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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 1 year ago

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Immortal Artistry - Ch. 5

Series Main List

A Vampire AU F1 Fic Featuring Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader, George Russell x Fem!Reader, hints of Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader, Lestappen, Sebchal, and Sainzell (or Russainz?)

Also on AO3

Ch. 5 Warnings: Explicit sexual content; language; stalker behavior; abduction; vampire blood violence and thrall; WWII references to Hitler and Nazi regime; non-graphic violence, murder and death

2023

You draft back to consciousness. A soft pillow rests beneath your head. A warm blanket surrounds you. A heavenly mattress cushions you. Blinking your eyes open, you swear that you float on a cloud, except….

The bedroom’s unfamiliar surroundings fill you with immediate dread. Exhaustion gnaws at every muscle, but your fight-or-flight response still engages. Especially as the alarming memories of the coffee shop return in full force - remembering George and his… teeth. Remembering Max just suddenly being there and then… now, you’re here…

If only you knew where here is. The furniture speaks to opulent luxury and exquisite taste, even down to the plush carpet that greets your feet as you sit up. A wave of dizziness makes your head swim as you get your bearings, and your gaze lands on a glass of orange juice sitting on the bedside table.

Orange juice… and not water?

Curiosity compels you to lean forward, hovering your nose over the glass’ contents. The sweet aroma of juicy citrus perfumes the air, and your confusion only grows. Why of all liquids is orange juice resting on the bedside table?

Your ears catch up with the rest of your senses, and you turn towards the cracked bedroom door. The soft, elegant notes of a piano float from somewhere beyond, just barely audible in the silence of the bedroom. Standing up, you draw an uneasy breath as your body feels weak. You have no idea what time it is or when you last ate, but it doesn't appear that you’re locked in, so maybe you can escape.

The door swings wide on a silent hinge, and the hallway beyond matches the same elegant taste as the bedroom. A grand staircase extends from the end of the hallway, and you follow it down on plush carpet as the piano music grows steadily louder.

When your feet touch the marble landing, your stomach drops as you recognize everything about the interior of the opulent, classy main floor. It takes you instantly back to your dream - or fuck, the not dream - the last time that you saw Charles. To when… fuck, was that seriously just last night?

You gasp for breath as the room starts to spin, raising a hand to your head to brace yourself.

The piano music dies as an all-too familiar silky voice calls out. “Careful, cara mia. You should still be resting.”

Drawing a deep breath through your nose and exhaling out your mouth, you force your eyes open only to see… him.

Charles sits on the gleaming white piano bench, turned towards you with a soft, concerned smile. A white dress shirt highlights the lean build of his torso and rolled sleeves showcase the elegant planes of his forearms. Dark suit trousers hug his legs above bare feet, and coupled with the devil-may-care style of his hair… it’s -

No man should be allowed to look so criminally handsome.

You give a bewildered shake of your head. “I don’t… I’m too tired to rest.” Again, you scrub a hand across your forehead and down your face, feeling the ache in your temples increase.

“Did you drink the orange juice?”

You hang your head with a gentle shake. “No - what kind of idiot do you take me for? Drinking an unknown drink when I don’t even know where I am?”

A shadow moves off to your left, and your eyes dart up to suddenly see Charles standing alongside you. How had you not even heard him move? Or heard the scrape of the piano bench against the floor?

“You’ve been through a lot - too much, I suppose. But that just speaks to your strength.” Charles continues softly as a cool, solid hand falls to your shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you should overdo it, though.” He guides you forward, and you can’t summon the strength to resist.

With a sigh, you drop to sit on a cushy couch that has no right to be so inviting. Blinking heavy eyelids up at him, goodness… Charles is stunning. Golden light catches in the waves of his hair and shines in the emeralds of his eyes. He radiates breezy confidence, an oasis of calm in the muddled desert that has become your life.

He gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Will you be alright if I leave you here? I really do think orange juice would help.”

“As long as…” you sigh as you swallow nervously. “Only if you promise it’s not poisoned.”

“I promise it’s not poisoned.” With another gentle squeeze of your shoulder, his touch disappears as he moves away from you. “I don’t have any reason to wish you dead. If I did, you would still be in that coffee shop with George.”

The memories replay in the back of your mind as anxiety clenches your stomach. “Then, why am I here?”

Your question lingers unanswered as Charles disappears for – not even the space of a breath. Your brow furrows at the sudden appearance of a glass of orange juice in his hand, and… okay, maybe your brain is just really too tired to even see straight.

The glass is cold against your fingertips and the pulpy liquid is admittedly refreshing. The sugary liquid hits your empty stomach and a burst of energy warms your stomach.

Charles wears a patient and satisfied expression as you take another hearty drink. “See?” He prompts. “Not poisoned.”

Embarrassed heat rises in your cheeks. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but-”

“I haven’t given you any reason to trust me, and if I were you, I probably wouldn’t, either.” He cuts you off as he joins you on the couch and levels you with a serious stare. “But it’s time to fix that.”

A chill races along your skin, rippling down your spine. Something about him reminds you of George, of that predatory glow in his eyes. Your fingers tighten around the glass as unwanted memory flashes in your mind.

“Were you this frightened for Charles, hmm?” George cooed. “I can’t imagine how he resisted you…”

Your other hand rises to your throat as if to protect it. “… What was George going to do to my neck?”

“Bite you, of course.” Charles answers without pause, his tone light despite the gravity of his words. “I hadn’t wanted to tell you outright what we are. At face value, the truth is quite dismissible – laughable, even. But, well… George saved me the trouble, I suppose.”

You turn to him with wide eyes. “He was going to bite me? With those unnaturally pointed teeth of his? Like, what… like a vamp– ”

The word dies in your throat as Charles’ smile widens to reveal fangs – honest-to-God fangs - of his own. Razor sharp canines that dwarf the surrounding teeth and glint in the golden light like a knife’s edge.

Your mind slams into overdrive as the impossible truth stares you in the face. “That…” you trail off as you struggle to make sense of it. “That’s why you needed the late night meeting… that’s why I’ve only ever seen you at night. And Max, too. And -” You shake your head as you recall every time that you have seen George - in the hours after sunset, in the time before sunrise. “And the… what did you call it? Hypnosis?” You turn back to Charles, thankful to see his fangs hidden away. “That’s your thrall, isn’t it?”

Charles’ gaze sharpens with a shrewd edge. “That’s just one name for it. Bram Stoker didn’t get everything right, but he certainly knew enough.”

You gulp heavily at the implication. “Does that mean I’m under your spell? Or rather, Max’s spell…? That I’m… forced to do his bidding whenever he wants?”

“The effects of our hypnotic hold over mortals is temporary unless there’s a blood exchange. And since he hasn’t bitten you, you two don’t share that connection unless he’s present.”

“So, if George had…” A shuddering breath leaves you as your stomach rots. “If he had bitten me, then I’d now be trapped under his spell?”

“Whether he would have hypnotized you tonight or not, I cannot say - but whenever he chose to, it would be much easier for him to do so. And me - or Max, for that matter - would be unable to help you.”

“Because I would be his?”

Charles nods his head. “Because you would be his.”

Something about that thought… isn’t completely revolting. George, the man - err, vampire - is certainly handsome and quite charming. But it still doesn’t make sense. You take another sip of the orange juice, reaching forward to set the glass down on the coffee table. “But I guess I don’t understand why he would want to make me his. He…”

“But Charles gave it to you.” George pressed. “You have it, don’t you? Xavier didn’t have it.”

Anxiety knots your stomach as you turn back to Charles, glimpsing the glittering light dancing in his green eyes. “George asked me if you gave me something. Something that Xavier didn’t have.” Your gaze narrows pointedly. “He was talking about my boss, right? Were you supposed to give him something that night, but you met with me instead?”

Charles’ gaze hardens. “Xavi already knew what I had to give him, and I knew that my meeting wasn’t with him.”

“Then, are you able to tell George that I don’t have it? Whatever it is… then he can leave me alone, and you two can sort it out.”

Charles’ soft chuckle cracks a smile on his face. “I’m afraid the game is far too old for that. We each have our chess pieces and we play them as opportunity allows.” His eyes narrow in open assessment, heat growing on your skin as he looks you up and down. “He was trying to make you into his own personal chess piece, but fortunately, Max has been keeping a close eye on you.”

“Is that meant to be reassuring?” You scoff. “You say that George wants to turn me into his chess piece - well, how do I know that you and Max aren’t trying to do the same?”

“Who says we aren’t?”

Your blood runs cold as shivers ripple down your spine. You stare back, wide-eyed and stunned as your mouth goes dry. “So, you’re… you’re going to… bite me?”

“It’s the offer on the table.” Charles says with a business-like calm. “If George is convinced of some fact and wants you on his side - with or without your permission - then, Max thought we would offer you the choice.”

You gulp, glancing around the expansive room. “And is he here? Max…?”

A private smile curls the corner of Charles’ mouth. “He’s never too far away.”

Nothing about that is anymore comforting, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “Okay… so, according to you - I have two options: join George’s team or join your team?”

“If you must simplify it so plainly, then yes.”

“Then, why don’t you explain it to me?”

Charles arches a defiant brow. “Do you really think that would make you safer?”

“Do you think it would place me in any more danger?” You shake your head sharply with another scoff. “I don’t have the first fucking clue about any of this and already I’ve met three vampires - possibly more - and one of them has attacked me, while another one has hypnotized me, and now, you’re… you’re…”

You don’t know what exactly. Your thoughts are too jumbled and Charles isn’t speaking clearly enough for you to piece the big picture together.

“I really thought you were smarter than that.” George urged. “Smart enough to see through him… to see that what he’s doing is just wrong.”

With another deep breath, you swallow your rising anxiety. “How do I know your team is the right one to join, hmm?” You arch a challenging brow. “How do I know that you’re not the villain in this game of chess?”

The look in Charles’ eyes suddenly ages him decades older than his youthful countenance. “Heroes and villains are constructs of the mortal world, cara mia. Fanciful concepts to paint the world in white and black, and right and wrong.” He pauses as a wickedly tempting smile lights his face. “But immortality offers a world of grey and endless opportunity to make your way.”

“That doesn’t exactly help your case, you know.”

“I know, and I’m not trying to build a case.” He nods towards you. “Whether or not you like it, or whether or not you know why, you’re caught in the middle. And if you want control of the choice, then you will make it tonight.”

Frustration tightens the line of your jaw. “Then why don’t you just tell me what I’m caught in the middle of, and then I can make an informed decision.”

“I fear telling you outright would only raise suspicion. Especially if you are, as of yet… unclaimed.”

You arch a brow as your stomach drops to your feet. “Unclaimed…? You said nothing about claiming me.”

“It’s, err - maybe not the best choice of word.” A sheepish look flashes across his face. “But after a blood exchange, our hypnotic hold intensifies and…evolves. It forms a sort-of mental connection between us and our chosen thrall, but the thrall is not completely independent of free-will. It’s…” He trails off with a sigh and another sheepish grin. “It’s not easy to explain, actually.”

You stare at him, still unable to believe it. “How… how long have you been alive?”

“I’ve been undead since 1940.”

“1940…? Shit, that’s… World War II.”

Slowly, he nods. “Yes, it was.”

“Did you fight?”

His gaze finds yours, mesmerizing and keen. “Quite personal questions, don’t you think?”

You shrug gently. “You said it was time to change the fact that I don’t trust you. If George was going to just… take me in that coffee shop tonight, then maybe you… you can just give it to me, instead? If that makes sense…?”

Something sparks in Charles’ eyes, and really… it’s fucking unfair how edible he looks. His tongue darts out to wet his top lip and you’re helpless not to follow the motion. “I did fight,” he starts softly. “Monaco - still my home, even then - remained neutral throughout the war, but 800 men were mobilized in support of French forces when war broke out in 1939.” He pauses as his eyes gloss over with distant memory. “By May 1940, the Nazis were sweeping the continent and our forces had nowhere to go except for Dunkirk.”

Your breath catches. “Dunkirk…? The Dunkirk evacuation?” It sounds too unreal to possibly be real. “You were there?”

“I never made it that far.” Charles says with a short shake of his head. “My sire found me in the woods as we marched towards the coast. I suppose you could say he saved me the trouble of worrying about a boat ride when he transformed me.”

“Is that what you call it?” You wave a hand as if the motion somehow captures everything about Charles’ words. “When you turn into a… vampire? A transformation?”

“That, too, has many names - but that is what I prefer to call it.”

Again, your hand rises to your neck in a protective gesture and your thumb sweeps over your pulse. “Were you given the choice? By your - what did you call him - sire?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth tightens. “No, I wasn’t. And no - I won’t explain his reasoning.”

“I wasn’t going to ask. That just seems…” You’re not sure exactly what to say. It seems wrong that Charles wasn’t given a choice on whether to become immortal or not. But, then again, how do you actually answer a question like that? Either way, it’s far too personal to ever be any of your business.

Silence stretches between you, and thankfully, he doesn’t press you. Why would he? The man - the vampire - literally has forever to wait. You, on the other hand… fuck, you still have to go to work tomorrow. You still don’t have a boss, you still don’t have a clue what Charles was supposed to give Xavier that George wants, and… you don’t even have a clue how late it is.

You turn back towards Charles. “If you bite me - if I let you - what do I get out of it?” Even as the words leave your tongue, they still sound impossibly ridiculous. Vampires just aren’t real… yet you can’t deny all the proof before your eyes.

“A fair question.” Charles acknowledges. “I suppose you could call it protection… or, at least, subliminal awareness of each other. A connection that could alert me to your distress or future danger. A connection that could lead me to where you are, in case you’re captured.”

The orange juice roils in your gut. “None of that sounds reassuring.”

“No?” He echoes even as the corner of his mouth lifts. “Nothing reassuring about having me as your own personal guardian angel?”

“Not if that also turns me into a piece on your chessboard.”

“Then, it doesn’t have to be me.” His smile widens with a teasing, suggestive slant. “As I recall, you were indeed quite taken with Max.”

Your cheeks heat with an embarrassed flush, especially since you’re not able to conjure any concrete memory of being ‘quite taken’ with Max. Just what exactly had you done? Or what had you said? “I don’t… that’s not…” You struggle for words, hoping it’s not obvious to him. “You… or him - that’s not the -”

“Or it could be both of us.”

Unwanted thoughts flood your brain. Dear Lord, what would it be to have the two of them together? Images of a cliche dark room, four-poster bed and blood-red sheets dance in your mind. Tangles of lean hips and strong arms, thick brunette curls and lush sandy locks surround you as you’re caught in the push and pull between them. Rivulets of blood decorate your skin, weeping from matching puncture wounds as they own your body, inside and out.

A different heat stirs in your blood - a demanding heat that gathers between your legs, unstoppable even in the face of life-threatening danger and utter confusion.

Charles purrs low in his throat. “Exquisite, cara mia.”

Mortified heat burns your cheeks. “No, no - I don’t-”

“Your lying words cannot mask the scent of your blood.” He pauses to draw a deliberate, deep inhale. “And yours heats with such… delectable promise.”

“It’s nothing, it’s - “ You cut yourself off as another thought dawns. “Do you not wish that I was more scared? I thought… well, George made it sound like fear… was the most delicious?”

A low, throaty chuckle rumbles in Charles’ chest. “I suppose it depends on one’s preference. If you liken fear to dark chocolate and desire to a lush fruit - they both can make for an exquisite treat while being quite different.”

“And your preference?” Your words come far breathier than you would like as your heart gallops.

Charles’ eyes darken as his smile widens. “If I wanted you scared,” he says carefully as he slowly raises a hand, brushing a knuckle down the outside of your arm in a gentle caress. “We would be having a much different conversation.”

His touch speaks to the traitorous arousal curling at the base of your spine, and god… why is this so hard? You force a swallow down your dry throat. “So, you w-would rather…”

“I would rather have you melting in my lap, whimpering with desire, and soaking through my trousers,” his voice doesn’t falter as he holds you with a gaze that leaves no room for doubt. “If you choose me, that is.”

“A-and Max…?” You manage to say around your heavy breathing. “H-he wouldn’t mind if you… if we-”

“Max is indeed very special to me - more so than any mortal. But he and I are not…” Charles trails off as a predatory gleam sharpens his enticing smirk. “Exclusive.”

Fuck, that does absolutely nothing to help. Your body continues to run away from the protests of your mind, not helped by the teasing caress of his nimble fingers. A shiver ripples across your skin as you fight for clarity. “You’re not playing fair.”

Another delicious chuckle sounds in Charles’ throat. “No, I’m not, am I? One is never too old - or undead - to not press their advantage.” His hand turns against your arm and his fingertips brush the exposed skin of your forearm. A shuddering sigh passes your lips as his chilly touch races more shivers through you. Your thighs clench together with aching need, unable to understand the strong reaction of your body.

Your breath catches in your throat as the sofa dips under his shifting weight. The heady weight of his thigh brushes yours, and an intoxicating scent reaches your nose… fucking fuck, why does he have to smell so good? You want to chase the spicy, woodsy scent across his skin, to breathe it deep in your lungs. Your eyes drop closed as it invades your senses, further fogging your brain.

Charles’ fingers dance around your wrist, stroking the thin, tender skin covering the major blood vessels beneath. “You still have a choice, cara mia.” His voice washes over you like rich syrup. “You just need to tell me what you want.”

Whatever resistance your mind can summon drowns under the urgent rush of blood pounding in your ears, and… at least, this is on your terms. Mostly. With a trembling breath, you slowly nod. “Y-yes… alright.”

He growls low in approval. “I’m honored, cara mia.” He gives your wrist a gentle squeeze before threading his fingers over the back of your hand and interlacing them together.

You squeeze his hand, finding more reassurance in his touch than you ever expected despite the chilly temperature of his skin. Again, he shifts closer to you, and your heart races as he looms over you - so controlled, so dark, so fucking gorgeous.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers in a velvet pur. “Just breathe.”

You draw a deep breath, trying to steady the pounding of your heart. Can he hear it? Does he know how it threatens to beat out of your chest?

The cool press of his nose against your cheek makes you gasp and involuntarily arch into his touch. Every part of your body responds to his close presence and cries out for more, so much more.

“That’s it,” he coos, nuzzling down the line of your jaw as you helplessly tilt your head. “You are such a treasure.”

A whimper passes your lips as you drown under his voice. His lips dance along the column of your throat and you squeeze his hand, rewarded when he tightens his grip in response.

His teeth slice through your skin like butter. The sharp, invasive pain lances through you and a gasping cry lodges in your throat. His lips seal around the wounds, and pleasure slams through you as he draws your blood. Your body twitches against the couch in desperate need, moaning with abandon as mindless euphoria overtakes you. You cling tight to his hand, lost to everything that floods your body as he takes another long, slow drink. Your other hand finds the silky locks of his hair, holding him close, grasping for contact - for leverage to get your body closer to his.

The piercing sting of his teeth withdraws and a needy whimper pitches high in your throat. A bereft sense of loss spreads through you, and you cling tighter to him, trying to chase that delicious high. His tongue finds your skin, dragging over the twin punctures with solid, steady strokes that do nothing to quell the inferno raging inside you.

You don’t recognize the sound of your own ragged breathing as he continues to lick and nuzzle at your skin. You also don’t recognize the light-headed dizziness that dances in your head, nor how you seem to be floating six feet above the couch. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.

And you haven’t even orgasmed. Or, at least, you don’t think so.

Charles gives your hand a gentle squeeze as it relaxes in his grip. “Thank you, cara mia.” He nuzzles your jaw with a satisfied hum. “I don’t think you’ll regret your decision.”

“Wha…” The word dies on your tongue, slurred as you struggle to think through the sensations overloading your body.

Charles shushes you gently, pressing a wet, sticky kiss to your cheek. “You should rest. I understand the first time is… quite intense.” Another press of his lips follows as your eyelids grow heavy and darkness cuts the corners of your mind. “That’s it, cara mia. Rest now, and I’ll see to it that you get home.”

1944

The sounds of the cavern deafen him. Max still isn’t used to his heightened hearing and each drip of water, each scrape of pebbles against stone, each whistle of wind grates on his nerves. He doesn’t consider patience to be one of his strengths, but at least, he doesn’t need a torch in this godforsaken underground labyrinth.

“There’s nothing here, Charles.” He says without preamble as they take in the dark stone surroundings. “The soldier lied to us.”

“Can you blame him?” Charles counters, unbothered by Max’s irritation. His smile still glints in the damp darkness and his eyes glow with the thrill of exploration. Max can’t explain why Charles’ breathtaking beauty continues to stun him, but he finds himself falling all over again. Charles blinks down to the ground, scuffing at a small puddle as he continues. “I’m glad there is nothing stored here, though. This humid environment would be terrible for the artwork.”

Max snorts before he can stop himself. “It’s remarkable how much you care - actually care - about the artwork.”

“It’s clear the Nazis only see it as a means to an end, or a bargaining chip.” Charles says, his voice echoing off the stone cave. “Just because we haven't heard of them ransoming treasures doesn’t mean that it’s not happening.”

“Why ransom when they can just sell?” Max scoffs. “Or take it for free and turn a profit? Nothing has stopped them yet.”

“Nor will it.” Charles agrees as he looks back over at Max in the darkness. “Not until they consume everything worth consuming.”

Dripping water echoes off the stone walls and cold humidity eats at their skin, but when Charles holds him with such a tender gaze, Max finds it hard to care about anything else. His feet crunch against loose stone and earth as he steps close to Charles and wraps his chilled fingers in a gentle handhold. “Is it a bad joke to say that your fingers feel as cold as death?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth ticks up. “That is most definitely a bad joke, but we are undead men together so that shouldn’t bother you.”

“I never said it did.” Max gives Charles’ hand a squeeze as he hums low in his throat. “In fact, quite the opposite. It’s hard to steal time away with you, you know.”

An endearingly modest smile takes over Charles’ face. “There is a war going on, you know? Even for immortals, opportunity waits for no one.”

Max nearly rolls his eyes. “You sound like Seb.”

“Perhaps you should learn to listen better to him.” Charles’ voice drops to a silky, deliberately teasing register. “We both owe him a lot.”

“I don’t owe him shit.” Max says, raising his other hand to Charles’ chin and pressing against the delicate skin to raise the other man’s head. “When I lay there dying - when I begged for help - you were the only one. Not any of those soldiers, not Seb - you.”

“I’m still sorry that I couldn’t give you the choice.”

“Stop apologizing for that. I asked for help and you helped - simple as that.”

Fond appreciation warms Charles’ mesmerizing eyes before he leans it and effortlessly slots his mouth to Max’s. The kiss transcends words, stirring the passion and possession that overtakes them both during stolen moments together. Arousal heats Max’s frigid veins as Charles’ tongue pries at the seam of his lips and their embrace deepens. A low growl pitches in Max’s throat as they devour each other.

Opportunity may wait for no one, but surely Max can take time to press Charles against the uneven stone, to hear his ragged moans echo in the cavern, to let their bodies chase pleasure together in the dark underground.

An answering growl stirs in Charles’ chest and Max abandons Charles’ chin to skim his fingers down the pale column of his neck. He rolls his hips forward, pressing them tight to Charles with shameless abandon. “Let me have you,” Max breathes into Charles’ mouth. “Let me fuck you raw.”

“Oh, fuck,” Charles gasps as his hips match Max’s with an answering thrust. “That would feel so good right now.”

“Better than good.” Max murmurs, nipping along Charles’ lips. “I’ll make you-”

“There’s something happening on the road.” Seb’s voice echoes in the stone chamber, slicing through the lustful fog. “Get out here. Now.”

Frustration stabs Max in the chest, but once he separates from Charles, he can understand that this isn’t necessarily the most appropriate moment. But, dammit, they’ve been searching the cavernous underworld beneath the multitude of mountain ranges in the Northern Limestone Alps for weeks now. Each major retreat of Nazi squadrons narrows the search. Each desperate attempt by men on the losing side to thwart the forward advance of the victors yields more clues.

They’re so close to the Nazi central storage location, Max can almost taste it.

In the moment, though, he only has the fading memory of Charles’ kiss lingering on his tongue as they navigate their way out of the cave. If the diehard Nazi troops in the region are stirring up a scene at this late hour, then it must truly be something noteworthy.

The glow of moonlight blinds him for an instant as his eyes adjust and he surveys the scene on the road. A truck trundles along the rutted path without headlights, but the glow of one lone torch hangs out the passenger window. Usually, the Nazi troops don’t try to hide their presence - with a string of labor camps near Ebensee and confirmed rumors of Nazi stockpiles near Totes Gebirge - they all but own the surrounding Salzkammergut Mountains. However, the men in this truck clearly don’t wish to be seen - even by their own kind.

Charles crouches low, squinting into the distance. “Now where could they possibly be going at this hour?”

Seb tilts his head as he stares at the truck. “Somewhere they don’t want anyone to see.”

“Then, they shouldn’t use a truck.” Max says with a shake of his head. “They’d be less conspicuous on foot.”

“This road is so rural,” Seb counters. “There’s no one that they would expect to find here.”

Charles’ smirk gleams in the moonlight. “Except us.”

Max matches his smirk. “Unlucky bastards.”

They move in the night, swift as shadows and just as silent. Of all his heightened vampiric senses, the supernatural strength and agility that infused his muscles has to be Max’s favorite. While the sharpened vision and enhanced hearing are useful, when it comes to trailing their Nazi quarry… well, Max takes every advantage that he can get.

It’s only when they close the distance, easily close enough to strike, that Seb comes to a deliberate stop. A stab of confused disappointment lances through Max as he stops in tandem silence with Charles, both glancing towards the older vampire. He doesn’t use words, but none of them need to.

The soldiers tell their own story as they cluster around the shrouded, rocky outcropping at the base of the mountains. Seb calls this range Totes Gebirge - Dead Mountains - and Max has to agree it’s aptly fitting. The jagged, rocky surroundings support almost no vegetation and honestly, it’s going to be a suitable grave for these soon-to-be dead men.

Between the atrocities he witnessed at home and the inhumane horrors of the Nazi camps, Max has no qualms about dispatching anyone who wears the swastika. And the longer he watches the group of six men stand around the rocks, the more his frustration grows.

Seb turns towards him, silently raising a hand - a sign to stay calm, to hold position. Max may never have been a soldier given the Netherlands’ neutrality, but his time in the Resistance taught him plenty. He grits his teeth, running his thumb over the round, knobbed end of the spike dagger in his pocket. Despite the prowess of his physical strength and sharp teeth, he’s never broken the habit of relying on his dagger for the dirty work often required in spycraft.

Like Seb, he turns his attention back to the soldiers, watching as three of them turn and disappear into the shadows of the mountain… into a cave, he realizes. The situation turns more curious as voices raise in clear disagreement, in clear alarm and anger. When the men return, two of them labor under a heavy load. Their backs stoop low as they manhandle a long, curved tube, a tube… outfitted with aerial fins.

Charles’ near silent gasp reaches his ears as realization hits him, too. It’s an aircraft bomb. Is this some secret Nazi weapon stockpile? Or are these men thieves in the night? It seems hard to believe such a small detachment would be out so late for an official supply run. Especially in a truck with no headlights.

Seb’s fangs flash in the night, and the reasons for the soldiers’ presence hardly matters. He leads the stealthy charge forward, and Max follows with an eager willingness to spring into action. His spike dagger whispers in the darkness as the sharp end finds soft flesh and the solid knobbed end meets delicate skulls.

As the last body falls and silence reigns supreme, it’s honestly annoying how loud humans are without even trying. Slipping the spike dagger back in his pocket, Max nudges one of the dead soldiers out of the way and crouches down to study the missile. Up close, the weapon’s precisely crafted shape betrays its true, lethal purpose. He shakes his head, knocking a knuckle against the metal casing with a dull metallic thud. “An airplane bomb,” he says, glancing up into the cave’s crudely-formed, dark opening. “How many more do you suppose they have in there?”

Despite the rocky ground and loose pebbles, Charles moves on near-silent footsteps. “Only one way to find out. Though, why would they store such arms here and not in a depot… there’s not an airfield within kilometers of here. Nor a factory.”

“Animals on the run grow desperate,” Seb says as he studies the mouth of the cave opening. “And they seldom use logic. With the Allied advance bearing down on them, I don’t doubt that they’re hiding what they can wherever they can, even if there’s no rationale to it.”

Max pushes to his feet. “If this is really where they’re storing missiles, then it hardly seems efficient to have such a small crew carry them out one by one.”

“And in the dead of the night,” Charles continues. “In a vehicle where they refused to use the headlights… perhaps they were planning a secret bombing run?”

Seb snorts as he ducks to enter the opening and his voice echoes off stone. “That sounds too fantastical for the Nazis. Soldiers stealing bombs and planes in an act of sedition.”

Affront wrinkles Charles’ brow as Max walks to the opening and crouches down to follow Seb inside. “Well, what else would you call it?” Charles continues as he crouches down next to Max’s side. “Taking just one missile won’t change the course of war, non - but dropping just one bomb? The right bomb, on the right target could disrupt, demoralize, deorganize...”

Seb chuckles softly as the dark stone interior closes around them and the air grows stale. “By that logic, we should take that bomb and drop it on Hitler ourselves, yes?”

“Then, why don’t we?” Max hears himself answer as faint light glistens in mineral crystals as they descend the subterranean tunnel. “That’s what I’ve said since the beginning - there’s nothing stopping us from just getting close and hitting him and his men in the dead of night. Let’s end this now.”

“It’s never that simple.” Seb counters with a scolding shake of his head. “Exposing our kind to the world like that… for the humans, ignorance is bliss. And we are the guardians of the truth’s ugliness.”

The air grows heavy with briny salt as they move deeper into the mountain, boots crunching against the hard rock. Charles hums low in his throat. “The price of immortality, non?”

Truthfully, Max has little patience when Charles and Seb wax poetically about the state of mortals and immortals. Despite whatever philosophical ideas they entertain about truth and beauty and everything between - it changes nothing about the here and now. It bends none of the rules that Max supposedly has to follow. It alters nothing about the state of his undead existence or the fate of mortals who wage their horrendous war and steadily march towards self-destruction.

The ground slopes away, suddenly steeper under his feet, and distracts his focus. They brace against the rocky, jagged walls, slowing their steps as they approach a wall… a wall where the tunnel ends? Or perhaps it continues through the narrow, carved opening.

Max eyes the opening in the wall ahead cautiously. “I don’t like that this is beginning to feel like a trap.”

“A trap makes no sense,” Seb rationalizes, crouching down to study the dramatically shorter tunnel opening. “Why would the Nazis trap themselves, hmm?”

“Why wouldn’t they plant booby traps to keep others out, hmm?” Max counters sharply. “Perhaps that’s what that bomb was, yeah? Protecting something else that they didn’t want others to discover?”

Charles’ eyes brighten with intrigue. “And why not? The salt in the air creates a much more stable environment for storage. Perhaps this is a hidden weapons depot or a… a treasure storage.”

“Only one way to find out.” Seb braces a hand against the shorter tunnel opening and moves forward, knees bent and back hunched as he disappears into the darkness.

Max wets his top lip impatiently. “How long does it look, Seb?”

A beat of silence passes with only a faint whistle of wind for company. His brow furrows with immediate concern. “Seb?” He calls out again, staring down at the tunnel opening as if willing the older vampire to emerge.

Charles’ voice mimics his concern. “Seb? Is everything all right?” He kneels down, squinting into the opening and tilting his head with sudden curiosity. “Seb just… what is it?”

Max crouches down, needing to see for himself - and discovering that the new tunnel was more just a narrow opening in the rock. Seb blocks the other side, clearly stunned and frozen by whatever sight lays on the other side.

“Scheiße,” Seb breathes, his voice low. “This is… I just… I can’t believe what I’m looking at.”

Both Charles and Max scramble for the tunnel entrance at the same time, and Charles squeezes in ahead of him. He pushes gently at Seb’s back, and the blonde vampire moves to let Charles come through with Max right behind him. Perched on a gently sloping ledge, an expansive salt cavern extends in front of them - something clearly mined by humans, something still occupied by humans.

Or at least, human treasure.

Crates upon crates, boxes upon boxes, stacks upon stacks, and piles upon piles of cultural riches lay before them. Artwork, books, statues, illustrations, tapestries - all hidden away from the world and ripe for discovery. Max doesn’t register his jaw dropping as he scans the sea of priceless treasures in front of him.

Is this it? Is this what they’ve been searching for?

Charles lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “Mamma mia… there’s so much here! I don’t.. I don’t even know where to begin!” He runs a hand through his hair, wetting his top lip with eager excitement.

Seb shakes his head. “Perhaps you were right, Max,” he muses, glancing over with a fond smile. “Perhaps they were going to booby trap that entrance. Or perhaps they were just going to detonate anyway and forever bury this hoard of cultural wealth.”

“I have to get down there.” Charles says, turning his gaze towards the ledge and testing his footing on the descent. “We can’t just let this all go to waste.”

“We won’t.” Max agrees, following Charles into action and securing a handhold to work down the ledge. “If only the Nazis know this is here, we have the advantage. We can do as we please.”

Seb’s smile curls in the darkness as he follows them down to the collection of artwork that will forever change their undead existence. “And we certainly will.”

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