Power & Blood

Submitted for the 2025 Forest & Fawn Mythology Writing Challenge. Placed 7th!!
(among nearly 1100 entries!)

In this challenge, participants are given 10 days to write an original short story of 2000 words or less. In addition to the theme (in this case, “Vampires & Werewolves”), three specific prompts — announced on Day 1 of the challenge — must be incorporated. The three prompts were as follows: a cursed dagger, a family recipe, and a contract. I hope you enjoy :)

You can read the other winning stories here!

Trigger Warnings: Blood (Mild), Violence (Mild), Sexual Coercion (Mild)

“Do you have everything you need?” Anya asks, her face lined with worry. She leans against the wooden table in our communal dining space. Soft candlelight dances in the windows. We are, thankfully, alone.  

“Yes,” I reply, checking the magicked items in my bag for the third time. I pat the cursed dagger strapped to my thigh.

“I’ve made arrangements with the lord’s footman. He’ll be expecting you,” Anya notes. “Drink the potions at the last possible moment, before entering the estate. You’ll need their fullest potency to ward against his magic.” 

“I know,” I look impatiently towards the door. Anya steps directly into my line of sight.

“Dasha, you’re sure you want to do this? She’s—”

“She’s my little sister, Anya. My blood. You’re all my family, of course, but…” I trail off. In the two days since my sister’s abduction, after countless conversations and negotiations and arguments, I still fail to put the right words together. “I can’t let him have her.” 

Anya simply nods, silent.

I walk towards the front door and open it, the cold night air rushing in like an omen of Death. The candles flicker. Halfway out, I turn to face her one last time. “What will you say to the coven?”

She shrugs, a sad smile playing at the corner of her lips. “The same thing you told me: the egocentric bastard had it coming.” 

***

I cannot imagine anything more terrifying than sitting in the den of a vampire lord. Admittedly, it’s lovely to behold: the banquet table alone spans twice the length of my house, and the velvet curtains lining every window cost more than I’d earn in a lifetime, I’m sure. One could almost feel at ease here, with a plate full of decadent food and a goblet brimming with fine wine. But I am not fooled: the rafters may as well frame the gates of Hell.

Lord Viktor Dmitriev looks exactly as the rumors described, with fair skin, a slender build, and black hair that falls into abyssally dark eyes. They watch me without apology, just as they have since the moment I arrived. His attire screams wealth, the gold threading of his tailored suit catching the light of the candelabras.  

“Allow me, if you will, to summarize the nature of your request,” he offers. “As I do, please feel free to begin your meal. I assure you, it has not been poisoned — although I suspect your coven has arranged for countermeasures, even if it were.” 

I pointedly stab the roast with my fork. Indeed, those countermeasures are likely the only reason I haven’t thrown myself at him. The potions are as trustworthy as the witches who brewed them, their recipes passed down for generations in our Sisterhood. I take a large, confident bite, staring him down all the while.

“You are here to bargain for your sister’s life,” he says, his cavalier tone affronting the gravity of his words. “You wish for her to be returned to you and your coven.” 

“Yes,” I lie. 

“And I assume you are aware of the agreement I have with your Sisterhood?” 

I chew slowly, using the time to steady my nerves. “You signed a contract with the Sisters who established themselves here about six centuries ago, which entitles you to…turn one member of our coven every hundred years. But just one. In return, we were permitted to seek haven on your land.” 

The vampire nods, still studying me. “A binding contract, mind you. Signed in blood,” he adds with a flourishing gesture. “And what are your thoughts on that, praytell?” 

His voice lilts, much the way a parent speaks to a child when humoring their ideas. I grip my knife tightly in response, my long fingernails cutting into my palm. “I consider it befitting a lord: trouncing on the will of others to suit their senseless impulses.”

His eyebrows shoot up in a shockingly human gesture. At first, I wonder if perhaps I’ve crossed a line. My heart quickens, and I imagine all too vividly the speed with which he could close the gap between us. Instead, he leans back in his chair, donning a knowing smile. “I’m always surprised by human memory, especially among you witches.” He swirls his drink, far too viscous for wine. “Individually, you’re forgetful little things. But together, as a collective, you can recite the injuries of past generations as though they were still weeping blood.” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “Yes, your people were a subjugated bunch. Slaughtered, hung, and burned by the hundreds. Is that not why you came to me? In need of shelter from the real monsters?” 

At least the Church didn’t use a mouthborne virus to convert its followers. I open my mouth to respond, only to close it again. Focus. He means to rile you, to take you off your guard. Still, I cannot keep the heat from creeping into my cheeks.  I look down to my plate and slice into a potato wedge, hoping to mask my reaction. 

“Apologies,” he coos, his voice as soft as the plush carpet beneath my feet. “While I do enjoy watching you falter, I do not mean to distract you from your purpose. We were talking business. Tell me: how exactly do you plan to kill me this evening?”

My silverware clatters against my plate. I swallow loudly. His eyes flash to my throat. 

“I came here to save my sister,” I reply slowly, folding my hands into my lap to still their shaking. “To offer a trade.” 

Lord Dmitriev leans forward, resting his chin on interlaced fingers. When he smiles, it occurs to me that he does not need supernatural abilities to charm his prey. Allure is steeped into his very bones. I imagine many heartsick fools have thrown themselves at his feet by their own ill-advised desires.  I feel my cheeks grow hot again, but this time, I cannot blame my anger. 

“And what is it you hope to trade? That collection of baubles in your bag? A potion, maybe?” I make to reach for the bag, but his next words freeze my hand. “Or perhaps you were planning to reclaim your sister by means of that cursed dagger hidden beneath your dress.” 

Silence. 

“Come here,” he commands. There is something different in his voice than before, a clarity that rings in my ears. The words are like a siren song, demanding to be obeyed; but they are abruptly drowned out by a quiet chorus of enchanted, overlapping whispers. 

No, No, No. 

A small wrinkle appears between the vampire’s brows, betraying a flicker of annoyance. It smooths away almost instantly. “Dearest Dasha, you and I both know that I am perfectly capable of taking that dagger from you, with or without your consent. However, it would be a shame to rip that lovely dress of yours, and I much prefer compliant company. Won’t you please come here, so that I might examine it?” 

His question feigns a choice. I rise from my chair and walk with my head held high, my boots noiseless against the rug. He watches me with seemingly endless patience. When I get close, close enough to reach out and touch him, I can feel his charms pull at my defenses again. The smell of his skin, like rain and rosemary and loamy earth, suddenly turns sour. My nose twitches in response. 

His eyes glimmer with wicked amusement. “Countermeasures, indeed. Perhaps I underestimated your little colony.”

“Six hundred years under the thumb of a dictator has a way of motivating spellwork,” I seethe. “Do not mistake subjugation for powerlessness, bloodsucker.” 

A shiver runs the full length of my body as he slides a hand under my skirts, his palm touching the bare skin of my calf. There is no hiding my reaction from him. His voice is a soft purr as he murmurs, “My lord will do just fine.” With that, his fingers brush slowly up my leg, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake. They’re warmer than I expected, but still I tremble. He takes his time, savoring my unease. I remain motionless, despite every instinct — natural and otherwise— telling me to run. When his hand reaches the dagger, he makes quick work of the leather strap. It clatters to the floor, and faster than should be possible, he’s holding the blade out in front of me. His smile is puerile and gloating, as if daring me to take it. 

“How did you know it was there?” I ask, too aware of the breathiness in my voice. 

“Silly witchling,” he says, jerking the dagger out of reach. “I am a creature of magic. Like knows like. Just as you can smell the stench of the werebeasts in the forest, I can smell the spellwork emanating from everything your kind has ever magicked, this dagger included.”

His voice is intoxicating. My eyes drop to his lips. The whispers in my mind grow louder, more urgent. No, No, NO.

“Where is my sister?” 

His eyes follow my gaze, and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. The whispers are almost deafening. “Power is a funny thing,” he muses, spinning the blade between deft fingers. “People often see it as something fickle — to be gained and thwarted by a single snip of Fate’s threads.” He stops the dagger’s spin, its deadly point only inches from my throat. “But power, true power, is cultivated over years. It is formidable. And after a while, it has a way of begetting itself. Those who serve truly wish to do so.” 

I cannot look away. My hand reaches out towards his face. He doesn’t flinch, not even as my fingertips brush his lips. To him, I am as threatening as the dinner fork.

“You do not care about your sister,” he murmurs, eyes dark with foul magic. 

“Has she been bitten?” I ask. My voice is barely audible over the thundering of my heart. The enchanted whispers have become a desperate, unintelligible blur: nostoprunawaygorunflee. I press my fingers into his mouth, just enough for the tips of my nails to glide against his tongue.

“Not yet,” he says, gently removing my hand and placing it at the front of my bodice. “Not until she is more…acquiescent. But you want something else now, don’t you?”

His words press against the walls of my mind, determined to be let inside. I release a shuddering sigh. Yes. I’ve heard all I needed to hear.

My hand drifts up towards the fastening of my bodice, just below my neck. I can see my nails glisten with his saliva, teeming with power. He leans back and watches me with gluttonous hunger.

It happens in less than a heartbeat. One moment, I’m pulling at the lace of my bodice, careful to avoid the dampness on my fingertips. The next, I thrust my fingernails into the tender flesh of my neck. Even his preternatural reflexes aren’t enough to stop me.

The sensation of his venom coursing through my blood is immediate. My world becomes all-encompassing, earth-shattering pain. I drop to the ground, legs buckling beneath me. The room vibrates with an antagonistic growl. Lights flicker erratically behind my eyelids.

“Oh, little witchling, what a clever thing you are.” Irritation punctuates his every word. I’m loosely aware of the sound of chair legs scraping against the carpet. Suddenly, he raises his voice. “Release the girl back to her kin. She’s useless to me now.” I manage to open my eyes, finding my vision entirely overwhelmed by him. He’s close, so close, and I can’t hear the whispers of my Sisters anymore. Everywhere I look, everything I hear, it’s only him. 

“I fear,” he whispers, “you have made a terrible mistake.”

“No,” I breathe, the words like hot coals in my throat. “She’s not. Yours. Anymore.” 

His grin is nothing short of feral as he strokes my cheek. “No. But you most certainly are.”

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