24 December 2011
9pm, Saturday
New Moon
Diagon Alley

It was Christmas Eve and Diagon Alley was nearly deserted. Only a very windows were lit. Twinkly lights of red and green and white were strung everywhere, evergreen swags and wreaths earnestly hung. The cobblestones were shiny with wet, reflecting what light it could.

Lazarus leaned in the edge of scarlet light - a lamp enchanted to burn red for the holiday. A festive intent but a grim result. His black hat shadowed his face, and the smoke from his useless cigarette curled in the eerie light. He was stewing. The coven was raucous for the holiday that no one cared about, and words had been had. Word of Lazarus's recent meddling in mortal affairs had spread and it wasn't appreciated by a few of his fellows. He wouldn't normally be out tonight, he'd be feasting on the new moon in the safety of Camden Town Hookers, but he couldn't bear any more idiocy. Damn'em.

Among the coven Laz was known for ease, but recent events had been taking a toll on the decades-long steadiness of routine eternity. Perhaps that was why he'd left so readily, wandered off from the source of acceptably procured nourishment to surround himself with temptations. To prove something to himself. Prove he still was who he had been for ages.

The streets, almost empty as they were, easily revealed a youth on his own. Laz watched him with deliberate disinterest. He ought to know better.

Clearly, one thing was readily apparent about the magical world: witches and sorcerers clearly had their shit together.  While many of the muggle shopping centers and department stores were just starting to free themselves from an infestation of last minute husbands-who'd-put-off-shopping-too long and kids-looking-to-spend-the-last-of-their-shopping-money-on-themselves, Diagon Alley was dead.  Quiet.  Near empty.  Last minute oops shopping was clearly only a muggle thing. 

It was intimidating, depressing and impressive. 

And, frustrating as all get out.  After weeks of wondering whether his mum would hate him for it, Anton had finally decided he was going to get Micha a decidedly magical Christmas gift.  One of those mystical pets or something from the joke shop that, deep down, Anton knew should have a sign on the door reading No Unaccompanied Antons Allowed.  Everything was clearly stacked against him, though.  Not only had it taken forever for Anton to spot someone recognizably magical to follow through the Tetris Stack-A-Wall door but Anton clearly belonged to the gift-giving procrastination muggle culture. 

Chances were good Micha would have to settle for a tacky greeting card IOU.  That would give him mum an opportunity to put her foot down and outright reject the idea.

Anton had already thoroughly searched Diagon Alley for an open shop but had come up empty handed.  He'd returned to the foot of the narrow alley that angled off of Diagon and, from what he could see, there seemed to be a little more life down those cobblestones.  It didn't guarantee shops would be open but it was stupid to leave without checking.  Especially when there was a slightly unique looking local a few steps away from the corner. 

He'd spent his fair share of late nights wandering Camden Town while exceptionally drunk or stoned.  Can't always judge a book by its cover, right?

"Happy Christmas, mate!" Anton offered, jovially as he approached the fellow.  For good measure, he sharpened his accent - not to the comical degree he had with Nicholas, but just enough to make it seem reasonable he wasn't from around here.  "In town visiting family and doing the last-minute gift grab of shame.  Got any recommendations?  Any place down that way that might still be open?"

Oh, Jesus Christ. Lazarus grumbled a moan from deep in his chest as the bright young thing began to engage. His nostrils flared and he took in everything about the kid. He was steeped in good cheer and total security. From abroad. Lost but he didn't know it.

Lazarus held a long silence following the kid's inquiry. Long pull on the cigarette, long exhale. He waved his hand in a little circle at shoulder height well before he answered in a languid, raspy, baritone.

"Something about me seem ... hmm ... approachable to you?" He lifted his head, his pale skin washed in read, his eyes inky dark.

He didn't move again, capable of an eerie complete stillness. Not even a pulse beat in his neck.

"Nothing down there for you. Go home."

Mr. Shady didn't look old, but he was clearly no spring chicken.  Certainly, old enough to have learned the life lesson of not judging a book by its cover - especially if Anton had learned it by now. 

But, Anton could recognize when he wasn't welcome somewhere and he had more than enough confidence to not take it personally.  If Mr. Shady McCrabby was looking to be alone, Anton didn't feel a need to intrude.  With a bright, friendly grin, Anton touched a finger to a non-existent hat (Fauna would be so disappointed) and nodded his head.  "All the best Christmas wishes to you and yours.  And all the luck in the New Year," he offered, maintaining his accent.

He turned and took two strides down Diagon and hesitated. 

This place was a practical ghost town.  Even the majority of the above-shop apartment windows were decidedly darkened; the inhabitants of the smaller apartments likely off at largely family homes, enjoying the festivities.  Few people were alone on Christmas eve by choice.  Anton knew the statistics about holidays, loneliness and depression.  Was he being hasty in his assumption that this fellow just wanted a peaceful smoke alone? 

The statistics in sociology and psychology classes would suggest that wasn't the case. 

Anton turned back towards Mr. Shady, retrieving both a cigarette and his electric lighter from his back pocket.  "Looks like I'm out of luck for last minute shopping, so I'm in no rush.  You here from the States visiting family?" he asked as he retraced his steps.  Of course, now would be the time his lighter would go on the fritz.  "Battery must be dead, but that's how the cookie crumbles, eh?  Any chance you got a light?"

The human stank like flesh and blood as he walked away, and when he doubled back as well with that blithe smile and cheery German accent. Lazarus was not a violent creature, but his mood was eroding his values. Rather, the youth's mood was. Maybe he was high. No, he'd have smelled that, too. But what else could cause a skittish mortal to be sickeningly tame?

Lazarus very nearly excused himself, very nearly transformed into a fuzzy brown bat to find a new perch to lurk and lust in suffering peace. But, wait. The kid posted up to share a moment with

Battery? Did he have ... a light? Lazarus rolled his head around to look at him in the face with a furrowed brow.

"You're muggle." He stepped off the wall and towards the young man. He did it in the sharp quick action of his kind, unbound by whatever bound others to the earth. Muggle, could be. A squib, maybe, but the distinction was purely cultural. A wizard didn't need a light because wizards waved wands. Vampires kept matches, mages did not. He moved as close as he could. Under the shadow of his hat, his pupils were dilated to their greatest circumference. He let his hand drop to the side as he inspected the kid up close.

Lazarus could practically hear his heart pumping. The polite question was left unanswered. Oh, dear, he was very lost.

"You're muggle."

Thinking quickly, Anton considered the best approach to answering the question.  Before he had a chance to consider it, Mr. Shady moved faster than Anton could think.  Surprise mixed with curiosity flickered across his face and Anton fought every urge to take a step back and regain a portion of his social bubble. 

The feigned confusion and moment of surprise bought Anton just enough time to give the other's statement some thought.  Between his mum and Nicholas, Anton could surmise it was not wise to outright confirm he was a muggle.  Lying, if there was a chance of getting caught, seemed an equally poor choice.  Best to use the tourist card he was playing.  "I am not as familiar with your terms.  Back home I'm ein Nietschen,[1]' he improvised, letting the fellow speculate about its translation. 

A voice in the back of his head suggested that he should be anxious.  Maybe even scared.  And there was a touch of trepidation somewhere but it was all vastly overshadowed by intrigue.  The student of sociology and anthropology in him was brimming with fascination. 

This was Anton's first true encounter with an oddball from this world - and someone who wasn't a friend of his friend's.  Maybe this was the magical world's version of being on the autism spectrum?  Poor recognition of personal space and a different approach to interpreting questions all fit the bill, at least in the muggle world.

"Don't have anywhere to be this Christmas Eve?" he asked, lifting the cigarette suggestively.  "Or did you need a break from the never ending pomp and mandatory festivities.  Any hopes for what the jolly old St. Nick will leave in your stocking tonight?"  He offered another broad, friendly grin. 

1.	ein Niete translates to a person or thing that is a dud or washout.  The suffix -schen changes a word to a diminutive form

Old Nick, Old Nick, was Satan a saint? Divisions seemed to thin after so many years, and names got confused. Whatever this kid's demi-god tradition, he wasn't a wizard. He'd not have a wand, he'd not be able to Apparate. He was a blooded lamb, a stray, easy prey, and Lazarus's need was battering against his gates.

The incessant questions as well, beat against the barriers, but weakly and overrun by Laz's own internal monologues.

He cracked his neck, worked his jaw, and dropped his cigarette Then, swiftly, he took Anton by the neck and swept him around a corner into a tiny ally. The youth's feet could only dust the ground. Lazarus pressed him against the wall. Anton's arteries throbbed in his hand. Humans would never understand this vampiric instinct. Young vampires were shocked by it, reckless. Lazarus had worked three lifetimes to control it, but he'd never be its master.

In that alley, Lazarus smiled wide and finally his white fangs showed at the corners of his grin. "You're lost, kid," he mumbled.

That dull sense of dread and uncertainty he'd been ignoring a moment ago quickly shifted to the forefront as Anton's eyes followed the lit cigarette to the ground.  His mind just started to register the need to retreat, but ...

Mr. Shady moved quickly.  Faster than Anton had any chance of reaction.  Faster, even, than Anton's brain could process the other was moving.  Even before Anton could fully acknowledge that mistakes were made, he found himself pressed against a hard, stone wall, his feet just barely able to feel the ground through the toes of his trainers.  Fingers that were far too cold, even for a chilly December evening, were wrapped around his neck, suspending him off the ground. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck!  Reflexively, his hands flew up to try grapple at the cold fingers closed around his neck.  "Look.  There isn't any need for this," Anton offered, wide-eyed, desperately attempting to placate Mr. Shady first, even as his fingers pried, fruitlessly, against the vice grip.  Any thought of maintaining the stronger 'tourist' accent had completely fled from his mind.  "I can see you're not wanting to -" 

Like a mouse freezing in terror at a cobra's spread hood, Anton's eyes locked on the glistening white fangs and he grew perfectly still.  Those couldn't be real?  This ... fuck!  It didn't matter if they were real.  He was in trouble either way. 

"You're lost, kid."

Anton remained still for another breath, without acknowledging the question.  Then, without warning, he threw all his strength into a desperate bid to free himself from the man's ... whatever's ... grasp.  He braced one foot against the wall behind him to find some leverage and lashed out with the other, aiming to strike at whatever bit of Mr. Shady he could reach despite the close proximity.  Simultaneously, he released his grasp on the fingers around his neck and reached towards Mr. Shady's face, one hand desperately reaching to claw at eyes while the other thrust, palm-first, at the man's nose. 

Hoping at least one of his defensive attacts would distract his assailant long enough, Anton tilted his head back to scream into the surrounding darkness.  "Side alley!  Fire!  Help!" 

Lazarus was unfazed by the boy's fight. He just tightened his grip on his throat and pressed him further up the wall. No air, no screaming. That was the mortal math. He used his other hand to grab the boy's face by the jaw and steady it straight at him. The boy could keep up with hands if he wanted, but perhaps he prioritized breathing.

"Be quiet."

Old Laz, normally so tranquil and slack of face, was screwed up with intense resentment. Resentment that these young things didn't have enough sense to preserve themselves until it was too late? The little ones at Hooker's game, the one with the quick wand in Knockturn, and now this tourist. What soft upbringing left them healthy and unharried by practical hesitations? What confidence made them stroll so freely where monsters lurked? The living envied the dead, went the old verse. But the dead craved the living.

"Be quiet," Laz growled with more insistence. He wasn't going to make promises the boy wouldn't believe.

"Old Laz has a lesson for you. Name. Name." The vampire let some breath through.

Anton ignored the first instruction the man ... the whatever ... offered and called out into the night for help for as long as his remaining breath would allow.  The window for getting out of this unscathed was clearly painfully narrow but Anton was going to fight for every chance he had. 

He had no idea if anyone managed to hear anything in the fleeting moments before the flow of air to his lungs was cut off and his voice was silenced. 

He reached once more for the hand around his neck, fingers grappling with desperation at the vice grip.  In contrast to his frantic hands, Anton made little attempt to avoid or resist the hold on his face.  He met the man's gaze head on, staring back into his eyes as he mouthed a quiet, 'why?' 

"Be quiet."

With considerable effort, Anton forced down the instinct to keep fighting and stilled, though his own fingers remained wrapped over the other's hands. 

"Old Laz has a lesson for you. Name. Name."

The grip on his throat loosened slightly and Anton sucked greedily at the cold night air.  "Wagner.  Kurt Wagner," Anton offered, without hesitation.  "What do you want?"

When the kid ceased his scrambling, Lazarus slid him back down onto his own two feet and released his face, but kept a firm hold on his beating neck.

Kurt Wagner. The boy was as quick with a lie as he'd been with a fight as he'd been with bothering a stranger in the street. He was a hundred and seventy-five years old and a conquerer of libraries. He knew about the fuzzy blue elf.

"You're a liar," he rumbled, drawing out the words, lips curled in a hungry scowl.

It was hard to think. Lazarus knew exactly what he wanted, he wanted to take his fill from the well-built young man, leave him regretting, maybe, having crossed him. Leave him with some wisdom for his family to find like a gift. Laz closed his eyes and rolled his neck. What to do, what to do.

I can see you're not wanting -, 'Kurt' had begun to say. Laz wanted and didn't want. He had no choice but to want, only a choice of what to do with it.

"If I'm going to drain you, you're going to want it," he said.

There were plenty who did. There were a dozen at Hooker's tonight to flirt with death and bliss.

Anton's feet made contact with the ground and the muscles in his arms and legs tightened as he momentarily considered making another desperate attempt fight his way free.  He paid no head to his lie being called to task; he couldn't tell if Mr. Shady had truly expected Anton to divulge his real name but doing so required more foolishness than even Anton possessed. 

Besides, the importance of real names paled dramatically when compared to things like staying alive and ... whatever this was.

"If I'm going to drain you, you're going to want it."

"Drain me?  I definitely don't want to die."

This couldn't be real.  Anton's gaze flickered down towards the pale arms extended towards him as he contemplated the hands wrapped around his neck, still just as ice cold as they had been when they'd first grabbed him.  The collective warmth of Anton's own neck and hands surrounding the other's flesh had done little to counteract the bite of winter.  "You're for real?" he asked, quietly, his eyes darting back up to the fangs glinting at the corner of Mr. Shady ... Old Laz's mouth. 

"Holy fuck, you're a vampire?  For real?"  Magic was one thing.  Witches and wizards were just people with talents.  A more interesting talent than baton twirling, but they were still people.  Living.  Not dead, but not dead.  "That's not ... not just some weird cosplay fetish?" 

There it was.

The kid was all caught up now and the fear on his face was properly calibrated. All fixed up, his new reality all re-aligned with new information. There were probably more pieces to slide into to place, some schemas to rejigger, but the vista was correctly blown wide open.

Lazarus nodded with pitying reassurance. "Good, you've arrived."

He still held the boy effortlessly to the wall, but just enough to keep him from running off. Time for some lessons, time for the stupid games vampires couldn't help but play. With a turn of his thumb, Lazarus nocked Anton's jaw up and to the left. With his other hand, he finger-flicked Anton's neck at the carotid artery.

"That's where we do it, that's where it's done. As much as - ." He gave Anton a small jerk.

"Listen. As much as you'll give. Depending."

Depending on a lot of things. This wasn't helping. He should just let the kid go and slink back to Hookers and have someone who knew what they were doing, or drink from the well. Either take him or leave him, Lazarus, do you think you're special?

Caught up and arrived were probably not accurate descriptions.  Anton had a term: vampire.  Anton still lacked an accurate definition that wasn't an erratically-designed patchwork quilt of popular science fiction and horror literary archetypes. 

For all Anton knew, Old Laz sparkled in the sunlight or secretly only liked chocolate flavored breakfast cereal with marshmallows.

The later seemed increasingly unlikely, judging by the sharp impact of a cold fingernail against the side of his neck.  "I don't want to die," Anton repeated.  One consistent theme spanned the vampire mythologies was the very thing that led people ... muggles ... to them: the strange interplay between eroticism and death. 

The former, admittedly, had intrigued Anton just as much as the next muggle.  Yet, perhaps it wasn't a great surprise how quickly one became a priority when fiction became reality. 

Old Laz' words were framing the feeding as optional; the hands that held him in place told a different story.

"I'm not a squib," he confessed, readily.  Old Laz had ignored Anton's desire to survive; maybe his intent was really just to feed and let Anton walk away.  Maybe magical people had some way to keep themselves from bleeding out through the two canine tooth-sized holes in their neck.  "I can't stop the bleeding."

Lazarus rolled his head and shut his eyes. He did not need the mental image of an endless stream of scarlet running from this boy's pale neck.

"Don't -"  He raised a finger. "Don't."

The vampire quartered out and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a minute, the same arguments and warnings echoing around in his head. Just let him go, Lazarus. Go home, Lazarus. You don't owe this one anything, Lazarus. You can't help everyone, Lazarus. They'll just get themselves killed on their own, that's what the living do, Lazarus.

"I wouldn't kill you. I wouldn't. Others might, maybe, but that's just me. You're lucky it's just me." He looked back at Anton and then dropped his arm. He let go of Anton and just let his arm fall to his side. And for a moment, they were just two men standing.