The Unholy Son

2026 Buffy's Book Boutique Sci Fi/Fantasy Honorable Mention Awardee

By D.M. Saints

Hell be damned.

Vampire Konrad Zhou was on a mission to repent.

In order to construct his path to redemption, he turned to various hagiographies as his primary sources of inspiration. In his past life, as a young missionary, Konrad noticed numerous accounts of sinful men isolating themselves in faraway caves.

He thought that might be an appropriate place to start.

A faraway cave.

A cave with taste, preferably.

And the centuries-old, blind vampire felt most at home in his private art museum, for there was nothing in this bleak world that provoked more self-reflection than fine art.

His visual impairment was hardly a limitation. His scorched eyes could still identify shapes and shadows, but they were unnecessary in the curation process. Instead, the vampire acquired art based on the energy each piece emanated. Take, for instance, a starving artist’s desperation dripping off an oil landscape. Or a defeated painter’s heartbreak leaking from a dead lover’s portrait.

Sorrow and pain were his thematic preferences.

He related to them best — the pieces reminders of all the wrong he’d done in his miserable existence. A poetic interior touch, he thought, for a house of reparation.

It was past midnight, the museum quiet as a tomb.

Evening chores were complete: wax polishing the coffin, watering the low-light houseplants, rechecking every gallery frame with a level to ensure perfect hanging.

A white cane skittered across the museum floor as Konrad leaned on his human familiar, Sims, the pair making their way to the vampire’s nightly sitting spot.

The vampire’s favorite gallery was empty save for a black, wooden bench in front of a gargantuan oil painting. The art was so large it spanned most of the wall, requiring anyone sitting to crane their neck to view the top. Inside the chipped, ornate frame lay the remains of painter Constantine’s Holy Son. It was a depiction of the Divine Twin Son, the Heavenly Father’s favored child, smiling down at mankind. The art had been severely damaged in The Great Assimilation fifty years ago, a witness to unfathomable pain and hate.

The piece was barely recognizable now.

But the vampire remembered the gravitas it once commanded; he very much enjoyed the painting as a young church disciple. And due to the disfigurement of the art’s iconography, the demon was finally able to sit comfortably with the piece once more.

It was here he conducted his nightly prayer.

Sims, a dopey, middle-aged man whose blood smelled of sweet moonbeer and crisp pine, ensured his master was seated in the bench’s exact center. Konrad’s evening ritual felt more respectable when he minded the details of scene setting. The vampire fluffed the maroon pocket handkerchief of his single-breasted jacket. Ran his long, ruby-ringed fingers down his lapels. Checked his posture.

All was as it should be.

Until one of the large wall sconces extinguished, cloaking half of the Holy Son in shadow.

Ruining everything.

Konrad inhaled through his nose, held the air in his chest for a beat, and exhaled for a slow eight count.

Sims cleared his throat. “Damn thing is out again. Absolute fraud, that electrician. I’ll call first thing in the morning, Master. Leave a shitty review for this wanker on the village job board too.”

Konrad unclenched his jaw. Another inhale. Controlled exhale.

“Tart might make you feel better,” Sims offered. “I’ll grab one from the kitchen, if you like.”

The vampire frowned. Discussing pastries in front of Constantine’s magnum opus was rather provincial.

“It’s the blueberries, innit? Wish you’d just tell me your allergies. I won’t judge. Baking contest next March. I need the feedback. ‘Course...” The familiar paused, seeming to consider his words. “...if we’re not all dead by March.”

A valid concern, Konrad supposed, for a mortal.

War was raging in the south. The ramifications of which were felt even in the frigid northern mountains where Konrad now sought solitude. Velvet curtain prices were outrageous. Art auctions closed till further notice. The morning papers, read aloud to him by Sims, headlined updates on mankind’s fight against the Ancient Dark’s growing forces, everything below the Elmorian Empire’s belt bathed in blood.

Blood.

Delicious, warm blood.

Konrad adjusted his round, black shades. They were his favorite pair. While they only partially covered the burn scars, he felt they were the most stylish of options.

No thank you, he told himself.

This spat did not concern the vampire, for he’d had more than his fair share of conflict over the years. And conflict was a gateway to all the sins he was now washing his hands of: pillaging vulnerable towns, terrorizing the locals, and sucking its innocents dry.

War was an enabler.

The museum was where he belonged now, surrounded by cultured, timeless objects that against all odds had withstood the test of time.

Just like him.

Just like Constantine’s magnificent Holy Son.

“Master,” Sims whispered, spittle spritzing from his wet lips. “There’s a lotta chatter in the pubs about what people will do here if the Dark comes knocking.”

Perish, Konrad supposed.

Sims puffed out his chest. “I know it’s earlier than planned, but maybe you should Turn me now. I could protect the people!” The familiar dawned a crooked, toothy grin. “‘Cause what’s safer than two vampires in a town?”

Mother’s sin.

The buffoon seemed quite proud of his logic.

If it were anyone else, the forwardness would have been an insult. But coming from his familiar, it only evoked pity in Konrad.

Oh, how he’d heard this ask time and time again.

Oh, how it annoyed him more and more.

Sims knew he served a retired, reclusive vampire, yes. But beyond that, the simpleton was clueless of the world his master inhabited. A sheltered mountain man, Sims was hypnotized by the sexy aesthetics of dark magic. For people like Sims, the shiny, black cloaks and supernatural strength was all the persuasion they needed, and they happily passed on any additional research.

But to make The Turn was a serious decision.

With ungodly power comes an ungodly price. And Konrad wagered that most mortals with such knowledge would agree that even immortality is far too brief when the devil awaits you on the other side.

Also, the ability to sire was restricted to females.

People like Sims were best used than promoted.

It’s what nature intended.

Konrad shooed Sims away. “This is inappropriate timing for conversation. You are dismissed for the night.”

Ever patient, the familiar abandoned his pitch and bid Konrad adieu. He left out the front door, the turning of the lock echoing off the walls.

A handful of quiet minutes passed, nothing but the sound of wood creaking beneath Konrad as he readjusted his sitting position. Once settled, he remembered the faulty sconce. Looking up at the shadowed portion of the canvas was like spotting a hideous blemish. He hated the way it stole the piece’s spotlight with all its wrongness.

For a moment, Konrad considered calling the evening prayer off. To not have everything in order felt disingenuous. Risky. But then the thought of breaking routine seemed an even greater gamble. A devotee by definition possessed unconditional dedication. If he stopped now, he might paint himself fickle.

And so, sighing, the vampire conceded. He bowed his head and prayed, reporting his daily progress to the Divine Twin Son.

3,640 days. Glory to You and the Father.

Almost ten years since he’d killed a living creature. Sucked it of its life force. Tasted the sweet ecstasy of sin.

His longest fast yet. An accomplishment the demon was sincerely proud of.

It was torture in the beginning, of course. Some vampires go mad without blood. But the isolation helped. The nightly prayers helped. The vision of Konrad one day being reaccepted into the heavenly kingdom helped.

The hiring of Sims three years ago was a test.

And the familiar lived on as a testament to the vampire’s commitment.

Konrad fought back a smile. He’d never heard of a demon resisting The Call for so long. He knew not when his fast would end, but he hoped the Divine Twin Son would send a message. An indication the angels were interested in Konrad again. That he was on the right track. That there was hope.

Soon, he believed. The message would come soon.

Konrad stilled.

He sensed another presence in the room.

A presence like his.

Seated on the far end of the viewing bench, swinging her legs back and forth, was a female vampire. Not a child, but childish.

With his poor eyes, Konrad could identify unruly, dirty blonde curls. Round cheeks. Her lips smacked together as she chewed on a stick of gum. By the sound of her chomping, he imagined the thick, pink gunk tangling itself between her fangs. She sat with her arms folded, squinting at Constantine’s work.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

Konrad stiffened. He’d found no record of other vampires residing in the Noreaux Mountains. It’s what made the area so appealing in the first place. He wondered if she was a new neighbor.

Perhaps seeking asylum.

Perhaps seeking mischief.

“How did you get in here?” He asked. He would bar the entry point for next time.

The intruder bounced to her feet and extended her hand. Her black, Chantilly sleeves strained to reach her wrists, the flesh squeezing through the lace mesh, suggesting a too-small, hand-me-down dress. Around her neck sparkled the unholy, triangular pendant that symbolized the Damned Twin Son, the Heavenly Father’s rejected child.

The calling card of the Ancient Dark.

“Josephine de Carte,” she said. “I finally found yooo-u.” She drew out her vowels and waggled her finger at him. “They call me the Black Coquette down south. You’ve been summoned, Konrad Zhou, Snake of Yangsu.”

A message, Konrad realized.

But not the one he was interested in.

And he no longer identified with that cursed title.

So, Konrad ignored her.

“Hello?” Josephine growled. “I’m offering my hand to you, you blind bat.”

He turned away from the sound of her shrill voice. “Tell whomever you serve that I’m out of commission.”

“I don’t think our Mummy would like to hear that.”

Mummy.

Acid flooded Konrad’s gut.

It was too soon for Mummy to be sending messengers.

He turned back around and adjusted his shades.

Losing his eyes for a time, as horrific as the initial loss was, turned out to be divine intervention. It was the long-awaited answer to Konrad’s traitorous prayers over the years — an opportunity to take leave from the Ancient Dark’s cause. Fifty years or so to fully heal, he estimated. To hide and make amends with the Divine Twin Son and the Heavenly Father. To find a permanent way out before the coven came calling.

His cursed blood was strong; his vision was returning quicker than anticipated.

But Konrad assumed that Mummy still deemed him useless.

Was it possible the monster who sired Konrad knew better than he did? Had she managed to somehow infiltrate his thoughts from this far away?

“What does she want now?” He asked.

Josephine folded her arms and huffed. “Don’t play dumb. You really think you can sit out an entire war?”

Such obnoxious confidence. She was a fledgling, Konrad guessed.

And that was odd.

It was unusual for Mummy to Turn a woman like Josephine. Their sire was selective with her children. She preferred noblemen’s daughters or accomplished male warriors. This messenger, with her abysmal manners and poor presentation, was clearly fished from the gutter. It made Konrad wonder if the humans were holding their own.

If Mummy was growing desperate.

“I’m still on the mend.” He gestured to his shades. “My eyes are not — ”

Josephine slapped Konrad.

The assault was so unexpected, he toppled off the bench, his cane rolling out of reach.

He clutched his shades, wading through the pain as his cursed blood fused his jaw back together.

“Since when do we question our sire’s wishes?” Josephine asked, standing over his prone body. She spat out her gum, the wet wad plopping onto the clean museum floor. She crouched and pulled Konrad up by the collar.

He was admittedly impressed, if not a little embarrassed for underestimating her. Such raw strength for a monster so young.

“I volunteered to search for you, you know,” she said, eyelashes batting. “I heard about how that vile hunter poured silver into your clever eyes. I wanted to weep! Mummy really relied on you, you know. And they said you used to be so handsooo-me.” She brushed a lock of black hair from his forehead.

Konrad snatched the fledgling’s thin, pale wrist.

In that moment he imagined cracking Josephine’s skull on the floor, the discarded mound of gum marking the exact spot where her head would connect with the terrazzo. Bone giving way to brain matter. Like cracking a bad egg. It would be messy, sure, but he’d call Sims back to mop up the spill.

Mother’s sin, she probably tasted divine too. Cursed blood was premium blood.

Blood, blood, blood.

No.

3,640 days.

“Please leave,” Konrad said, his voice cracking. He steadied his breathing. Controlled inhale, controlled exhale. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

And he meant it.

By the Divine Twin Son’s grace, he was different now.

There were red marks blooming on Josephine’s wrist. Konrad let go, gripping the rim of his shades instead. “Please,” he said. “Let us go in peace, sister.”

But the proud fledgling did not listen. Instead, she headbutted him with the force of an ox, and Konrad’s teeth rattled as his head ricocheted off the floor.

Josephine scoffed at his warning. “As if you could hurt me. You’re a relic, Konrad. I know it’s hard for damaged goods like you, but it’s time to give some respect to the fresh blood.”

“I’m not going with you!” He gritted his teeth, a sharp pain pricking his gums as his canines lengthened into fangs.

“I don’t care what you want.” Josephine pulled a thick leather collar from her waistband, the inside lined with silver.

The danger of the metal was so palpable, it hummed in Konrad’s ear. The same buzzing he heard moments before he lost his eyes. Before the silver pooled in his sockets and ate away at everything. He flinched, steeling himself in preparation for the burn.

Josephine snarled. “You are a servant of the Ancient Dar —”

A porcelain plate spun across the room and collided with Josephine’s windpipe.

She gagged, startled.

Konrad snatched the collar and turned to throw the female off of him. He rolled to his feet and froze, inhaling the scent of sweet moonbeer and crisp pine.

Sims.

The familiar’s frumpy body shape came into view at the opposite end of the gallery.

Holding what Konrad could only assume was a tray of blueberry tarts and assorted serving plates.

“Came in through the back, Master,” the familiar called. “Forgot I left the tarts.”

The artless dimwit.

His artless dimwit.

Konrad yelled for Sims to flee, but the Black Coquette was already locked on her target, leaping toward the mountain man on all fours. Like a ravenous, feral cat.

Sims threw the remainder of his plates, pastel-colored discs whirling through the air toward the female vampire. The man cursed as Josephine dodged each projectile, one by one by one. In a final, futile effort of self defense, Sims held up his baking tray, the pastries sliding off the metal and onto his loafers.

The fledgling tackled the familiar to the ground, knocking the tray from his hands. She opened her maw wide, primed for feasting.

But Konrad snatched her by the scalp.

A moment of reflection passed through the male vampire, as Josephine hung suspended over Sims, drool dripping onto the trembling man’s pink cheeks. This heinous female, Konrad thought, had shirked her primary responsibility as a messenger to mock his life choices and eat his staff. Did she really think she was superior, after all the stories she’d heard about him? He’d only been gone for a decade. Was hierarchy too obsolete now for the Ancient Dark?

Konrad considered himself convalescent. He’d even accept the title of burdensome from his coven members.

But Konrad Zhou was not inferior.

And with a twist of his torso, with all the strength he’d regained since his injury, Konrad threw the female vampire across the room.

Josephine shrieked as she smashed into the far wall. A second cry of pain followed, as her body flopped forward onto the hard museum floor, her face breaking the fall.

With weak, trembling arms, the fledgling attempted to peel herself up from the floor.

And even from a distance, Konrad’s compromised eyes could spy the bright, crimson blood leaking from Josephine’s left nostril.

A controlled inhale.

The smell of bloody ecstasy.

A shaky exhale.

“Sims,” Konrad said. He began to cross the room toward Josephine.

“Y-yes?” His familiar replied from the floor.

“Ready the sculpture exhibit.”

Sims sat up now, confusion and fear twisting his expression. “M-master?”

Konrad halted, his eyes locked on the pretty red liquid pooling on Josephine’s upper lip. A predator watching its prey. But Konrad knew he was being watched too. He glanced at Constantine’s Holy Son. The half lit art piece. All of Heaven, he reminded himself, was observing him in that moment. Waiting. Judging.

Konrad adjusted his shades.

He settled on restraining Josephine with her own collar.

Her neck blistered as the silver made contact. She would be weaker now. Easier to tie up.

“I’m locking you away,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Enough of this.”

But Josephine only cackled. “There is no end to this,” she said. She took a deep inhale, seeming to indulge in the scent of her burning flesh. Basking in the pain.

It disgusted Konrad, and he wondered who the female might have been in her past life. Did The Turn make her this cruel and demented? Or did it merely enlarge the darkness already inside her?

Josephine continued. “They’ll come looking for us. Or maybe I’ll escape and find my way home.” She bared her teeth, her fangs chubby, still juvenile. “I will tell Mummy. And then Mummy will deal with you.” Her playful smile widened into a sinister grin, causing the blood to crest her lip and spill over.

Mixing with her gums, her teeth, her tongue.

She wiped the mess across her forearms. “You cannot hide forever,” she whispered. “Cannot outrun what you are. What you’ve always been. What you’ll forever be. Snake of Yangsu.”

And that ruined everything.

Konrad palmed Josephine’s face. With all of Heaven watching, he snatched one of her bloody arms and sunk his fangs into the plump blue veins adorning the female vampire’s wrist. The tantalizing taste of iron and salt. The exquisite breaching of her flesh and his promise.

Wonderfully, terribly, Konrad slipped below the crimson wave.

Submerged in the red, satiating The Call after nearly a decade, he was reminded of the first time he tasted the delicious, intoxicating liquid of life. The way he drained a fellow missionary out in the fields. He couldn’t remember the name of his first kill anymore, only the tiny scar intersecting the young man’s right brow and the way it danced as his prey’s panicked eyes searched for help.

The vampire dove deeper, and Konrad’s mind wandered into the small port town where he met the refugees from his home country of Yangsu. Men, women, and children who looked like him, fleeing the collapse of their nation overseas. How they trusted him, following him blindly into the forest where Mummy and the coven waited.

What a feast.

A snake, they called him, but he didn’t care, not in the moment. He only drank.

And drank, and drank.

Until he was the only one left from Yangsu.

Until Josephine regretted her transgressions.

Until Konrad was satisfied.

The fledgling kicked and flailed, but collar or not, she was no match for his strength. And when Josephine had the gall to cry out Mummy’s name, he ceased his drinking to pin the vampire on her back.

To shut her up once and for all.

Ripping the shades from his face, Konrad revealed the hypertrophic, charred skin beneath.

His once clever eyes.

Now disfigured, oozing, and bulging.

As ugly as the atrocities he’d committed with them.

For under Konrad’s gaze there was no escape. Bliss, horror, ecstasy — who knew what someone felt when they locked eyes with him. He always believed it was unique to each victim, an emotion potent enough to paralyze his prey. And if Konrad willed it, seize control of their forms to harden his victims to stone.

To craft their bodies into memento victoriams.

To collect his conquests.

Mummy had never seen a gift like Konrad’s before. She called him her prized son.

Her unholy son.

An accomplishment the demon was, at one point in his existence, sincerely proud of.

Konrad hadn’t touched his gift since the night he’d lost his eyes. He was unsure of his abilities even now, but with fresh, cursed blood on his lips, the male vampire was keen to show this monster her place. Crying out in agony, Konrad widened his eyes, his partially reconstructed eyelids pushing up against inflamed tissue. He called upon both his intrinsic power and her stolen blood, focusing all his energy toward the fledgling’s demise.

And to Konrad’s savage glee, Josephine’s body submitted.

Her bouncy curls grew heavy. Her joints stiffened into rigid obedience. Her screams were smothered as her lungs, vocal cords, and fangs hardened into a pristine, pearly marble. A living terror, she was transformed into a static piece of grotesque art, a dynamic portrayal of animalistic fear and fury. And with a final snap of flesh to stone, the dirty work was complete.

Josephine de Carte, the Black Coquette, was no more.

The museum plunged into an eerie silence.

Sims tiptoed to his master’s side, wringing his wrists. “B-banging job, Master. E-exceptional artistry.”

Konrad said nothing. Any sense of relief or victory soured at the growing realization of what he’d just let happen. What he’d created. What he’d destroyed.

“Will I be able to do that one day?” Sims asked. “After the Turn?”

The vampire rose and tucked his shades in the front pocket of his trousers. “Put her with the sculptures.” He wiped the dust from his jacket and made to leave. He felt weak, and the room seemed to sway. “And cover that.” He waved a blood-soaked hand at Constantine’s painting on the wall, averting his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at it with what little vision he had left.

Not after what he’d done.

Not after all the chaos.

Some things were certain — Mummy and the coven would keep looking for him. But other things were far from clear. And it made Konrad's skin boil with frustration. Only seconds ago, it had all made organized sense. How fundamentally wrong it would have been to return willingly to the cause. He knew that. And yet in his pursuit of being a pacifist, Konrad had managed to digress into a fiend. He’d murdered and drank. His fast was broken. And worst of all, he experienced joy while committing the monstrous act.

Konrad’s mind raced to pull the black and white from the overwhelming grey. Josephine shouldn’t have challenged him. She asked for it. The blood was hypnotizing. It forced his hand.

Or maybe, Konrad dared to wonder, it was just him. A demon playing angel.

His knees buckled. Konrad bumped against the gallery bench, catching it to steady himself. His eyes were swollen, sore. He felt like he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Maybe he was.

What if there was no one and nothing to blame, but him?

What if one’s love for the Divine Twin Son was not enough to defeat one’s nature?

Because wanting to be good meant nothing if you were created for evil.

What a fool he’d been.

Praying into the void every night. Engaging in ridiculous rituals. As if anyone out there was actually concerned about a monster like him. Mummy would probably skin him for what he’d done to Josephine. It wouldn’t have been the first time. And that would be okay. It would be what he deserved. What nature intended.

“Master?” Sims asked.

Konrad winced. With a tight grip on the wood, he resorted to draping himself over the back of the bench, shutting his burning eyes. “I do not fault you for your fear and disgust, Sims. Only once will I warn you. Leave now and never return.”

The familiar put his hands on his hips. “And why would I do that?”

The vampire heaved a defeated sigh. “Mother’s sin, you are so dense.”

Konrad waited for his familiar to take offense, but instead, Sims appeared in his Master’s periphery. He slung the vampire’s arm over his shoulder, pulling Konrad to his feet. “Steady now,” Sims said. His voice was hushed, comforting.

So comforting it made Konrad uncomfortable.

The vampire pushed the mountain man off. “Your funeral, then.”

Sims did not waver, instead returning Konrad his white cane. “But that’s the thing,” the familiar said. “There will be no funeral. You saved my life, Master. Thank you.” He gave the vampire a reassuring grin.

Konrad turned away from Sims, cupped his eyes, and tucked his chin to his chest, returning to his controlled breathing exercises.

A controlled inhale.

“Master,” Sims said. “You’re a good man.”

A shaky exhale.

A good man.

Konrad looked back at his familiar. But Sims had already moved on, exiting the room in likely pursuit of lifting straps to drag Josephine’s marble remains to their final resting place.

A good man.

The words echoed in Konrad’s mind. He reached up to lightly tap the moisture wetting his cheeks, expecting blood or puss from his eyes. Instead, Konrad found salt water. Tears, he realized. He was crying, and that was odd. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d experienced such a gentle, human reaction in a beastly, demonic body.

Konrad stilled.

For he sensed another presence in the room.

A presence unlike him.

A presence so omnipotent that it filled the entire space, bringing him to his knees, his hands pressed to the chilled museum floor. Flinching, he discovered the room had grown brighter. Konrad peeked over the bench, and through blurry, failing vision, spotted the source of illumination. The faulty wall sconce next to the Holy Son had miraculously flickered back on, bathing the art in warm, majestic light. Constantine’s magnum opus in its full splendor, just as he remembered so many painful years ago.

A message, the vampire thought.

‍ ‍The message.

The demon did not move. Sitting in the grey, he wept until dawn.

Konrad Zhou was on a mission to repent.

Hell be damned.