Bloodsucking, bloodthirsty, bloodlusting.

Perhaps the three most common adjectives used to describe Mary: the youngest cousin of the Papas over the Church of Satan. His kinship to the Papal bloodline didn’t put him in line for power, but it allowed him to at least be left alone. People didn’t question him when he took a woman to his bed then hobbled out the next morning with blood dripping over his smudged makeup, all down his face, the smell too vivid to possibly be fake.

He wasn’t a killer, and he was scary enough to keep the girls he took from tattling on him. Probably the only reason he didn’t find himself with his ass in the dirt, really, but being lazy would land him there soon enough, Imperator, his grand-aunt, had decided. It was how he ended up in the dark corner of the library, coughing his dead lungs up despite not needing oxygen.

He watched the girl’s hips sway in front of him as they bent down, lifting a dusty book and brushing it off before pushing it into the appropriate place on the shelf. Wasn’t a bad view… at least it made the task bearable. The only problem? She wasn’t the biggest fan of him. She, luckily, had yet to notice the vampirism, but saw through everything else: the laziness, the affinity for partying and slacking, and she didn’t seem willing to have it.

They’d ordered the books already, but told him to at least put some on the shelf. Reaching down into the basket, he retrieved an unlabeled, leather-covered book, one that made his skin burn.

Religious text. Literally, holy shit.

He hissed as the pallid skin of his fingers reddened and then peeled, He threw it down on the floor, and then, very dramatically, began to stomp on it, as if he could kill Jesus twice. Satisfied with his ruining of the aged pages, he looked up, and… was already being screamed at.

Yeah, he didn’t care for them either.