Doggone Batty (1/4)
He found himself following the siren’s call of a soft, singing voice. It was not hard to find the source; the man standing in the middle of the orchard was not trying to hide or be quiet. There was no need to be; although this property ran alongside Aziraphale’s aunt’s, there was no way any occupant that was not a werewolf would have been close enough to hear him.
Aziraphale raised his nose, trying to catch a bit of the man’s scent, but the air was deathly still tonight. He padded a little closer, knowing that even in the dark his shining white pelt would be visible. He didn’t want to scare a human, but that voice. Almost of their own accord, his ears leaned toward the sound, and Aziraphale half-expected to find an actual angel doing the singing.
What he found was decidedly not.
In fact, he realized as he got close enough to really see him, the being was neither a human nor an angel, but a demon.
Well, Aziraphale thought, a vampire, technically, but weren’t they basically the same thing? Evil creatures, harmful to the humans werewolves preferred to protect. They were dead things that hadn’t the sense to realize it, at least if one were to believe Gabriel’s opinion of them.
But… Aziraphale took a step closer, body curving around the trunk of a large cherry tree in a paltry attempt to stay hidden. The vampire had not seen him, his attention and delicate fingers both focused on checking the apples growing thick on the tree before him. A breeze stirred, flicking at the vampire’s long, loose curls and coming to tickle at Aziraphale’s nose with the scent of…
Of nothing, he realized, or nothing he had been expecting, anyway. There was no scent of stale blood, no decaying flesh, none of the usual stink of death that marked a vampire. His eyes were unmistakably yellow even by the dim light of a barely new moon, and he still smelled of cold, dead flesh, but the clean sort kept in fridges. Aziraphale wondered if perhaps new vampires smelled less of death than the ones he’d been told of. He’d never actually met one, personally, but surely they deserved Gabriel’s opinion of them.
The singing stopped, and Aziraphale’s fur hackled, but the vampire didn’t turn to him when he spoke. “Hello there, puppy. You don’t have to hide, I won’t hurt you.”
Aziraphale could feel his lips curling back from his long teeth at the degrading moniker. He was not a puppy. He was a rather massive wolf, perfectly capable of defending himself. Perfectly capable of dealing with a single vampire.
“In fact,” the vampire continued, drawing out the last word as though speaking to a small child, “if you were to come over here, I might just give you a few ear scritches.”
Aziraphale blinked. Ear scritches? Vampires were not, Aziraphale was very certain, given to addressing werewolves in this manner. They were hereditary enemies!
“No?” the vampire inquired, finally turning to look at him. “My apologies, maybe you’re the belly rub sort instead? Hard to tell. Don’t see too many dogs around these parts. Not ones that’ll come near me, at least.” He stuck out a hand in invitation, palm up as though he expected Aziraphale to come sniff it, and made a soft tutting noise.
Had the vampire somehow mistaken him for an actual dog?
