Blackadder Monster Sex 05 -
He didn’t ride out with a sword or a stake. That would be common. Instead, he used what he did best: cunning. He sent Baldrick to divert the Duke’s attention by releasing a flock of bats into his castle’s belfry (“It’s a classic, Baldrick. They’ll be finding guano in his coffin for a century.”). Then, under cover of a convenient fog, he swapped the silver nitrate barrels with barrels of concentrated wolfbane essence—which, while foul-tasting, was harmless to werewolves but would give any vampire who touched it a rash for a decade.
“I don’t howl,” Edmund said, aghast. “I intone .”
“Baldrick!” he shrieked later, pacing the throne room. “I think I have a… a feeling .”
She found him later, trying to scrub wolfbane rash off his fingertips with a pumice stone. Blackadder Monster Sex 05
The crisis came during the Blood Moon Hunt. A rogue faction of vampire purists, led by the odious Duke Malvolio (a mosquito-themed nobleman with a whiny proboscis), decided to “solve” the werewolf problem by poisoning the pack’s watering hole with silver nitrate.
Over the following weeks, Edmund found his existence invaded. Perdita would appear at his castle gates with a freshly killed deer (“Thought you might want the blood, darling. The rest is for my pups.”). She challenged him to races through the thorn forest (she won, but claimed his complaining about a torn cape was “adorable”). She even laughed genuinely at one of his sarcastic remarks about the local zombie peasantry’s work ethic.
“I saved you ,” Edmund corrected, wincing. “The rest of your flea-bitten family were a regrettable side effect. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with a calamine lotion.” He didn’t ride out with a sword or a stake
“That’s indigestion, you troglodyte,” Edmund sighed. “Not love.”
She didn’t excuse him. She crossed the room, took his raw, reddened hands in her warm, calloused ones, and kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a kiss of teeth, of near-misses, of a werewolf and a vampire finding a surprisingly comfortable middle ground. For a moment, Edmund forgot to be cynical. His heart didn’t just lurch. It raced .
Count Edmund Blackadder, Lord of the Carpathian Vale and a vampire of impeccable sneer, had three great loathings: sunlight (fatal), garlic (vulgar), and sentimentality (utterly unbecoming of an apex predator). For four centuries, he had navigated the treacherous waters of the undead aristocracy with cynical grace, dispatching rivals, evading vampire hunters, and maintaining a cellar of exceptionally well-aged O-negative. Love, he often remarked to his put-upon familiar, Baldrick, was a chemical error corrected by a good staking. He sent Baldrick to divert the Duke’s attention
But every evening, just before dawn, Perdita would curl up at the foot of his coffin, her wolf form a warm, heavy weight against his cold feet. And Edmund, the cynic, the sneerer, the Lord of the Carpathian Vale, would allow himself one small, secret smile before the sun rose.
“Wit is my armor!” Edmund wailed to a stuffed raven. “It’s not meant to be… appealing !”
The problem was twofold. First, Perdita was a werewolf . Their clans had a truce, but a romance? It was taboo. The Vampire Council would have him exsanguinated. The Wolf Pack would have her de-tailed. Second—and far more terrifying—she didn’t seem to care about his status, his fortune, or his carefully cultivated aura of menace. She liked him for his wit .
“Is it a crunchy one, my lord? I get those when I eat gravel.”
It was, as Edmund would never, ever admit out loud, the least inconvenient feeling he’d ever had.
