Page 12 of Collected By the Crow

Qadaire found her staring at a mound of gruesome paintings piled on top of three medical beds pushed together. He took one look at her panicked doe eyes and knew he couldn’t bear to watch her reaction play out. He took a few steps past her into the room, to where various artistic depictions were stacked on the blue beds from the time he tried to burn it all down. The thin sheets and the flat pillows were all stained with blood. Glass crunched under his talons the farther he walked, but he couldn’t turn around, couldn’t face her. His fists curled at his sides as he observed the room where his personal demons dwelled.

Chapter Seven

Cassandra

Cass slammed the door behind him.

“Good riddance! Right, buddy?”

Whimpering, Zero raised his head from his crossed paws and stared longingly at the door.

“Ugh. You, too, huh?” She paced between the door and the bed. This bedroom, obviously his, was the only place she didn’t see a single red decal. “Maybe I was a bit harsh.”

Still, she was glad to have a reason to put distance between them. Part of her considered him an interesting specimen to be studied, while another part had grown to respect his accomplishments, and yet another was reacting to him in a way she didn’t care for. Cass could become attracted to anyone. Sometimes attraction came first, like occasional whirlwind encounters in college, full of lust and loneliness. But for the most part, attraction was a gradual thing that followed on the heels of stronger emotions.

She hated the idea of becoming attracted to this grouchy old vampire guy. Not because of who and what he claimed to be, but because she’d spent so long hiding pieces of herself. He was secluded here by choice. She wanted nothing to do with that level of hiding. Besides, how would she continue her work in DIY labs, so far removed from civilization? She didn’t spend much time at home anyway, let alone enough to keep another individual satisfied.

Vampire or not, he wasn’t human. If he ever had been, the experiments had changed that. She could’ve sworn she’d seen him preening a couple of times. Was his genuine nature due to seclusion? He was clearly used to being himself, with no one around for him to put it on for. Then again, his collections were tastefully displayed, like he wanted them to be admired. He was clearly a man who put careful consideration into his aesthetic.

Every room she’d seen so far had a smattering of materials, tools, books, knick-knacks, all thoughtfully arranged. With so much to work on at any moment, one would rarely be bored.

She would have to find an appropriate time to ask about the experiment that had made him this way. What awesome things could be accomplished with an extra set of hands? He must get so much more work done! His dexterity was fascinating. How else could he use those deft hands? What instruments could he play? What would it feel like to be that instrument?

Cass shook her head to refocus. She didn’t want to leave things the way they’d ended. She wasn’t usually prone to outbursts, and after the way he’d been so careful with Zero, he deserved better.

She stepped into the hallway. It stretched on either side. Right or left? She tried to recall which way he’d turned as she’d slammed the door. She took a guess and walked along the red carpeted path, peeking into open doors, trying doorknobs, knocking on locked ones.

“Qadaire?”

No response. It became obvious she’d gone beyond the living area. She passed rooms of junk, of books, of tools, of charred ashes. She took a flight of stairs and another turn. The air became muskier, her hands crossing to run up and down her arms, which were covered in little bumps.

Screw this. She could apologize in the morning.

She turned at the sound of wings. Was that him? She followed the sound into a dome-ceilinged room that housed an extra tall and wide pile of junk on top of primitive hospital beds. Judging by the charred remains she’d observed leading up to this room, it seemed like someone had planned to burn the whole stack.

She took a tentative step closer, glancing at her feet to keep from stepping on anything that might give her tetanus. When she reached a small pile on the floor in front of the beds, she saw intricately carved frames and detailed pictures. The running theme was blood, blood, sex, and blood. She squinted at a canvas that had a rip down the middle. She held the piece of drooping fabric, her insides heaving at what she saw.

A farm of humans being herded, naked, into gated stalls like milking cows, with three exit tunnels at the end. As they exited the tunnel, a crowned vampire sat on a throne with at least six men and women performing various sex acts on him and each other. Some of the humans seemed too limp to be alive, their bodies fodder.

Bile rose in the back of Cassandra’s throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting and staggered backward.

“You weren’t meant to see this.”

She turned, trembling, to see Qadaire frowning at her.

“What is all this?”

“Dracula VI was a cruel overlord.” There was a coldness to his tone that made her clutch her sides.

“Was this . . . I mean, this is the way he treated people?” She glanced from the busted, padless beds to the medieval supplies that certainly weren’t medical, nor humane.

With a curt nod, Qadaire held a piece of peeling canvas up against its frame. The painting showed rows of humans suspended from the ceiling, blood spilling down on a ballroom, where naked and half-naked vampires danced, their red footprints swallowed by puddles on the floor.

“What kind of experiments happened in here?” She almost didn’t want to know the answer, but her damned mouth was always running, asking any question that came to mind.

“The kind that don’t leave the patients with their lives. He thought humans were no more sentient than beetles. He assumed his scientists were all equally deranged. He never considered anyone in his court had an ounce of compassion.”

“Did he experiment on you?” She glanced at his extra appendages.

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