Grimbold would give him everything his heart desired, then strip it from him so he knew what it felt like to lack. Worse, Grimbold wouldn’t kill him once it was all over—he’d keep Wally alive to torture him like this again and again.
Superintendent Alcazar had been right to warn him of the ruthlessness of the Amethyst clan. Their hearts were vile and evil.
For the first time, Wally longed to be home. The claws of his sire were preferable to the way Grimbold filled his heart with hope, only to crush it beneath his heel.
“Walter?” Grimbold asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
Wally couldn’t pull himself together enough to reply. He choked out a few warbling, nonsensical syllables and folded into a ball in the recliner he never should have sat in and waited for punishment.
“Walter.” Grimbold’s concern grew. If Wally hadn’t known the truth, he might have mistaken Grimbold’s act for genuine fear. “You will stop crying this instant.”
It was a command that not even Wally could obey. He sobbed harder and hid his face in his hands, dreading what was to come next.
How would the Amethyst clan punish their Disgraces? Would they start similarly to the Topaz clan, with the same verbal jabs that always prefaced a good beating, or would they jump straight into torture? How much would Walter be made to bleed? Would he scar? Perhaps Grimbold would take pleasure in disfiguring him, forever reminding anyone who looked at Wally that he was lowly, different, and other. A mistake. A disappointment.
Bile burned the back of Wally’s throat. The memory of claws across the insides of his thighs and through the skin right beneath his armpit seared Wally’s nerves, and unable to help himself, he launched out of the chair and heaved.
“Walter!” Grimbold cried.
In the darkness behind Wally’s eyelids, the world spun. Dry, fragrant California air filled his nostrils and the familiar heat of the sun warmed his shoulders. A scaled hand, bitterly cold, cupped his chin, and the tiny points of razor-sharp claws pierced the skin of his cheek, but only enough to draw small pinpricks of blood.
“WALTER!”
The name wasn’t right. In the cloister, they’d only ever called him by his given name: Swallow. The dissonance wrenched Wally out from the worst of his memories, and he managed to open his eyes. Grimbold had dropped to the ground beside him and tugged Wally onto his lap. There was vomit on the hardwood, but by the looks of it, Wally had managed to avoid soiling the chair.
Even at his worst, he was good.
If only the Amethysts would give him a chance to prove just how good he could be.
“Walter,” Grimbold breathed. The word was steeped in relief, but still tasted of panic. “Sweet boy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Dragons didn’t say sorry.
Wally closed his eyes. He was tired and his head ached. Was it possible to fall asleep in a dream? Because there was no way that this could be reality.
“A vampire isn’t a person at all. It may have the movements, the memories, even the personality of the person it took over, but it’s still a demon at the core. There is no halfway,” Giles said. The television had been left on, and the next episode was playing. If it was a dream, Wally’s subconscious was doing a fine job of keeping the setting realistic—the line was one Wally knew well; one that had allowed him to dream of what could be. Even Giles, in his infinite wisdom, was wrong from time to time. Angel, Buffy’s canonical love interest, proved that vampires could be more—that there was a halfway—and even more than that, that even the cruelest creatures could be kind.
But the bad still outweighed the good.
Whatever happened next would be outside of Wally’s control. Compared to a dragon, he was powerless. Grimbold would do with him what he wanted, and Wally would have to go along with it. As such, he sagged against Grimbold’s chest and loosened his limbs. Fate would have its way with him. His body and mind weren’t his to control.
“I will make this better,” Grimbold promised in a whisper. He stood, lifting Wally effortlessly as he did. “Who is your sire, Walter? Who is the man that did you such grievous harm?”
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
Wally slouched against Grimbold’s chest. His cheek came to rest over Grimbold’s heart, and soon enough, he heard the rapid rhythm of its beat. Comforted by the sound, Wally embraced the darkness, letting go of the last of his fear. When he awoke he’d be stronger, and he’d tolerate whatever pain Grimbold intended to inflict on him. Until then, he ran in the only way he knew how—into the safety of his own mind.
* * *
Wally woke to chirping birds and golden sunlight, more comfortable than he’d ever been in his life. It took him a second to realize why that was. Unlike most mornings, when Wally awoke stiff, cold, and sore after a night spent sleeping on the floor, this morning he woke loose-limbed and warm.
In bed.
As soon as he realized where he was, Wally gasped and bolted upright. Thick blankets and silken sheets tumbled down his body to pool on his lap and he discovered, to his horror, that he was wearing cotton pajamas.
Where were his clothes, and why wasn’t he wearing them?
