Chapter Text
Shane Hollander had lived in hell for sixty months, if the scratches on his wall and occasional glances at the date from a phone were to be believed. He shivered and rolled over on the cold floor, reaching to wrap himself in the blanket that had definitely seen better days. It was his only comfort, along with his one ratty T-shirt and pair of boxers. The blanket had been thrown at him after a particularly hard night one winter a couple of years back, and he thanked his stars every day that Master forgot about it long enough to not take it back once it started, “smelling like a fucking thrall."
At least last night hadn’t been too bad, Shane thought to himself; he could only feel two bite marks on his neck and wrist. And if his body was to be believed, he hadn't been used while he was under, not his ass, at least. He shuddered and looked around his hole of a room. The too-small underground cellar was designed to keep him out of Master's way when not in use. It was sparse, maybe the size of a king bed, with barely enough room for both Shane, his blanket, his water bowl, and the bucket he used to relieve himself. It didn't let in much light, helping Shane transition to his now nocturnal life, much like his vampire superiors. With the few thin lines of light peeking through the slats of the overhead door, Shane guessed he had a couple of hours till Master was back. Someone had filled his bowl, probably after he passed out last night, either from blood loss or vampire pheromones. Shane didn't always pass out from the pheromones, so if it was a lack of blood, maybe he’d get a night off. Master Crowell didn't like it when Shane was weak from blood loss, saying he didn't taste as good that way, not that he would ever actually compliment his taste otherwise. If it was just the typical pheromone-induced trance, though, he'd have to be ready by nightfall.
Shane drank the cloudy water and, next to it, found some barely moldy bread and a too-soft apple. It wasn't like Master was trying to punish Shane with malnutrition, but vampires often forgot how needy humans really were. It kept him desperate, though, and thankful for any table scrap thrown his way. Shane sighed and decided to try to sleep some more after eating the apple. He'd save the bread for later, not wanting to waste something so rare.
As usual, he dreamt of his past.
Shane had known his life was over from the moment he tested positive for VCH, or vampire comprehensive hemophilia, a rare blood-clotting mutation that didn't affect Shane's health, but would change the course of his life moving forward.
Vampires found those with the mutation perfect targets; their blood had the perfect consistency to drink. And after vampire-human conflicts had raged for so many years, this was the compromise; those with VCH would be tested and sold to the vampires as slaves, in return for the vampires promising not to kill normal humans anymore.
After so many years, though, the slave trade had become a booming industry for both humans and vampires alike, making money off selling kids like him made many rich in blood money. Like most people in Shane’s small town, he tried to pretend slavery was still a thing of the past.
He had guessed what was wrong the moment his mom opened the door to his room, with a torn medical envelope in her hand, barely holding back tears. He had gotten tested weeks prior, like all the other grade 12s in his school, but never imagined it would come back positive. It was like a one in five thousand chance. This could not be happening.
“Baby…” Yuna said softly, trying her best to stay calm, while Shane's dad, David, couldn't meet his eyes.
“No,” Shane breathed.
“Baby,” Yuna repeated.
“Just say it, I-I know what's wrong,” Shane begged, not wanting to have to read the words for himself.
“We can hide this for as long as possible,” Yuna argued, “you could probably finish out your last hockey season before they came looking for you, we could, we could take the blame, say we never told you. You probably wouldn't even get in trouble-”
“-No, mom, you’re not going to jail because of me. Just tell me, when do I have to go?”
Yuna shook her head, unable to continue. David finally spoke up, “2 weeks, son, they want you there by the new year.”
Shane gasped, two weeks that was… December 28th. He’d barely get to enjoy Christmas, and his hockey team was already on break. He’d never get to play again, and he was supposed to carry them into the playoffs. He hoped maybe they would at least let him finish high school…
“The uh, the letter says with the decreasing numbers lately that can't let any thralls wait, vamps have been getting angry and lashing out at normal civilians,” Yuna cursed.
Normal civilians, something Shane no longer was. In less than two minutes, his life had gone from a Canadian high schooler to a prized bloodbag. Well, maybe not even prized. Everyone had heard the horror stories of what happened to thralls at the VCH centers, the malnutrition to produce richer blood, brainwashing to try to keep them complacent in their new roles, and beatings when they didn't listen. They said it was necessary, and VCH carriers needed it; they weren’t equal to normal humans. Some claimed that thralls liked being vampire slaves, as if it was what they were made for. Shane shook his head. He couldn't think about that yet. The least he could do was stay positive, for his parents' sake at least.
Finally letting the tears fall, Yuna rushed to Shane, tightly embracing him for what seemed like the last time.
“I'll figure something out. We can fix this.” Yuna promised.
“Mom, just let it go for now.” Shane knew holding on to false hope would only make things harder in the long run.
Christmas had passed in a blur, too many gifts he would never get to use, and never see again in a few days, and before Shane knew it, the last few days of his freedom were over.
“Hi there, how can I help you?” the woman at the front desk asked Shane when he and his parents walked into the clinical-looking building. Yuna had wanted to stay in the car as long as possible, but Shane knew it was only delaying the inevitable.
“I’m uh, Shane Hollander, I'm here to check in,” he prompted.
“Oh, forgive me,” she replied skeptically, suddenly no longer looking at Shane. “We don't get very many voluntary check-ins these days. You did the right thing making him come here,” the woman explained to his parents. Yuna shook her head as David watched Shane for his reaction. It made sense, he knew, not to be addressed anymore; it's wasn't like he was really a person anymore anyway.
“What’re you waiting for? Head through that door,” the woman said at Shane, going back to her computer. The large metal door with the giant padlock loomed at the forefront of Shane's vision.
When Yuna and David tried to follow him, she scoffed, “Thralls only, say your goodbyes here, or leave.”
“Don't call my son that,” Yuna argued, looking heated.
“Mom, leave it, she- she's not wrong, I am that now, I guess.”
Shane and his parents embraced until the woman was clearing her throat, and Shane could practically feel the disdain rolling off her, “You guys should go, I'll try to call when I can.”
Shane felt a sharp kick to his ribs, waking him up from his dream. Reminiscing on the last time he had spoken to his parents had been nice, but he didn't mind being woken up before he had to relive the horrible 6 months he spent at the center before being bought by Crowell; The way he was immediately stripped of his humanity and beaten into just another whore for any vampire to use. Master often threatened to sell Shane back to the center, and Shane was always quick to show obedience after that; he'd do anything to not go back there.
“Get the fuck up, does it look like I have all fucking night?” Master Crowell growled.
Shane wordlessly got to his feet, head bowed, not looking his Master in the eye as fear grew in his stomach; he didn't seem to be in a forgiving mood tonight. He felt a tug on his collar, the same one that they had put him in moments after stepping through those metal doors at the center. Its weight had become strangely comforting through the years, the only thing he never had to leave behind.
He followed two steps behind Master as he was led to the opulent main house, trying to get his fear under control. You've been doing this almost every day for five years; get a fucking hold of yourself. Shane thought. But no matter how hard he tried, he never managed to shake the horrible anticipation of what was to come whenever Master brought him out, never managed to be fully complacent in his new life, to his own detriment.
He was drawn back by Master Crowell's sharp words, “Oh, sweetheart, we're gonna have fun tonight.”
After dropping Shane to kneel in the corner of the main living room, a dark parlor with red and cream accents, Master leveled him with a glare.
“Make sure Mr. Rozanov has everything he could want. I'll be back in a moment with some refreshments.”
Shane noticed the other vampire in his midst and knew what that meant. Let his friend feed if he wanted to, or fuck his throat, or his ass if he was so bold as to ask. But Shane was pulled out of his thoughts. Mr. Rozanov was lighting a cigarette. Master hated cigarettes and had kicked lesser vampires out of his house for smoking. Shane wasn’t sure why, but he felt the immense need to warn the new Vampire with the pretty curly hair,
“You can't smoke here,” Shane said before he even finished processing, then gasped. He hadn’t spoken out of turn in a vampire’s presence in years; one of the first things they teach you in the center is that thralls are seen and not heard. He tensed in anticipation of Rozanov's reaction.
Mr. Rozanov just let out a sharp laugh, “can't? I'm sure I'll be fine.”
Shane flinched in anticipation of a slap that, strangely, never came, “Yes, Mr. Rozan-uh, Sir, please, forgive my impertance" he ducked lower, practically touching the ground with his forehead.
Mr. Rozanov shrugged him off and continued to smoke. Weird, Shane mused, any other vampire would jump at the opportunity to drink from a free thrall, no strings attached. Shane was very popular with all of Master's friends, too; it almost hurt that Mr. Rozanov ignored him, leaving him shivering in the corner. Something about his disinterest seemed off. Shane knew all of Master's regular house guests, and if he was bringing Shane out for the new guy, he must really want to make a good impression. Shane was more of a fuckup than he thought; he would be the one punished if this night went wrong; he hoped Mr. Rozanov wouldn’t tell Master of his disrespect.
“Ilya! friend, you must know what's mine is yours, you're of course welcome to feed from my thrall, or use it in any way you see fit,” Master added with a wink, setting down the glasses filled with amber liquid. Shane shuddered, and dread curled in his stomach. He'd need to mentally prepare for a long night, especially if Master and his friend were getting drunk.
“That is Mr. Rozanov for you, Crowell, and I would not say friends. I am here for business only.” Shane realized he had a thick accent. Was that Russian? Maybe business meant Shane would get off easy tonight.
“Oh! Uh, of course, Mr. Rozanov, I'll just- well, I have those papers right here.”
Shane had never seen his Master so flustered. If he didn't know better, he’d think Crowell was nervous. Shane glanced up, trying to gauge Master's mood for after Ilya, he now knew was his first name, left. But suddenly, he was face-to-face with the most beautiful sea green eyes. He felt like a ton of bricks was bearing down on him. This was the most gorgeous man he had ever seen. Ilya quickly looked away, and Shane again admonished himself for his utter disregard of his place. He hoped Master hadn't seen him look up. Shane was normally very well behaved, but around this Rozanov guy, he just couldn't act right. Like, if Shane was actually a person who could do such things, he’d maybe want to talk? To the guy?
“Your thrall, though, he is rather pretty, yes?” Shane heard Rozanov speak as he looked through the papers Crowell handed him.
“Ehh, used to be, when I first got it, just another used-up VCH slut now.”
Shane had been hearing Master saying things like this more and more. Shane knew they were true. He was getting uglier and worse-tasting with age, all things Crowell told him every day. Shame filled him when he thought about what his life had become. After his use ran out, he was as good as dead.
“Why do you ask, Mr. Rozanov? Are you in the market for a living blood bag, finally?” Crowell chuckled, trying to break the tension that formed after he had mistakenly called Rozanov a friend.
Ilya shrugged noncommittally, “Not really, but yours seems nice.”
Shane was confused. Living blood bag? Didn't all vampires have thralls as slaves? Or used one when they needed to feed. Especially this Rozanov guy, he seemed pretty well off, based on his all-black suit with a (looked like) real silk shirt, like he could afford a thrall no problem. Definitely one hell of a lot better than Shane.
“Yeah, I'll probably be in the market for another soon, with this one getting old and whatnot; they're just not the same after a couple of years being used.”
Shane's stomach bottomed out. No, he couldn't want to sell him. Shane couldn't go back to the center, back to the auction; he would have to be good, be better, the best slave he could be to show Master he wasn’t yet old and dried up. Shane tried, unsuccessfully, not to start crying in the two vampires' presence.
“You’ve made him upset,” Ilya said, face like stone, “you should fix that.”
"Oh, it’ll stop crying eventually; they always do, annoying, how emotional they get with age. He used to put up quite a fun fight. Heard he was a hockey player when he was free,” he laughed again, “I really should call the center to replace him.”
Ilya blinked at the man, and Shane realized he liked the way Ilya seemed not to care what Crowell thought of him. All his regular friends seemed like they’d do anything to get Master's attention, leading Shane to again believe this Ilya guy must be important.
“Well, if everything is in order, I will be leaving you then. I will be sure to tell my father about this meeting.”
“Please send my warmest regards to your father, Mr. Rozanov.”
Ilya just walked out, still seeming rather upset about something Shane couldn’t place.
“You fucked it up again, whore,” Crowell growled, turning to backhand Shane. “Ilya Rozanov wouldn't even feed from you, ugly bitch. His father will never work with my company if he finds out I can’t even keep an enticing slave for guests to use. And to think you used to be so perfect...”
Shane knew it was true; he was disgusting, Mr. Rozanov could barely look at him, and seemed to want to get out of the house as quickly as possible once Shane started crying. It was all Shane's fault. And now, Master was selling him.
“I'm calling the center tonight, but I can get at least one more use out of you,” he said, accenting his words with kicks to Shane's body until he fell to the ground, curled up to protect himself. He was yanked up to standing height, and Shane could feel at least a few broken bones. He yelped, but all that got him was a slap in the face and a sharp bite to the neck. As Crowell drank his fill for the last time, Shane was paralyzed in fear of what was to come. He tried to remember those green eyes as he slipped away.