Blood

Cain could feel the heaviness of his body as he dragged himself towards the cottage at the center of the magic woods. He'd only come here once before, when he was much younger, and suffering from a similar affliction. At the time, he'd come to this place out of sheer panic and desperation, with zero expectations of help. He'd believed that there was no one who would willingly treat a vampire suffering from poisoned blood, especially considering he'd already been turned away by several healers, and pronounced as good as dead by his sire. The elder vampire had been wrong, as it turned out. He was wrong about a lot of things.

Cain flinched, feeling a sharp pain between his eyes, occurring almost concurrently with the bitter thought. He hissed through bared fangs, batting the idea aside before its lingering brought him even more pain. Normally, he could suppress the more petty aspects of the magic that bound him to his sire's will. But with so much of him focused on trying to survive, more of his sire's magic was slipping through the cracks in his mental barriers.

The witch who lived in the cottage had been living there for generations, and she had been willing to help him back then. He hoped she would still help him now, almost twelve years later.

As he stumbled forward, he took stock of himself. While he wasn't as bad off as he'd been as a young, naive, newly-turned little bat with more fangs than good sense, he was definitely in trouble. He could feel his chest rattle with every unnecessary breath he took (he'd been assured countless times by his sire that the need to breathe was merely muscle memory, though it was a deeply-ingrained habit that took most vampires centuries to break) and he felt his limbs growing clumsy as the tainted blood took hold. He could feel it burning as it worked its way through his system, forcing back the dark magic that sustained him as an animated corpse rather than a fully-dead one. Based on how quickly it was progressing, Cain figured there wasn't much time left before he'd start losing control of his body entirely, and start spasming around on the ground. Then, if he was lucky, he'd die before the sun rose. Otherwise, he'd not only burn from the inside, but from the outside, too.

The symptoms were coming on so much faster than the last time - it must have been thrice-blessed water that the damn human had been drinking. He had to have been drinking nothing but holy water for weeks, for it to have saturated so much of his blood! Cain had somehow managed to restrain himself despite the thirst he'd felt after a long and deadly fight. As soon as the first drop of blood hit his tongue, it burned, and he knew. It was already too late at that point, and he cursed himself for his lack of precautions. Cain had known that his target was dangerous, even by wizard standards. He'd thought he'd exercised enough caution before carrying out his sire's orders. He'd never thought that one bite could be enough to bring an end to his miserable undeath.

If he were less of a coward, he would have let the holy blood kill him, and spare the world his continued existence. But despite everything, he didn't want to die. Soulless creatures didn't go to a kind or gentle afterlife. In truth, he wasn't sure if any afterlife waited for him at all. If it did, he was certain that it would be neither kind nor gentle, considering the countless horrible things he'd done at the bidding of his sire.

Just as his thoughts were beginning to turn from desperation to resignation, he caught sight of the little house, a cheery sign posted at the edge of a small path that read 'Magical Solutions: Inquire Within'. Cain's knees nearly buckled with relief. Or perhaps because of the tainted blood. In any case, he stumbled down the narrow strip of dirt, nearly crashing into the door of the cottage, his sense of motion and distance fully scrambled by the purifying magic that was purging the undeath from his system, gradually rendering him truly dead.

Hands outstretched, Cain threw himself at the door of the cottage, tripping over his own feet and collapsing at the door. He tried to pull himself back up to his feet and failed, his arms twitching helplessly. For a moment, he thought that he was too late, and he was about to die like an idiot on the old witch's doorstep.

Then, to his great relief, the door opened, and a creaky voice said, "Well, well, well, what have we here? Has the little bat lost his way once more?"

"Please," Cain tried to say, the word slurred by numb lips and heaving lungs.

"Oh my," the witch croaked, kneeling beside Cain and reaching out to poke his cheek. "You look half-dead. Well. More dead than the average vampire, anyway." Then, with a sigh, she stood and called into the house. "Dezzy! Bring the black slug juice! Quick!"

Faintly, Cain heard the pattering of feet, and a clattering of what sounded like ceramic jars. A moment later, he heard the footsteps draw closer.

"Here, mom - what else?"

"Can I trouble you for a drop of your blood, dearie?"

"I guess so," came the reply in a young woman's voice. A sound of shuffling followed the response and then a heavy sigh. "Here." Several seconds later, the young woman inhaled sharply, and then he smelled it - harsh, dark, and immensely powerful.

Cain grimaced. He remembered the blood from last time. It had burned almost worse than the purified blood. Pure, black, demon blood was the only thing that might be able to chase off the holy taint without also turning him into a corpse, though. So really, he had no choice.

He heard the scrape of an instrument against ceramic - a spoon, maybe - and then, a moment later, he felt old, withered hands turning his now-convulsing corpse of a body onto its back. "Say 'ah'," the old crone half-giggled, prodding at his mouth. It amazed him, how very unconcerned she was at the sight of his protruding fangs.

Cain tried to open his mouth, with middling success. It was enough, though. The thick tarry slime dribbled between his lips, coating his tongue and throat. He coughed once, already feeling the burn of demon blood-slime pooling in his chest. He was starting to breathe easier, though, and he felt like soon he might be able to wrest back control over his extremities. He wanted to say something, to thank the crone and the demon-child, but the black slime in his throat made breathing impossible. It felt awful and terrifying, even though he knew that a vampire didn't need to breathe. The habit wasn't broken yet, and his body was beginning to panic at the thick black ooze clogging his lungs. His chest arched as he tried to fight for breath, the burning of the demon blood intensifying as it fed on his fear. It tore like tiny paper cuts, filling his lungs, his veins, all of him.

Then, all at once, it popped, and was gone, along with the holy blood that had nearly killed him.

Cain's pulled-taut body collapsed back to the ground, going slack as the pain vanished with the warring bloods. He noticed for the first time that he was sprawled across two steps leading up to the door. His back complained mightily about the edge of one step, digging into the space just below his shoulder blades.

Blinking slowly, Cain gazed up at the old witch. "Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse from the terrible ordeal of drinking two extremely volatile bloods in such rapid succession.

"Of course, dearie," the witch said, patting him on the head like he was a small child, or possibly a pet. "Come inside for a few minutes, why don't you? You may need another dose or two to keep you out of trouble for the next few days - thrice-blessed blood has a habit of returning to finish what it's started - something about the number three, it's a very powerful number…" the witch continued to ramble as she turned and moved back into the cottage.

A moment later, Cain was able to stand up and dust himself off before following her inside.