The Downfall of Count Abbot

Step One | Catch Him In The Act

The red-eyed vampire frowned at him and said, "You're not to leave this room until dusk tomorrow. Your transformation isn't complete."

"Where's Count Abbot?" he asked.

Bronson was easy to read. He hesitated, clearly unsure whether he wanted to answer or not. "You need to get back into bed, Lawrence."

"Did something happen?"

"No, everything's fine. Please, back in bed," he insisted.

Reluctantly, Lawrence acquiesced with a nod, allowing the heavy door to seal off his solitude once more. Questions swirled in his mind, a torrent of confusion and worry crashing against the shore of his consciousness. Abbot pledged to stand vigil, to be his unwavering guardian through this perilous rite of transformation. Yet there Lawrence was, alone and bewildered, grappling with the unsettling absence of the Count's reassuring presence. Why would he leave without a word, without even arranging for someone else to take his place once Lawrence stirred from his slumber?

As he sank onto the bed, Lawrence's fingers grazed through the tangled strands of his tawny hair, now slick with sweat and neglect. The sensation elicited a shudder, a stark reminder of the physical toll exacted by the metamorphosis. Discomfort gnawed at him, a visceral malaise that transcended the clammy sheen on his skin. Despite the clamour of unease, one thought remained steadfast amidst the tumult: he had to find Abbot.

He reached into the nightstand and took out his phone. First, he tried calling him, but after seven failed attempts, he texted him.

Where are you?

But there was no reply.

He tried again.

Is everything okay? I woke up and you weren't here.

Still nothing.

What the hell was he doing?

Lawrence was starting to panic. Although it wasn't racing, his heart was aching, and he knew that if he didn't find the Count soon, the pain would only get worse. He needed him right now; he was supposed to be guiding him through the first hours of his transformation, welcoming him into the coven. He wouldn't miss that...would he?

With a breathy huff, he put his phone in his pocket and stood up. He had to get rid of Bronson, so he walked to the door and pulled it open again.

Bronson sighed deeply as he turned to face him. "Lawrence, get back in—"

"Can I have more blood?" he requested. "I...I need more blood."

The General adorned that same reluctant stare, but after a few moments of contemplation, he sighed and nodded. "All right. Get back in bed and I'll bring you some."

"Thank you," he said, sounding as grateful as he could.

Lawrence then closed the door and waited, listening. When he heard Bronson's footsteps receding, a strange desperation began to fill him. He wanted to find Abbot, he wanted to bask in his new life with him, and he wanted to talk about forever again. How he loved those conversations; the thought of spending eternity with his soulmate was at the top of the list of things that convinced him to join Abbot's ranks, that and the fact that his human life was dull and empty. He wouldn't have to work in that coffee shop anymore, and he wouldn't have to listen to his man-child of a boss, either.

When Bronson's footsteps were so far away that even Lawrence's new, sharper senses couldn't hear him, he pulled the door open and left the chamber he'd been left to turn in. He navigated the familiar castle halls, passing the painting-lined black walls, following the blood-red, gold-trimmed rug. He never noticed the smell of warm amber before, or the scent of cinnamon. Until now, he hadn't seen the cobwebs clinging to the rib-vaulted ceiling or the tiny cracks in some of the foundations.