Grand Naivety, Broken

The next morning, Frank woke up alone in his room, although that had not been how he remembered it. He had been up late, talking to Gerard about this or that, and he must have fallen asleep. He peeled himself from the bed and shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk. He opened it and downed a mouthful, but started gagging and choking a moment later. He lent of the sink to spit it out, clutching his throat as it burned viciously.

His shaky hand set the carton down, eying like it were explosives, or tainted with typhoid. He spit one last time into the sink, his saliva red with blood. His throat felt raw and ripped apart, and his stomach was turning over in its place. Quickly, he sat at the kitchen table, pushing spare cutlery aside so he could rest on the wooden top.

Quiet footsteps made their way into the kitchen, followed by the almost inaudible squeak of a chair moving back. “Good morning, Frank,” Gerard said, his voice tinged with concern. “What happened?”

Frank lifted his head. He knew his eyes were probably red and his mouth was probably still stained with his own blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to care how his master saw him at the moment. “I-- milk,” he croaked, wincing when his throat twinged.

Standing, Gerard nodded and shuffled to the refrigerator, pulling something out and messing with a glass. Frank didn’t bother to turn around. After a few moments, a glass of thick, red, frothing liquid was set in front of him, a metallic stench wafting from it that made Frank crave it.

“Just drink a little of it; it will help your throat,” the eldest vampire said gently.

Frank nodded slowly and picked up the glass, sipping it cautiously before downing a fifth of the tall glass. He could feel it coat his insides and seep into his muscles. His throat tingled before returning to numbness, as per usual. He breathed deeply and was pleasantly surprised to feel cool air hit the back of his healed throat. “Ah, thank you, Master.”

Gerard waved his gratitude off. “Sorry this had to happen, elskan. Vampires cannot consume human food; it rips us apart from the mouth down. I should have told you that.”

Likewise, Frank waved of his apology. “Can you just-- teach me how, please,” he pleaded, pulling out his best sad eyes.

“Okay,” Gerard consented, before promptly grabbing a fork and jamming it into Frank’s hand.

The youngest cried out, tears filling his eyes as a sharp pain traveled through his arm, followed by pulsing aches. “Master!” he yelped, grabbing at his hand desperately to stop the pain. He felt betrayal climb its way into his chest and settling in his eyes.

“Frank,” Gerard said firmly, “Frank, listen to me. You need to trust me, okay?” The two made eye contact, and, after a moment of hesitation, Frank sniffed and nodded. “Good. Now,” he pulled the fork from Frank’s hand, making the blood flow faster, “focus on your hand. Look at it and think of nothing more than your hand and what it looked like when you got up this morning. What does it look like on a normal day? Think about it. Don’t stop until the pain goes away.”

Frank stared at his hand intently, tears still falling down his cheeks. He could feel his sire gazing at him with the same intensity, which, although he was the one who stabbed Frank, comforted the younger vampire. He thought about the smooth skin of his hand, visualized the untainted flesh, the seamless tattoos that he had collected over the years.

Before his blurry, tear-stained eyes, he could see his muscle reconstructing itself under his skin, and then said epidermis fused itself back together with the swiftness of a fox. He gasped as the pain disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared, awe flooding his system and flushing the anger and betrayal away.

With nerves no longer screaming “Bloody murder!” and eyes having been released by the stinging grip of tears, Frank looked up at Gerard, who wore a pained expression as he held the fork in a crushing grip. “Master?” whispered he, the quiet voice deafening like a hurricane in the delicate silence.

“I’m sorry,” Gerard muttered, looking up and smiling weakly. “I hate to cause you pain, but it was the best way to teach you.” He looked down again and tightened his grip on the bloody cutlery.

With pitying eyes, Frank reached across the table and took the piece of metal from the elder’s hand and replaced it with his own in a tender show of forgiveness, which Gerard eagerly accepted with a kiss to his knuckles and a stronger smile. “Thank you,” he mouthed, simply because he couldn’t muster a sound at the moment.

After clearing his throat and blinking the liquid emotion from his eyes, Gerard stood and smiled with the facade of contentedness and said, “Come, we finally have a case.”

…

“Abbé Proia!” Gerard exclaimed with the same reserved manner Frank had seen him wield in the agency, only quirking a side of his mouth into a smile instead of the usual full, slightly crooked one he had become fond of. “I refrain from saying I’m happy to see you again, due to the circumstances.”

Abbé Proia was a stout man with a stern expression, Italian skin, and a black beard reminiscent of that of Galileo. Long robes adorned his short stature and a broad-rimmed hat cast a shadow over his dark, aged eyes. He looked unamused by Gerard’s greeting. “I would say so, Sir,” he deadpanned.

Gerard’s eye ticked. “Yes, well, these things can’t be predicted,” he tried.

“I would agree if I weren’t in the presence of a mind reader,” Abbé Proia snapped bitterly.

With a forced smile, Gerard said, “There are too many people in this town for me to sift through everyone’s thoughts, not to mention privacy of the innocent. Besides, I have my own affairs to deal with along with yours.”

Proia glared venomously. “Fix it.”

The elder vampire sighed and put a hand to his temple, before looking to Frank. “Stay close to me and don’t touch anything, ljós mitt.”

Frank followed timidly, avoiding the short, angry man with downcast eyes, almost shrinking at the feeling of his beady eyes burning into his head with disdain. He scuttled through the church doors behind Gerard, looking from side to side. It was a reasonably sized church, with enough pews to hold the majority of the small town and a small confessional booth off to the side. In the front, there was a table covered by a white cloth and a crucifix behind it.

The crucifix seemed to be the main point of destruction; red paint was striped across it and the wall behind, forming a jagged line that Frank assumed was supposed to resemble a crack.

Gerard had approached it and was cursing under his breathe. Well, Frank thought he was; he didn’t understand Icelandic. His mumbling slowly climbed in volume and Frank could almost pick out some words. “Fjandinn, auðvitað var það Klofningur! Þetta er sannarlega kalla undan storminum. Fjandinn, ég hélt að við værum í ljóst eftir Andrea dó.”

Frank blinked at the eldest, struggling to register anything he had said.

After a moment of silence, Gerard made a small eureka sound and waved Frank over. “This is the work of Schism, an anti-legendary creature organization. They’re mostly big talk, but they commit random acts of violence and vandalism to prove their point.”

“What exactly is their point?” asked Frank as he gazed at the graffitied crucifix.

“To tear apart the creature community.”

The younger vampire nodded. “So, since you know who it is, you can just turn them in, right?”

Gerard sighed and brought his hand up to run through Frank’s hair, but halted abruptly and diverted its course to his own hair tiredly. “Not exactly,” he murmured. “Schism is like a gang; they commit obvious crimes, but get away with it because there’s no proof that it was them who did it. It could’ve been anyone, according to the law. Since we have no definitive proof that it was any individuals, we can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s shitty,” Frank replied with venom.

Gerard scoffed. “Tell me about it.” He turned away from the wreckage and led Frank back to the doors, exiting and facing the small monk-like man. “I’ll talk to Schetcher about reimbursement, Abbé Proia.”

Proia looked semi-content with this promise and nodded. “Do not cheat me on this, Sir Way,” he warned.

Gerard smiled with that same reservation and said, “I would never dream of it.”

As the two men left, Frank asked, “So what’s his deal?”

“Abbé Proia?” Frank confirmed with a nod. “Oh, he’s just a grumpy old Monaciello. Found him in Naples during the Napoleonic era.” When Frank continued to look at his sire blankly, Gerard explained, “A Monaciello is a fairy-like creature that lives in or near old monasteries. Hence why he’s the town’s priest.”

“I never thought priests were so angry all the time.”

Gerard laughed. “They’re not.”

Notes

Schism -- a division between people, usually belonging to an organization, movement, or religious denomination.
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