾‧

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