The young angel gasped softly, his eyes falling shut in shame. Mitchell drawing blood from him was one thing, and the boy made the offering of it an art in and of itself. Now, his fingers curled tightly against the leather cushions of the sofa as though he was resisting either holding on or pushing the clearly elder vampire away. He didn't have a choice here.
His mind scrambled to make connections that might mean something to a clearly Hellenistic mind. "You'll learn nothing from my blood," he said softly, dropping into Sumerian just to prove a point about his own age an the tongues lost to men. He switched smoothly into Ancient Greek again without missing a beat, "I am Apollo's," he answered, "though such a wrong has been done me that even the Far Shooter's keen eye cannot see." Angels and the many gods of the pagans weren't all that different. It was a point of deep shame to admit even now that the vampire had been right that Apollo would not come to his aid. None of his kin had. He was beginning to wonder if any of them could even see him anymore. He wasn't going to give up Mitchell, not that easily.