Killer

The little pup (not so little anymore, really) howled at Cain, lunging against the grip of the demon-girl, eyes burning with animalistic hatred. "You killed them!" he screamed, as if repeating the accusation might change the way Cain felt about it.

It had been distasteful, of course. Cain had tried to make it as swift and painless as possible - he didn't particularly enjoy indiscriminate slaughter - when he'd done the deed. Had he fed on the lycans? Of course he had. Who was he to let perfectly good blood go to waste? Everyone knew that vampires gained power by feeding on the blood of humans, but a slightly lesser-known fact was that feeding on the blood of magical creatures could grant a vampire a portion of their power, too. Werewolves in particular offered a heightened sense of smell, and increased physical power. It had been quite a boon to young Cain, who had, at the time, been recently turned. It was rare for a new vampire to survive for long in an old established clan, and the blood from those wolves had given him the power to discourage attacks from other, more senior vampires. His sire's favor had helped, too, but Cain had never asked for that, and truly, wanted nothing to do with his sire if he could help it.

"Did you really?" the demon girl looked like she was considering let the angry pup do his worst, her black eyes narrowed in his direction.

Honestly, Cain felt the werewolf had earned a certain amount of rage. While most of the humans and supernatural creatures Cain met felt negatively towards vampires, they rarely felt that way due to personal experience. There was something almost… refreshing… about being hated for something he'd actually done, for once.

"I did," Cain said, because what was the point in lying? If they decided to hate him, that was fine. The girl would hardly be the first person to regret helping him, and he doubted sincerely she would be the last.

"Why?" the girl asked, still barely holding back the snarling boy. Her grip appeared to be weakening, though Cain couldn't tell if that was due to a change in her resolve, or simply the result of shock.

"Yes, why?" the werewolf pup echoed, throwing himself at Cain again, loosening the girl's grip a little bit more.

Cain attempted to sigh dramatically, only to choke most unbecomingly on the phantom sensation of black slime in his throat. Once he'd managed to stop his stupid lungs from spasming (he didn't even need the damn things, so why did it still feel like he was dying every time they were wracked with a coughing fit?), Cain explained in simple terms, "I was ordered to kill them, so I did."

"Who ordered you?" the demon girl asked, while the werewolf boy continued to howl in wordless fury.

Cain considered how to answer that. "It was a clan decision," he finally said. "I was the one chosen to carry it out." He'd managed to say it all without his tongue tripping, so he supposed the answer had been vague enough to be considered acceptable for use with those outside the clan. He didn't say anything about how it was often the youngest vampires who were given the most onerous and gory tasks, because that would definitely be disallowed. When Cain had argued that it made no sense to give the most horrible assignments, his sire had explained that the purpose was to harden them, and demonstrate viscerally to the new vampires exactly what they had become - murderers.

According to most of the senior clan members, Cain had taken to the role with disturbing speed and competence. His sire had been quite proud of the fact. In truth, Cain had just not wanted to end up like the other vampires in his cohort - dead. In a world where vampires were constant targets and never trusted, life (undeath) was always going to be a kill-or-be-killed existence. Cain had chosen to kill, because despite everything, he didn't want to die.

It wasn't his fault he was better at killing than being killed.

"So you won't even take responsibility?" the boy shouted. "You're the one who did it!"

"I didn't say anything of the sort," Cain pointed out, feeling vaguely miffed. He could have denied it, but he wasn't that sort of vampire. He didn't exactly brag about his deeds, but he wasn't going to pretend his fangs weren't stained with the blood of countless innocents. That was what it meant to be a vampire. He was a killer. It would be the height of foolishness to pretend otherwise.

"Boys," the old witch finally said, speaking up from her place beside Cain, "enough."

"Enough?" the wolf cried, pausing his struggle to turn and look at the old witch with an expression of hurt. "But he-"

"Damien," the old crone said, voice harsh and leaving no room for argument. "I said enough."

The boy's head dropped, a tousle of curls falling forward, obscuring his expression. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, he said, "Yes, mother."

Cain felt one of his eyebrows shoot upwards as he glanced at the old witch in surprise. Mother? But the boy was a wolf, and this woman was (mostly) human. Though there was a bit of something else in her, it certainly wasn't easily identifiable to Cain. Werewolves were easy to suss out. Demons weren't much harder. That said, he didn't have nearly enough experience with magical creatures to know what it was that dwelt within the old witch, merely that it was ancient and powerful. "You're his mother?" he asked, looking at her.

"Adopted," the witch said primly, giving Cain a look of disapproval that pierced him deeper than a wooden stake could. "I found him wandering the woods: alone, starving, and covered in the blood of his slain pack."

Cain managed to maintain a straight face at the clear accusation of misconduct. What was he supposed to have done, killed the pup? He had been a child at the time. Cain's orders had been clear - kill the threats. He was rarely given orders with such obvious loopholes, but he'd taken full advantage of that one. A pup was no threat to him, and thus, he could spare the boy. But all the other wolves had been obvious threats. He'd had no choice but to end them. "I suppose that's fortunate for him that you found him," he said flatly. He refused to allow regret to cross his face or linger in his voice. Regrets were the things expressed by people who had the capacity to care for others. Cain was too cowardly to care about the situations that didn't directly affect him - he could barely spare the energy to worry about his own fate, much less that of another.

"Fortunate," the wolf barked, his voice cracking. "Me? Fortunate?"

Cain glanced back at him and said drily, "You're alive, aren't you?"