John dialed his innocence up, eyes widening with feigned hope, a small smile breaking across his face as if light had pierced the gloom.

  "Really? Home?" he said, voice piping higher than his thirteen years warranted. "That is so nice. I was so afraid. I miss my mom. I hope you beautiful ladies would help me find her."

  He breezed past the blond's earlier jab about his family being meat, playing cute as a lost cub—hands clasped, head tilted, the picture of trusting relief.

  "You are so beautiful," he gushed. "I never thought you would save me from those monsters. Thank you." He glanced at the raven-haired one, then back to the group. "You know, after the monsters attacked and everything turned black, when I woke up and she found me—" he pointed shyly at the black-haired vampire "—I was a bit afraid of showing myself. But seeing you are human like me, I am saved."

  He paused, smile softening into reminiscence. "I remember once I got lost in the forest and was found by a dark elf. I trusted him as he said he would take me home, but then he hit me. This was the worst experience—to be hit by someone you trust. Don't you think? But you are humans, so I trust you."

  He beamed up at them, pure and open.

  Inside, calculations raced. Too obvious? He aimed to stoke sadism beyond mere hunger—lure them into toying with him as a "pet," building false trust before the delicious reveal of fangs. Let them savor imagining the horror in his "innocent" face later. Information would flow freer from gloating predators. But the true predator here was John, he thought. Then a thought went through his mind after thinking of these women as prey and he blushed a bit. He corrected himself as if someone was reading his thoughts: predator in terms of strength, nothing indecent, nothing indecent.

  Silence stretched, thick as the castle's tainted air.

  John held his beaming smile, mind turning inward. How practical it would be if he could read thoughts—like the Shaman's glimpses, dragons' deep probes, or the effortless scans of most demi-gods he'd met. No clumsy theater, no feigned innocence would have been necessary if he had that skill—just truths plucked clean would have followed the encounter.

  The vampires stared, exchanging unreadable glances. The blond tilted her head; the brown-haired cracked knuckles; the ginger licked her fangs; the raven-haired crossed her arms.

  Then, words tumbled—harsh, sibilant syllables in a tongue alien to him. Consonants clawed like thorns, vowels stretched into hisses. Gestures accompanied: nods, sneers, a pointed finger at John.

  He caught inflections—laughter? Disdain?—but meaning eluded. Ancient? Corrupted dialect? No translation from his skills, he did not have anything that could help in his repertoire. Had he grown too fast without building up some basic utilitarian skills like foreign languages?

  They eyed him expectantly, as if debating his fate in code. John's act held, but tension coiled.

  John strained to catch meaning as the vampires conferred in their alien tongue, but the words flowed past like smoke, incomprehensible to him.

  The blond one broke silence again, gesturing at him with a manicured long black-painted nail. "This is strange," she said in the foreign speech. "He says he was captured by the children of The Rotfather. Sure, they usually capture some prey for us and bring it here, inside crimson preservation cocoons. But no children of him came back to us from the last wave, and this human boy was there alone, outside of his cocoon."

  The raven-haired vampire nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as she circled him. "Indeed, this is strange. He seems unaffected by the air inside the castle. I am sure he would rot immediately outside without being in a cocoon, but still, he should feel sick in here. And more importantly, how did he get here?"

  The brown-haired one leaned against the black marble table, cracking her knuckles with a grin. "This boy is a bit spooky. He looks so innocent. I want to torture him, but his little story about the dark elf… I now really want to make him trust me, give him hope, before crushing that same hope. Did he do that on purpose? Did he not notice we are vampires? I mean, he is young, but no toddler. Did he not see our fangs?"

  The red-haired vampire licked her lips, tilting her head as she studied him. "I agree, he is strange… But did you see how he avoided looking at our bodies? He is flustered, and his head turned red. That cannot be faked. Maybe his attempts at avoiding lust fogged his mind and vision to the exposition of our fangs, clouded by the expositions of forms we share with his kind."

  John had no idea what they were saying, their words weaving through the air like distant echoes he couldn't grasp.

  He tilted his head slightly, widening his eyes into soft, pleading puppy gazes—round and shimmering with feigned vulnerability, brows furrowed just enough to tug at any buried shred of pity or sadistic amusement. His lower lip trembled artfully, hands clasped at his chest as if clinging to fragile hope.

  The vampires paused mid-converse, their alien chatter faltering under that innocent stare.

  The blond-haired vampire switched to the common speech, a sadistic smile curling her lips, fangs glinting.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  "It's decided," she said. "We will help you find your family, but it is too dangerous to go outside right now. So you will need to stay here with us for some days. Come, join us for a meal."

  She took his arm—not roughly, but with possessive firmness—guiding him through a side archway. The others followed, chuckling low.

  They entered another room: a dining hall carved from the castle's gloom. A long wooden table dominated the center, scarred and dark-polished from uncounted years, flanked by high-backed chairs of twisted ebony with claw-footed legs. Walls loomed paneled in faded tapestries depicting forgotten massacres, threads frayed but colors muted to grays and crimsons under sputtering torchlight from iron sconces. A massive hearth gaped empty, cold ashes scattered; vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, cobwebs draping like veils. No slime, no writhe—just oppressive antiquity, air stale with dust and faint incense.

  They seated him at the table's end. The blond vampire plunked a plate before him: a dead squirrel-like creature, more a deformed abomination with seven spindly legs splayed, three milky eyes staring blankly, fur patchy and mottled. Raw, entrails glistening faintly.

  These vampires had no clue what humans ate.

  John stared at the plate, the multi-legged abomination's glassy eyes seeming to plead from beyond death. His stomach twisted—not from fear, but genuine revulsion at the raw, twitching mess.

  He pushed the plate away gently, forcing wide-eyed innocence into his voice while keeping his mind shielded tight. "Th-thank you, but... I can't eat that. It looks scary. Do you have bread or fruit? My mom always said humans need plants too."

  The blond vampire tilted her head, fangs flashing in amusement as the others exchanged glances. She snapped her fingers; a shadowy servant—gaunt, eyeless—shuffled in with a heel of stale bread and a bruised apple, placing them before him.

  John nibbled delicately, buying time as feigned relief softened his features. "This place is so big and spooky. Are you the queens here? What's outside—more monsters like the ones that got my family?" His questions dangled like bait, drawing their egos into gloating range.

  The raven-haired one leaned close, her scent overwhelming—jasmine laced with blood-copper. "Queens? Hardly, pet. This is Lady Lilith’s castle, last bastion before the heartlands. Monsters serve us; we feed on strays from Naggaroth's raids." The redhead smirked, tracing a nail along his arm. "Your 'family' probably fueled the hounds. Eat up—you'll need strength for games."

  The brunette chuckled, popping a glistening organ from the abomination into her mouth. "Lilith scouts the pulse—the corruption's core. Demi-gods clash at the borders; we pick scraps. Stay sweet, boy, and maybe we will show you the towers."

  John beamed gratefully, heart racing beneath the act—this was gold. Lilith commanded here; a nexus pulsed deeper in. No demi-god auras yet, but intel flowed freely from their arrogance. He nodded eagerly. "I'd love that! You're so kind—not like that mean dark elf." Let them preen; the trap would snap when he chose.

  John nodded eagerly at the stale bread, tearing off a small piece and chewing with exaggerated gratitude, his wide eyes flicking between the vampires as if they were saviors in a nightmare.

  He swallowed, voice soft and trusting. "Lady Lilith's castle? That sounds so grand. You're right—those monsters ate my family. But you're different. You saved me. I feel safe here." Inside, his thoughts churned: These four aren't even trying to deceive me. They flat-out say we're meat to monsters, admit they're the real ones, yet I have to play dumber than dirt—innocent kid lapping up their 'kindness.' Am I fooling them, or are they playing me? If they knew my power, one snap ends them all. No way they'd gloat like this.

  The blond vampire ruffled his hair, her touch cool and possessive. "Sweet pet. Lilith rules from the spire—scouts the pulse, that throbbing heart deeper in. Demi-gods war at the edges; we feast on the fallout."

  John felt like they were repeating themselves.

  The raven-haired one smirked, lounging closer, her barely-there garb shifting provocatively. "Finish eating. We'll take you to the guest chambers—soft bed, no chains yet." The redhead laughed, popping another organ like candy. "Play nice, and maybe Lilith will share the secrets of the Rotfather's children."

  John beamed wider, hiding his predator's calculus. They're handing me the map—Lady Lilith, the pulse of some heart in the heartlands, Rotfather. Let them think me prey. "Thank you! Will you show me?" Vulnerability masked the tiger coiled within.

  John tilted his head, nibbling the last of the apple core with wide-eyed curiosity, voice piping innocently. "Who is the Rotfather you mentioned? Is he like dad?"

  The black-haired vampire leaned in, her red-tinged eyes gleaming with fervent pride. "He is a god, pet, the god of Decay. When he ascended, he left his heart here—the pulsing core that cleansed this land of all that's green and colorful. Ugly weeds, gone. He evolved the previous inhabitants into his beautiful children."

  John nodded slowly, feigning awe while his mind flipped the script: World upside down. 'Ugly' meant normal life—humans, elves, animals, flowers, trees. 'Beautiful children' are those abominations—flesh-warped horrors. Even if these vampires look stunning by my standards, their tastes are twisted. Gold intel, though—Rotfather's heart is the nexus powering this rot. That was too easy.

  The blond chuckled, tracing his cheek. "Hungry for stories? Good boy. Finish up; guest chambers await." John beamed trustingly, the predator within savoring the map to corruption's source.

  After the meal, they left the others behind and John trailed the blond vampire through winding corridors of blackened stone, torchlight flickering off veined walls that pulsed faintly like veins under skin. Her hips swayed provocatively ahead, the scarlet ribbon between her thighs teasing with each step.

  "Where is the heart of the Rotdaddy?" John asked, voice high and eager.

  She stumbled mid-stride, nearly tripping on her high heels, a startled laugh escaping. "Rotdaddy? Aren't you a curious one? Tomorrow, pet—what do you say?"

  He darted forward, hugging her from behind, arms wrapping her waist as his cheek pressed against her bare back. "Oh, please, tell me." Heat flooded his face at the press of her curves—soft, cool skin against him—blush genuine despite the act.

  She spun, fangs glinting in a predatory smile. "I'm hungry—need to hunt with the sisters. I'll eat you... I mean, tell you tomorrow." Pushing him gently through a heavy door, she vanished, lock clicking.

  The bedroom unfolded in decayed luxury: a vast four-poster bed draped in tattered crimson silk, pillows mounded like pale thighs; walls hung with frayed tapestries of blood orgies, figures entwined in eternal feasts; a marble bath steaming faintly in the corner, scented with dead jasmine and copper; a barred window overlooking tar-pits lit the room, gargoyles leering below. Velvet chaise, silver mirrors cracked like spiderwebs—fit for a consort, not a prisoner.

  Alone, John paced, fingers itching. Rest meant lost time even if not vulnerability—vampires might return mid-feast but he was no prey. Escape through the window? Stealth should be easy if he did not get distracted, the castle was ripe for prowling: Lilith's spire, the pulsing heart intel dangling. But guards prowled; one slip, and deception would crumble. He weighed it—power coiled, ready. Explore now, map the nexus under moonlight? Or feign sleep, bait their overconfidence till the sunless dawn of the corrupted lands?