Bloody History Stories - backstories for SadPanda's Nomad Clan

[aunt_zelda]

Title: Bloody History Stories
Rating: R for death, disturbing vampire sex, violence, and the word “Oriental”
Series: The Denny’s Court AU
Word Count: 2,417
Pairings/Characters: Phelous/Snob, Phelous/Dena, SadPanda, MikeJ, Luke, Ed Glaser/Goggles, allusions to Phelous/Luke/Dena.
Spoilers: None, unless you didn’t know that they were Nomad vampires in the Denny’s Court AU.
Warnings: sexualized siring situations. Old terms for Asians which are racist today. Historical inaccuracies regarding language styles. Little factoids and trivia that nobody but me cares about. Autoerotic asphyxiation taken to an extreme. Stabbing. Kidnapping.  Unbeta’d.
Summary: SadPanda’s Nomads from this fic get their backstories fleshed out.
A/N: I couldn’t resist. First I thought “Oh, I’ll write about Phelous and the Snob having crazy vampire sex, that’ll be fun!” and then I started to craft their backstories and research old French serial killers and namedrop Lord Byron and then things got really out of hand. You know how I get, I go to write smut, and you end up with exposition and desperate attempts to cram in smut in between the history lessons.  
Explanation: SadPanda’s real name is Captain Godin de Sainte-Croix, who was the lover of Marie-Madeleine-Marguerite d'Aubray, a famous French Serial Killer from the mid to late 1600s. Just be thankful I didn’t make his sire Gilles de Rais.
 
 
 
The first vampire Philip ever met, besides his sire, was a decorated American army officer.
They recognized each other for what they were instantly, circling each other like cats.
“Where are you from, sir?” the officer asked.
“Canada.” Philip spat at the man’s feet. “I hate Americans.”
“Ah, because of the war? I was at the Battle of Queenston Heights.”
“Were you captured there?” Philip sneered. “I heard there were nine-hundred captured that day.”
“Yes, that’s true enough … but in the end, we got your great lakes.”
Philip snarled and ran at the man.
The officer drew a pistol from his belt and shot Philip squarely in the chest.
As Philip fell to the ground, stunned that a vampire had thought to attack him in such a manner, the officer prodded the wound with his sword. Philip groaned with pain.
“Interesting … have you never been shot before, sir?”
“No!” Philip screamed.
“I will never understand how we were so soundly defeated by your people,” the officer said, slicing Philip across the chest and smirking at the red stain that appeared. “Of course, you had the help of the savages, I suppose that contributed somewhat.” He wiped his sword clean on Philip’s shirt and sheathed it. Philip tried to knock the man down by striking at his knee, but the officer deftly avoided him, drew a knife from his jacket, and cut Philip’s face from his forehead to his chin.
“Tonight I’m going to give you a lesson in humility, you Canadian bear,” the officer said, hauling Philip to his feet and headbutting him viciously. Philip sagged, dizzy with pain, and cried out when the officer stabbed him in the back. “Oh yes, I shall have some fun with you. We’ll go out into the woods where no one will hear us, and I’ll tie you to a tree and do unspeakable things to your helpless body. Maybe, if you’re very fortunate, I’ll hang you.”
“Fortunate?” Philip gasped, clinging to the officer as they staggered out of the village, half delirious with the pain. “Fortunate to be hanged?”
“Have you never seen a man hanged? He dies, yes, but his body reacts as if a woman were caressing him here,” the officer’s hand stroked at Philip’s groin to demonstrate. “You and I are already dead. We live, and yet we cannot die except by fire or sunlight or the touch of something holy, or if someone cuts off our heads. Hanging is no trouble. It is quite pleasurable, in fact.”
“How do you know?”
“I was hanged. At Tyburn, in fact. This was before I drank the blood of my sire. I survived and was reprieved. My sire found me, made me like him, and let me loose. It wasn’t six months but I was being turned off by the hangman again. It was such a sensation, that intense pressure without the fear of death, that I hated to end it by pretending to die. I had to pretend to die, though, so they’d cut me down and I could escape and do it all over again. I’ve been hanged a dozen times now.”
“I thought you … despised me …” Philip stuttered. “I … insulted you …”
“That’s why I shot, sliced, and stabbed you,” the officer said, grinning. “What comes next can be pleasurable for me alone, or for both of us. That’s entirely up to you, Canadian bear.”
In the end, Philip did end up tied to a tree with the officer doing unspeakable things to him, but his cries were cries of pleasure. And after much persuading, Philip let the man string him up. It was an enjoyable experience, right up until made much the officer tipped his hat and left Philip there to struggle, sunrise a mere hour away. Eventually Philip was able to free himself and find a handy cave to hide from the sunlight. Try and he might, he never did find that officer again until more than two centuries had passed.
 
~*~
 
Philip liked Dena. She too had a taste for the dark and the macabre, enjoyed penny dreadfuls and ghost stories, and preferred clothing that was black or red.
But she had been sired by the Frenchman, and the Frenchman didn’t let anyone take away his childer.
So one night Philip entered the crypt where Dena had told him they were nesting. He knelt on the floor and met the eyes of the Frenchman, ignoring the others for now, even Dena.
“Who are you?” the Frenchman asked, voice oddly disinterested.
“Philip. I want to join your clan.”
“American?” the Frenchman sneered.
“No. Canadian.”
The Frenchman switched to French instantly. “Who were you sired by, some filthy trapper’s whore?”
“My lineage doesn’t matter, I want to join your clan, your bloodline.”
“And why should I let you? Why do you want to join us? We are Nomads. The Slayers hunt us relentless, the Lords drive us out like gypsies, and everywhere we go we are outcasts.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Philip let his gaze flick over to Dena momentarily.
The Frenchman laughed humorlessly. “Ah, I see now …” he was at Dena’s side in a flash, stroking her hair with his bloodstained fingers. “You’ve been wandering, my daughter.”
“No, sir.” Dena said in heavily accented French.
The Frenchman struck her. Philip twitched, wanting to leap to her aid but holding himself back. It would do her no good for him to get himself killed. They couldn’t take on the Frenchman by themselves, and certainly not the silent bearded man at the doorway and the pale twins in the alcove.  
Just as suddenly, the Frenchman helped Dena to her feet and motioned for Philip to rise. “If you’re going to join my clan, we’ll have to share blood.” He sliced open his wrist with his fingernails and held it out. “Come on.”
Philip cut his own wrist and held it out, tentatively taking the Frenchman’s arm and holding it up to his lips. He’d never done this before, the only time he’d drunk from a vampire was his own sire, and that had been from the neck. He’d never even fed on a human from the wrist.
It was over quickly, the Frenchman healing Philip’s wound and his own with licks devoid of any lasciviousness. “Your name is … Phelous now. I name all my childer, the fact that you’re adopted makes no difference to me.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m honored.”
The Frenchman waved a hand and strode off into the night. “Forget about it.”
 
~*~
 
Then Phelous and Dena were in heaven. Or hell. It was heaven for them, and hell to everyone but their tightly knit family.
Together they devoured the works of Byron and Shelley, along with whatever hapless human happened to wander past. For a year Phelous and Dena took to kidnapping and murdering American thespians after performances, taking great delight in the public hysteria and rumors of cursed plays. Since they attended most of the plays themselves they were often interviewed by the papers after the body was discovered, and recounted what little their human personas knew with ill ill-disguised morbid enthusiasm for the intrigue.
The twins were killed in Boston, victims of a lucky Slayer. Together as a family they’d ripped the man apart and skewered him with his own crossbow bolts before fleeing to London and swearing off America for the next couple of decades.
At one of the more exotic clubs in London, Phelous and Dena encountered a charmingly perverse blond Marine by the name of Michael. His family had fallen into disgrace and debt, forcing him to join the Marines when he’d rather have lived the life of a rich rake. After a discussion of current poetry and the rumors of Lord Byron’s affairs, Phelous and Dena decided on a whim to “introduce” him to their family. Michael was so drunk that it wasn’t until Godin – as the Frenchman called himself when he wasn’t experimenting with a new title – bit into the poor man’s neck that he began to scream. Godin stopped feeding when he felt the man’s erection, stared for a moment, and then slit his own wrist and proffered it to the shuddering blond.
“Drink it, unless you want to die.” Godin drawled.
Michael drank, erection growing as he did so. Godin stroked him through the fabric of his trousers with his free hand, the same bored expression as always on his face.
“That’s enough,” Godin shoved Michael onto the floor. Michael moaned, hips bucking and eyes bleary with drink and death.
“Good choice, you two.” Godin’s lips twitched, the best approximation of a smile that Phelous or Dena had ever seen him give them. “You can leave … unless you want to watch?”
Phelous looked at Dena. She shrugged. He turned to Godin and shrugged.
Godin leaned down over Michael, raking his fangs down the Marine’s wounded neck.
Phelous looped his arm around Dena’s waist and they settled down onto a nearby couch. It was going to be a long night.
 
~*~
 
Edward Glaser was a mystery to Phelous and Dena. He’d been with Godin for a very long time, longer even than Dena, but he didn’t speak much and hadn’t revealed anything of his past. They weren’t even sure if Godin had sired him or not, though Glaser obviously hadn’t sired Godin. He was friendly enough, but he kept to himself for the most part and hunted alone. From their observations and overhearing conversations between Godin and Glaser, Phelous and Dena learned that Glaser had a taste for the exotic. He distained the couple’s taste for blondes and pale thespians and redheaded prostitutes; instead he frequented immigrant slums wherever they went, snatching young brides and daughters wandering back from work unescorted. When Glaser was in the mood for men he got a lascar as drunk as possible and lured him away into an alley. Glaser stole money compulsively from victims until he had enough to lavish upon Oriental prostitutes, most of whom he left alive only to avoid the bother of paying off the pimp or Madam to cover up the murder.
They were all surprised when it was an African woman, and not an Oriental, that he brought back after a night of reveling. She was quite attractive, and not just because of the exaggerated clothing she wore to advertise her profession as a lady of the night.
Phelous and Dena were even more surprised when Glaser took her into the bedroom they’d been renting in the little French boarding house and turned her without even asking Godin for permission first.
The next night Godin handed the nervous woman a pair of finely made brass goggles.
“I don’t care what your name was before, but it’s Goggles now.”
The woman fiddled with the lenses and nodded.
Glaser helped her put them on; she smiled as she saw the world colored entirely red, blue, green, or orange. Glaser smiled too, nuzzling her neck with uncharacteristic affection.
Later, when Michael made a less than sensitive comment about Goggles’ race, Glaser beat him within an inch of a second death, urging Goggles to feed from Michael to further add to his humiliation. Godin made no move to intervene. Phelous and Dena licked Michael’s wounds and the three of them resolved never to question Glaser’s choice of childe again.
 
~*~
 
He was young and hopeful and down from Canada to seek his fortune in the Windy City. Phelous and Dena pounced on him not two minutes after he set foot off the train. The papers were full of nothing but stories of girls snatched from the train stations, lured by handsome young men promising to marry them or job offers that were too good to be true, only to be turned into white slaves. The papers said nothing of the young men that Phelous and Dena had taken to preying upon. One of them had worn a fine wide-brimmed hat, which Phelous had taken to wearing.
“Please …” he begged as they pinned him against the wall in the alley and sank their fangs into either sides of his neck. “Please … oh Jesus … no …”
They didn’t relent. Dena slid a hand down to grasp at the boy’s member, and found Phelous’ hand already there. They took turns stroking him, determined to make him enjoy his death.
“I … I got away … no Wendigos in … America …”
Phelous stopped and pulled back, nudging Dena to do the same.
“What did you just say?” Phelous asked.
The boy blinked, eyes dark with fear and arousal and pain. “Wendigo … I ran … found me anyways, huh?” he smiled blearily and passed out.
“Well, now he’ll be no fun!” Dena pouted. “What was he talking about?”
“Wendigo. It’s a … thing … from Canada. If you resorted to cannibalism, you’d turn into a kind of monster, a Wendigo. Then you’d try to turn others into a Wendigo too. The Indians told stories about them. I thought they were just that, stories, but they’re real all right.” Phelous shuddered. “Probably the only contact with the supernatural world the boy’s had; of course he thought that’s what we were.”
Dena eyed the boy. “He’s awfully pretty, don’t you think?”
Phelous nodded. “And Canadian, too.”
Dena grinned. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, my dear?”
“I love your depraved mind,” Phelous said, leaning forward and giving her a bloody kiss.
“Is that all you love me for?” Dena asked, hiking up her skirts and hooking a leg around his waist.
“Of course not,” Phelous said, pushing her against the alley wall and tugging down his trousers. “You have many attractive qualities.”
“List them.” Dena said, moaning as he pushed into her. “Later … we’re going to … take the boy home and … ask Godin if we can … turn him ourselves.”
“We’ve earned it,” Phelous agreed, eying the unconscious body at their feet as he thrust against his mate. “We’ve earned it a hundred times over.”
“Can’t wait to watch you … take him … like you’re taking me right now …” Dena moaned, hands clawing at Phelous’ back.
“Only if you help.”
“But of course.”
Later they dragged the boy back to their hideout, and to their pleasant surprise Godin agreed to let them sire the boy.
“But only if I get to pick the name, as his grandfather.” Godin smiled. “He looks like a ‘Luke,’ don’t you think?”

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