A/N: I want to thank you all for the wonderful feedback, especially valancystar, who is a wonderful sounding board and fellow fan. Spread the love, everyone! Let's reignite the TdV flame of the English-speaking community...

Title: The Devil's Consort

Fandom: Tanz der Vampire

Pairings: Herbert/Alfred (human), implied Alfred/Sarah, and a hint of von Krolock/Alfred

Rating: Nc-17 overall

Disclaimer: The heart of the musical resides in Vienne, though the plot itself belongs to Polanski.

Warnings: Homoeroticism and vampirism... although, perhaps to a greater extent than that of the musical (movie).

POV(s): Predominantly Alfred and Herbert, although I might sneak in something from von Krolock along the way.

Format: Chaptered

Spoilers/Timeline: Takes place following the end of the musical, supposing Alfred manages to escape Sarah's bite... Also supposing he doesn't quite escape von Krolock's company.

Summary: Once again a prison of von Krolock and his kin, Alfred prays to the God that they all claim is dead...

~*'Our nightmare is over now...' –Alfred (Draußen ist Freiheit – the reprise)*~

~Chapter One~

The first thing he discovers when they stop for a breath—when she collapses into his arms like a lifeless doll—is that his darling Sarah is suddenly unbearably...cold.

He brushes the pale exposure of her skin, tracing her shoulder with his thumb, and marvels at the absence of warmth. Absolutely nothing...as though she was made of stone...

As though she was dead.

Head resting in the crook of his neck, panting heavily against his skin, Sarah eases her meagre weight into Alfred's trembling arms and murmurs something comforting about the woods and the mountains; about the freedom they could find here, outside, where there is no one to stop them. The world, she whispers, is waiting for them just beyond the horizon, where they can spend an eternity together if he wants to, doing exactly as they please.

Alfred is enchanted by her sweet voice; her soft caress...but he is suffering from the sensation of something sordid crawling around beneath his skin, festering there like an infection that has finally taken hold. It creeps into his lungs, good and chilled, before spreading up to the crown of his head, settling there like a fever not easily broken.

The euphoria of having escaped the castle together with her and the professor is beginning to fade.

"Sarah?"

"Alfred," she breathes, lifting her dainty hand to cradle the side of his face. She nudges his chin up with the bridge of her nose and kisses his adam's apple, so startlingly uncharacteristic of the girl he once knew that it forces him to freeze in place, simply holding her, as if he's crossed the threshold and can't find the strength to turn back. He's her puppet now, and she's pulling his strings. "You're too good to me, Alfred. Stay with me, Alfred..."

Alfred. Alfred. Alfred...

He's never heard her say his name so many times before.

He glances over his shoulder to check up on the professor. The man already has his little notebook in hand, scribbling away fervently, as though he's finally found the Holy Grail of his studies. The sight is distressing, despite its familiarity—just another reminder that Abronsius is more interested in the science behind life and death than the actual importance of the two.

For one so old and frail, Alfred is truly surprised that Abronsius has so little respect for the emancipation of the immortal. How many times has he nearly frozen to death in the snow? How many perils has he thrown himself into with the pomposity of a mythological paladin? The man is certainly lucky to still be alive. Why, only last win—

His breath hitches in his throat as Sarah suddenly presses herself decisively closer. A perfect fit.

Alfred blushes.

"P-professor Abronsius..."

"Not now," the older man mumbles. "A moment, if you please."

"But—"

"Don't bother with him," Sarah chuckles, fisting the front of his tawdry frock coat, leaning heavily into him, practically clawing... The lapel tears as she pulls him down to his knees, the snow soaking through his leggings, before crawling into his lap. "We could have the world, darling... We're free now, you understand? Absolutely free..."

"Not really," he murmurs sheepishly.

Sarah laughs, high-pitch and louring, not too unlike the other vampires Alfred had seen at the ball, flouncing about with their rotting fans and putrescent appeal—so purulent in comparison to von Krolock and his son. She resumes kissing his neck as he tries to crane his head away, shoving him over the moment he leans too far back—and then she straddles his lap like a lover, spreading her hands over his trembling stomach, savouring the sensation, as if this is the most natural thing in the world...

Alfred stops breathing for a moment.

Smiling, she pats his chest gently, once, before lifting her hand high above her head. She tears his collar in one clean stroke, nicking his throat with her extended nails, and finally pounces on him, fangs bare, before he has a chance to squirm away.

Alfred gasps in pain, a delayed reaction, and thrusts the palm of his hand under her chin before her teeth can meet their mark, his carotid artery—the only figurative thread of life that matters to him at the moment, despite the fact that there are other vampires chasing them, as well as Koukol, and the wolves...

Abronsius throws his book at her.

Sarah squeals in surprise, head jerking back as he nails her in the nose. Alfred's face is subsequently flecked with coagulated blood as she raises her hands to shield herself, a brief opportunity that Alfred eagerly exploits to shove her bodily off his waist.

"Not a moment of peace!" Abronsius hollers. "Not so much as a breath before the disease takes hold! You see that, my boy? Hm—you see?"

Confused, Alfred wastes a second or two gawking at the professor before scrambling to his feet, away from where Sarah is sitting in the snow, fussing over her broken nose. "I...what?"

"Chagal took longer."

'Chagal took longer'...took longer to...to...

'Die,' Alfred thinks miserably.

Sarah is dead...

The woman in question hisses venomously as she wipes the blood from her face, rising steadily to her feet, skin practically glowing in the pale moonlight as her eyes fall on the older gentleman... Alfred knows that stance—that stare—and what it means for the professor if he doesn't do something soon.

Alfred lunges.

Sarah catches the professor first.

Jolted, Abronsius loses his balance in the snow, arms wind-milling comically before together he and Sarah tumble headlong through the trees, down the steep incline toward the make-shift road. Alfred reaches out for the old man futilely, fingertips brushing Abronsius' coat sleeve before both of his companions disappear into the maze of coppice and evergreens...

Alfred staggers after them, tripping over an extended root before landing painfully on his knees. They vanish ahead of him into the darkness, seemingly consumed by the night, as he stares on in disbelief.

"Professor..." he murmurs.

"...They will live, Alfred."

He nearly screams.

Turning is difficult in his position, and he twists his left knee in the process, but Alfred eventually finds his balance in the snow and takes a calculated step back. Any chance he has of escaping is slim, seeing as the sun is still an hour away from rising, but there's still a small part of him—the source of his naivety he supposes—that continues to hope against all hope that someone will come to save him.

Frantically, he wonders if he should just dive after Sarah and Abronsius and be done with it...

"She was close," Krolock remarks quietly, gaze falling on Alfred's throat. There's a gleam in his eye that betrays his baser urges, like a dying man that's finally found water.

"But...but she didn't..."

"No," Krolock agrees, "Not yet, anyway."

Trembling, Alfred covers the puncture wounds with his hand, the extent of his defensive abilities at the moment, but the simple gesture is enough to propel Krolock into action and the man takes a long stride forward, closing half the distance between them before the Count can compose himself again.

Fidgeting, Krolock flattens out the front of his vest with his hands and finally lifts his gaze to Alfred's eyes. "Anther sip, I think, will do the trick."

"But you—"

Krolock lifts his hand, a gesture that demands absolute silence.

Alfred's voice abandons him completely. He can't look away.

"There is something you must understand about this hunger, Alfred—that it is insatiable...eternal. Sarah only managed to whet my appetite, and I've already promised you a place in the greater scheme of things, so please...relax."

Relax...

Alfred feels faint.

Speckles of colour and light dance across his vision as he collapses, but he doesn't hit the ground. There are arms around him, supporting him, tugging his ruined collar farther open as a greedy mouth descends upon his wound, lapping at the dried blood, murmuring something about eternity and the many wonders he will find there...

There is a voice in the distance that is calling his name...

Krolock doesn't move.

Alfred tries to lift his head, to search for the source of that voice, but the task is almost too much for him to manage in this state and his throat remains exposed. Krolock continues to hold him, like a marionette, and turns to greet the newcomer, talking in low, gentle tones, as if trying to pacific the stranger.

Vaguely, Alfred wonders if he's been saved.

He continues to listen to the conversation—or tries to, in any case, because suddenly he finds himself drifting away, arms and legs being rearranged as he's handed off to someone else. And then he's flying—or at least it feels as though he's flying, because the wind is whipping through his hair and the world is turning beneath him. There is only darkness here and the soothing silence that comes with the deepest of slumbers...

His thoughts wander to Sarah and Abronsius as the shadows steal him away. He thinks of sunrise and of warm, breathing people—hundreds of thousands of them, altogether, far away from this strange, open land. Out there—somewhere—is his freedom, and he's determined to find it, to free himself from this castle; this place...

Against his better judgement, Alfred surrenders to this darkness.

And it welcomes him.

~*'God is dead...' -Graf von Krolock (Gott is tot)*~

A/N: Wow...this thing took forever to write. I've edited it so many times this far that I really won't be insulted or surprised if you tell me I've left a mistake (or if something, more or less, sounds odd).

Thank you for sticking with it to the end of chapter one, though. ;)