Monster

As he lay in bed, exhausted and aching from his last transformation, Damien heard a heavy thud, several shouts, and a suspicious clattering coming from the main room of the cottage. It was still dark outside his bedroom window, but that didn't mean anything with the sorts of hours their odd little business kept. From the sounds of things, Dezzy and his mother were already in the process of assisting some pour soul in desperate need, because chaos like that only happened when an emergency case landed on their doorstep. Damien wanted to help, too, so he began the long and arduous process of dragging himself out of bed.

Grumbling under his breath at the stiffness in his aching limbs, Damien tried to remember when it was he'd managed to crawl into his bed. He had a vague recollection of being half-dragged up the cellar steps by Dezzy, so he thought maybe she'd been the one to make sure he recovered from the night of the full moon on a soft mattress with a warm blanket, instead of curled up on a dirt floor. She was considerate like that.

It made getting up a bit more miserable, because the bed was so comfortable, and he hated to abandon something so cozy. But he didn't like leaving his mother and Dezzy to do everything by themselves, even if they wouldn't dream of blaming him for taking a day or two to recover.

Once he'd rolled himself out of bed (almost literally - he nearly fell on the floor before he managed to sort out which way was up), Damien lit the lamp so he could see, and then scrounged around for some clothes befitting unexpected company. He was wearing a simple homespun shirt and trousers, but those were for sleeping, not for visitors. After some effort, he managed to pull on a nice shirt, his nice trousers, and a frayed but still presentable waistcoat. That done, he staggered to the polished bronze mirror that hung on the wall, and spent a few fruitless seconds trying to tame his hair. It curled with a mind of its own, voluminous and irrepressible, concealing his pointed ears beneath a tangle of walnut-brown waves.

Writing off his hair as a lost cause, Damien poked forlornly at the puffy circles under his eyes before sighing and turning from the mirror. He never looked great after his transformation; he should really just learn to lower his expectations.

Finally, Damien shuffled his way into the next room. The first thing he noticed was the sharp, pungent odor of black slime (ugh, so the emergency involved dark magic). A moment later, he realized that whatever emergency they were dealing with had to be serious, because he also smelled Dezzy's blood. As his eyes swept the room to find his sister staring back at him, he recognized her grumpy expression as the usual 'mom made me poke my finger again' look.

Moving on from Dezzy, his eyes slid over to inspect his tiny wisp of a mother, who was standing by the door, inviting a tall, slim young man to step inside. His hair was mostly falling out of its loose braid, obscuring his face. There was something off about him, though Damien couldn't quite put it into words. He thought maybe it had something to do with the dark-magic-related emergency.

"You alright, Dezzy?" he asked, slowly working his way across the floor to where his sister was standing.

"Fine," Dezzy answered, tossing her head so her hair swished dramatically over her shoulder. She might have been rolling her eyes, too, but it was hard to know for sure, given the fact that her entire eye was black. Pupil, iris, and sclera, all of them were the same shade of onyx. It gave her terrible night vision, but she could stare directly into bright flames with no problem. Probably another of her demonic traits, along with the claws and durable, granite-gray skin. "This guy showed up all poisoned and stuff, so mom gave him black sludge," she explained, jerking a thumn in the direction of their newest patient.

Damien grimaced. He'd never touched the black slime himself, but even smelling it from a distance was an experience one never forgot. "That bad, huh?" he asked, sparing another quick glance over at the drooping figure of the poisoned man. He didn't look demonic, but that didn't mean a whole lot. Even if he wasn't a demon, there were plenty of creatures that could benefit from demonic magic, particularly as an antidote for light magic or injuries caused by blessed objects.

"More than just bad; it was thrice-blessed holy water," Dezzy said, wrinkling her nose. "Even I could smell it on him."

Damien winced. Thrice-blessed holy water was nasty stuff. "Was it poured on a weapon?" he asked.

Dezzy shook her head, eyes wide. "Worse," she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. "He drank it."

Damien felt his stomach lurch at the very idea. "So it was an actual poisoning!" he exclaimed. People could get poisoned in many ways, but it was rare to find people who made it all the way out to this little cottage even after ingesting poison. Especially if the poison was one intentionally added to the person's food or drink. Usually, the sorts of poisonings he saw coming to mother's practice were people on the wrong end of poisoned weapons, or people who stumbled across a poisonous plant. It was rarely a premeditated situation. He turned to look at the man again, wondering what he could have possibly done to deserve such a horrible near-death experience.

Then, the man lifted his head to speak to mother, his long hair parting as he rose to meet her gaze, revealing the man's youthful - and familiar - features. Damien felt for a moment as though his heart had lurched to a stop as he took in the impossible sight before him. A snarl burst from his lips, instinctual and involuntary. He took a step forward, still snarling, only for a hard grip on his arm to hold him back.

"Damie," Dezzy said, her grip on his arm solid and unyielding, "What's wrong?"

"That…" Damien felt like his tongue and lips had forgotten how to form human speech. He was so angry he almost felt as if the transformation was happening all over again. His blood burned. His hands curled like claws. His vision tunneled as he stared. "Monster," he growled, and that was when the blood-drinking fiend that had slaughtered his whole pack turned his head, and spotted Damien for the first time.

He looked almost identical to the way he'd looked eleven years ago. Of course he looked weaker now, sickened as he was by the thrice-blessed holy water. It must have been in his most recent victim's blood. Damien wanted to laugh. He was sorry he hadn't been here to witness the man's suffering. He hoped there would be another chance to see him in poisoned agony.

For a long moment, the vampire stared at Damien, uncomprehending. Then, slowly, a look of realization dawned across his deathly-pale features. "You," he said.

Mother straightened up, glancing between the vampire and Damien, a concerned frown adding more wrinkles to her brow. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Yes," Damien growled, pointing at the vampire who dared ask for help from his new family after the awful thing he'd done to Damien's birth family. "He's the one who orphaned me. He-" Damien's voice faltered, and he tried to snarl, but instead his voice came out in a haunted whisper. "He killed them. My family. All of them."

Gazing back at him, the vampire blinked once, slowly. Then, with a hint of a sneer tugging his lips aside to display sharp fangs, he said, "It wasn't personal. Just business."