Dead or Alive
Prologue - Akuji

“You haven't the strength to live in my world,” he said, fingers curling back, beckoning me forward even as his harsh words warned me away.

I stared into his impossibly cruel eyes, my face set into a blank mask, arms crossed stubbornly across my chest. Somewhere, deep inside, I knew this to be true. I couldn't survive in his world, not the way I was then: a boy, a whore, everyone's meat. I couldn't live in his world as a mortal slave, some sick vampire's plaything, blood constantly flowing from half-healed bites and split lips. I knew it, and still I refused to take his hand, to follow him those few steps to the bed, to immortality wasted on sex and blood and petty cruelties.

His pretty smile and sweet promises didn't mean anything to me then. They were empty words, meaningless expressions. I knew it. He knew it.

We stared at each other, his hand held out to me, a half smile on his lips. We stared at each other, immobile as only the undead can be, and my very stillness seemed to unnerve him. It wasn't natural.

I could no longer remember how to move, how to act like a human being. It was no longer possible for me to make noise, to do anything other than breathe and be perfectly still. Years spent lying on my back, vampires draped across my body, had taught me not to move, not to feel. Years spent under their cold weight had turned me into a stone.

“You haven't the strength,” he repeated, his eyes suddenly swimming with the light of stars.

He was right. I hadn't the strength to live anymore. My will for survival was gone, long gone, by then. Too long spent in the dank underworld of undead games and politics. Too long spent being used and abused by unhuman creatures. Not even the whispers were encouragement enough to live.

“Take my hand, and I will grant you strength,” he said, voice dropping into a seductive purr. It rippled along my spine, sent tiny electric shocks through my muscles.

I stirred, uncrossed my arms. His smile grew wider, more inviting, revealing fangs over an inch long.

And then I made my choice. I took his hand, my expression unwavering, blank and cold as stone. I took his hand and followed him onto the bed, waited passively for him to undress me, lay me down, and drape his long body over mine.

I held perfectly still as he sank his fangs into my skin and let the blood run out of my body. I held perfectly still as he painted things onto my skin with my own blood. I only moved when he offered me a drink from a cut on his olive toned chest.

As blood flowed down my throat, I could feel life returning to my exhausted limbs, could feel it replacing the blood I lost. I laved my tongue over the wound, worrying at the edges with my teeth as it began to close, cut off my supply of life.

A spark of feeling drove me to movement. I wrapped my arm around his neck, tangled my fingers in his dusky hair, jerked his head down to my level. His bare neck looked inviting and soft, and my mouth locked over the pulse point in his neck before I knew what I was doing.

More blood flowed into my mouth, and the harder I sucked on the wound, the more excited he came to be. I could feel him growing hard against my hip, feel him rolling his hips against me. His fingers were gentle against my throat, his voice soothing as he pulled away, commanded me to stop feeding.

His mouth locked over mine and our breath mingled as he kissed me, his fangs piercing my lip. I arched beneath him when his fingers trailed softly over my groin, teased me into hardness. My body ached for him to sheathe himself inside me, rub his silken skin against me.

He trailed kisses down my body, and each one left me burning, writhing in agony, but still I uttered no sound.

He eased me onto my stomach, spread my legs just the tiniest bit, and settled himself comfortably against me. He painted more symbols, more designs across my back, my butt, my legs. He covered every inch of me in archaic runes and signs, all in my own blood, and then he began to kiss down my spine, adding to the fiery pains that already had complete control of my senses.

He was surprisingly gentle as his cool flesh entered my own, careful not to bruise or tear me to pieces. The chill of his body was wintry, and it soothed the fire burning across my skin.

Slowly, he moved in and out of me, his hands tracing idle designs of some sort over my skin once more. I stilled beneath him, my breathing slowly calming, until his fingers traced under my body to play most delicately with the sensitive flesh around the base of my shaft.

I canted my hips into the air, unconsciously offering him better access, and I could feel him grow harder inside me, close to his peak. A trail of sticky pre-cum trailed down the insides of my thighs, a cool, liquid grace.

Dextrous fingers worked me to climax, and a second after my own fluids splashed across the already blood-soaked sheets, he came inside of me, cold as ice. I screamed as my blood burned into my flesh, permanently marking me.

The first sound I uttered in years, and it was a scream. I screamed because of the flash fire pain. Because of the humanity being burned out of me with cold ice.

For years after, I remained in silence, stillness. I felt only when T'kali lay with me in bed, when we explored each others bodies and drank deeply of each others blood. Even then, it was still a silent feeling.