Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

His maker had taught him many things about their kind. It was they who showed him the arteries on a living being, how to cut into the skin, the flesh, to find the blood, to make cuts that would harm the pradă, and so, so many more things. But the one thing they taught him about, but he had never used, was how to make a thrall.

He knew only a little of the magic that created him, if it was indeed magic or simply the dark touch of the Gods. He had learned the practical matters of the strigoi, how and where and when to hunt. The rest, they had said, would come to him, naturally. Over the years, he would find out his own power. He had noticed little growth in his powers, little change other than his gradual ageing, his growing awareness of the movements and behaviors of his pradă.

But now, he fully realized a spell that they had taught him: thralldom. He saw this boy, his submissiveness, his utter willingness despite the pain, and knew that it would be a waste, a missed opportunity, to let him go now. No. He could not do that. The boy's very nature was to be useful, and Athan would make him realize that. It would be a simple spell, the exchange of blood, a few spoken words, but only to those who had easily manipulated spirits, such as this boy's. He was perfect.

He pressed against the throbbing neck, smearing blood across his fur, humming once more as he had when their bodies first met. My name is Athanasius, He could not sit still, not pressed so closely to his main artery. His mouth moved from his neck, up to his ear, licking and nibbling it gently, shifting from sharp nips to butterfly kisses. I have tasted you, scumpul meu, you must taste me now, With that, his fangs moved down to his own forelimb, sinking quickly and easily into his flesh, drawing blood. He pressed the open would against the boy's mouth, his voice curt and sharp. Drink, He paused, waiting for the boy to respond, hoping that at least a drop would enter his mouth. With the exchange of blood, we are connected. He spoke, reverently, recalling the old words his sire commanded him to say the moment he found his first thrall. You are mine now. Do you understand? I am Athanasius and I am your master. You are my thrall,