Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

Damian sat frozen in place, staring at the man before him. His father. Dracula. He had expected… something different. For a man who had almost lost his son, there should have been a touch of desperation, some grand display of affection—maybe an embrace, a shaking voice, or a tear held back for pride's sake. But there was none of that. Dracula sat poised, like a king on his throne, only moving when he folded his newspaper with meticulous precision. He looked up and smiled—a small smile, sharp and practiced, more polite than warm.

"Come here," Dracula said, the words smooth but carrying weight, as if his voice could command the room itself. He gestured with a single finger, the movement precise, deliberate.

Damian hesitated for half a second before obeying. Of course Dracula wouldn't act like a normal father—how could he? This was a man who had lived through centuries, perhaps millennia. A man with legends carved into the fabric of time. How old was he? Damian wondered. How did he even become Dracula? He doubted a being like this bothered with things like tenderness or vulnerability. For all he knew, his father might not even have emotions.

Sinking into the leather chair adjacent to Dracula's, Damian shifted slightly, aware of how his every move felt like it was being cataloged. Dracula's gaze was unnerving—those pale, ancient eyes like ice over dark water. Yet when he spoke, there was something subtle beneath the formality. Something close to affection.

"I'm glad you made it in one piece," Dracula said, his voice calm but edged with some deeper, unreadable note.

"Me too," Damian replied, trying to match the same coolness. "Would have been painful if I had to stay dead."

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Dracula didn't laugh, but his gaze narrowed ever so slightly. The faint twitch of his mouth suggested he found Damian's remark interesting, perhaps even amusing, but he wasn't about to indulge him with a laugh. Damian's stomach turned slightly. Oh crap, he thought. I don't even know what the previous Damian's personality was.

Dracula seemed to notice. His gaze sharpened like the edge of a knife. "Your mother said you lost your memories." It wasn't phrased as a question. It was an observation, but Damian could feel the unspoken curiosity humming beneath the words.

"Sadly," Damian replied with a shrug, keeping his tone neutral.

Dracula tilted his head, the faintest of sighs escaping him, as if testing the weight of Damian's answer. "Yes, that is most unfortunate," he said, though his voice lacked the sympathy that might come from a mortal father. "However, the most important thing is that you're back. You remember yourself. You know how to act human—and hopefully, vampire?"

Damian blinked. Then, slowly, he shook his head. He half-expected Dracula to react—maybe anger, or disappointment—but the man simply arched an eyebrow. For the first time, his carefully composed expression faltered into something like surprise.

"You don't?" Dracula's voice came sharp with incredulity, though still controlled, like an iron fist in a velvet glove.

Damian swallowed hard and shook his head again, bracing himself for what might come next. Instead, Dracula sighed—a deep, resigned sound that carried more patience than frustration.

"I suppose you'll need a refresher," Dracula said finally.

That's what everyone's been saying since I got here, Damian thought, resisting the urge to groan aloud.

Dracula straightened in his chair, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "So, I am a vampire. That means I possess the typical skills: immortality, super speed, super strength, regeneration, and healing."

Damian nodded faintly. "You know, the usual vampire starter pack," he muttered.

A flicker of amusement passed through Dracula's pale eyes. "Then there are the rarer abilities," he continued smoothly, "such as enhanced senses, shapeshifting, and mind control."

Damian sat up a little straighter. "Wait—mind control? Shapeshifting? You can really do all that?"

"Technically, yes," Dracula replied, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "But such abilities come with terms."

"Terms?" Damian frowned.

Dracula gestured lazily, as though explaining something obvious. "For mind control, it only works on a full moon. Outside of that, I can… suggest things to a person's mind. Influence them, subtly. But true control? That's a privilege granted only by the moon."

Damian's brow furrowed. "Huh. And the shapeshifting?"

"That is a more peculiar matter," Dracula said. His gaze drifted slightly, as if looking through the room to a far-off memory. "It is unique to me. It requires a ritual—a ceremony of blood and shadow." He returned his gaze to Damian. "It is not something I take lightly."

Damian's thoughts raced. The image of Dracula shifting into a cloud of mist or a wolf crossed his mind, sending a chill through him. "But everything else? The super strength, healing, speed—those are always there?"

Dracula nodded once. "Yes. They are constant."

Damian exhaled, digesting the information. Then Dracula's gaze sharpened. "Now, for you, as a half-vampire, the rules are different. You have super strength, super speed, regeneration, and enhanced senses. However, they are weaker—diluted."

"That's why it took so long for my chest to heal," Damian murmured, his mind clicking the pieces into place.

"Precisely," Dracula affirmed. "Your wounds will mend, but you are not indestructible. And as for mind control—you possess none of it. Not yet, at least. On a full moon, you might have the ability, but outside of that, you cannot even suggest things to mortal minds."

Damian frowned slightly. "But shapeshifting? Can I do that?"

Dracula's expression turned thoughtful, as though measuring his words. "It is possible, since you carry my blood. However, your body is not as resilient as mine. The transformation would be… excruciating. Painful beyond comprehension."

"Great," Damian muttered. "So I'm just a slightly less cool vampire."

For the first time, something shifted in Dracula's expression. His mouth curved into the faintest of smiles, and his eyes—those pale, ancient eyes—seemed to light up, like a flicker of fire behind frosted glass.

"Well, if you put it that way…" Dracula said, his voice low and smooth, a hint of amusement curling the edges of his words.