There was still hours before sunset, but Mark was so spent after our little interlude that he fell asleep right there on the rug. It always struck me how quickly he would drop off after we'd spent a few hours dissolving into each other like sugar in mint tea. One of the advantages I had over ordinary humans was that physical fatigue, in the human sense, was foreign to me. At least that was the conclusion I drew watching his sleepy face in the mornings or when he came home from work at night.
When I began writing, I started going to bed with Mark more often, hoping that sleep might quiet the frantic loop of thoughts and the hundred plot tangents clamoring for the page — you can only choose a few for one novel, otherwise you overload the story and the reader with noise. Early on in our relationship I would wait until he fell asleep, then slip out of bed to study or handle domestic chores. That night I had to fall back on that old habit: I eased myself from Mark's embrace, gathered the clothes scattered across the floor, and slipped into the hall. Pulling my sweater on over my pajamas in a hurried, half-awkward way, I slipped out the door toward the car, grateful for the chance to repark it near the main building while Mark slept, and, just for the pleasure of it, to run back alone through the woods without worrying about being seen. Mark would never have let me go if he'd been awake — not with several hours of daylight left. His new caution had arrived suddenly after that awkward incident when I had come home soaked in blood.
Sometimes the meal that awaits you finds you where you least expect it. The day after my father's funeral I had an event in my calendar — one the publisher had arranged to promote the season's new releases. Of course I'd eaten well beforehand, but it's not so easy to quiet the predator within when people cluster around you like moths to a flame: some asking for a signature, others pulling out phones asking for selfies. For photos I always hugged the asker, noting that other authors did the same, doing my best to sell the myth of simple Lisa, the girl who writes books. But when, for the fifteenth time, I stood that close to a heart and felt fingers on shoulders or backs that began to vibrate with the cadence of another pulse, you can't help but plan quietly. I found myself mapping out an order of victims in my mind — who would be the main course and who would be dessert — and had to rein in the itch of my fangs. The girl with the shocking pink bob smelled wonderfully of my favorite Diesel perfume; I remembered her well. She'd been telling me, as I signed, that she was inspired to write an autofiction piece about bullying at school.
The only thing that stopped me from making a scene in the very center of Moscow was the grim practical thought that if I started a massacre, my dear editor might be among the casualties — and dealing with the fallout of new victims would be a plague. You never know who might wander into a nearby bar off Lubyanka by accident. The risk simply wasn't worth my amusement, though I admit the plan had been more than tempting.
While the others continued to celebrate, I grabbed my jacket — the one with the embroidered pen motif — from the cloakroom and slipped out to the back lot where the organizers had allowed me to park.
He was waiting for me there. At first I thought he was another disgruntled fan who'd been denied entry to the event—though he looked older than eighteen. When he spotted me he pulled his beanie down nearly to his nose and, hands buried in the pockets of a dark hoodie, hurried toward me. A gust of wind brought his barely perceptible scent: a tang of madness, sharp tobacco, and sweat. He must have been horribly nervous—how else to sweat so profusely on a cool late-spring evening while waiting for someone?
Deciding to play along, I pretended not to notice him and walked to the driver's seat, watching him develop through the reflection in the glass. He hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace; I deliberately slowed, giving him the advantage out of idle curiosity.
Most people are dull and predictable. The older they get, the more their thoughts circle missed chances, envy at another's wealth, and the simple dissatisfaction that someone else's life looks better from the outside. Bitter and self-rejecting, gray souls drown in their own burning bile, hating everything around them but, primarily, themselves.
When the stranger reached the car I opened the door as if nothing were wrong. With a swift, decisive motion he slammed it shut behind me, cutting off my retreat.
Bold. Naïve. Ridiculous.
I lifted my eyes to him, shaping my face into the frightened expression appropriate for a lady in distress. There is nothing wrong with toying with your food a little—that was how my father taught me.
Wide-eyed, I stared at him. The beanie pulled low and hid most of his face, but honestly I didn't need to see it. The man's smell was unfamiliar, as were his intentions. I managed, in a trembling voice, to say, "Excuse me…? What are you doing?" The stranger's mouth spread into a predatory grin. I was pleased with my performance: he smelled no danger in me, which only fanned the thrill inside him.
Emboldened, the man grabbed my wrist and jerked my arm up, forcing me along and away from the car. I could hardly believe it was happening; part of me even went along, curious to see how it would unfold. As if fueled by his own conviction, he pressed me against the wall and leaned in hard, mumbling something indistinct under his breath. A rank breath hit my face, green with a cloying sweetness that made him seem rotten from the inside out. That scent might have pleased some stray hound; I, abandoning my role for a second, grimaced and turned my face away, letting the city air in.
"Filthy charlatan," he spat, words hurled at me as if they were knives. "Writing your little stories, a bloody ignoramus, lying about how things work in the corps. Raking in millions with a shovel." He spat his accusations into my face, and I could barely keep from laughing. I had some bad news for this builder of castles in the air: authors don't generally shovel millions.
"Abuse—blah, look at what she made up. Fucking propagandist. It was because of people like you that my wife almost left me! They read about bookish men and forget what real ones look like," he went on, his voice rising, blending with the evening noise of the city and the bass thump leaking out from the bar behind us.
"And why 'almost left'?" escaped my lips. I caught myself—the mask I'd worn had cracked—but my would-be meal didn't notice the change. If anything, his hatred shifted into a new color. Savoring it, he leaned even closer and pushed back his hood and hat, revealing swollen, bloodshot eyes. I suspected he'd been drinking whatever he could get his hands on for a long time; it had hardly done his health any favors. Good for us that vampires aren't subject to the aphorism "you are what you eat." We would never be able to lure the bitter or expertly seduce others with such ease if the quality of what we drank left its mark on us.
"People don't leave people like me," he snarled. "People like me only let go. Feet first. Out the window or into a river."
Now this was getting interesting. What an opaque hint had just fallen at my feet — the world in front of me shrank into a breathing sack of blood. All that remained was to force a clearer answer, and then…
"You… you…" I breathed, keeping my mouth parted and my lip trembling on purpose. "Did you… did you kill your wife?"
He snorted and tried to straighten, satisfied with himself, though no orthopedist could have fixed that posture now.
"Not kill," he said, "liberate the traitor who lost faith in her husband!"
"And where is her body now?" I pressed, trying to pin him down. A drunk fanatic who hides behind righteous talk is only one step away from a serial killer in my book.
He dropped his eyes, as if I had missed the obvious.
"Can't you listen?" His hand shot up toward my face. At the last second I twisted away; the slap slid across my cheek and he howled, clutching his damaged hand. People are far too fragile for us. One blow from his fist to my face would feel like running headlong into concrete.
"Think some bitch like that can teach a man how to live with his woman? Lecturing! Me?!" he raged.
Instead of striking again, he grabbed the collar of my fur jacket and gave a rough shake — his fingers slipping on the soft pile, his shove more clumsy than violent. He kept repeating himself. Any repetition bored me to death, and I still hadn't gotten the one thing I needed: whether he really had killed his wife, or whether he was all bluster, trying to scare me. If the man before me truly had a rotten soul, that would free my hands. How I wanted to find that confirmation — a clear, irrefutable answer so I could sink my teeth into his throat and rid the world of yet another rotten creature fit only to be a warm packet of blood for a vampire.
"I'll show you where the crayfish winter," he hissed, spat the phrase like a threat, "you'll flail in the Moskva like Ninka!"
"You drowned her?" I asked.
He smirked. Mischief lit his glassy eyes.
"Drowned? No." He spoke like a man admiring his own work. "She went under herself. I only helped her into the water."
There it was. Time to drop the act.
He barely had the breath to open his mouth when my hand flew up and knocked his away. He didn't even get a scream out. In a heartbeat I had a grip on his throat and lifted him off the ground without effort. He rasped and clawed at my arm, trying to free himself — a pathetic, ineffectual struggle. Confusion flitted across his face, turning in a flash from cocky certainty to naked terror. His heart raced; adrenaline burned away whatever poison he might have poured into himself before coming here.
He'd come for me.
His mind cleared for a moment, realizing the trap he had stumbled into, but the door had slammed shut. He was nothing but foolish prey who had walked into the jaws of a predator far superior.
A raspy sound escaped him. His lips quivered, but my fingers squeezed his throat so tight he could not speak. His eyes widened with strain; the streetlight above us turned his face the color of bruised paper.
I drank in his fear. The very idea of wiping this human from the world thrilled me. In moments like that, feeding became more than simple need — it made sense of everything, filled the soul with a terrible, exquisite purpose. At least I liked to think it did.
I was a monster. And this monster had a purpose on this earth.
Tilting my head back, I bared my fangs and relished the way his body trembled in my grasp. He stared straight at death and knew there would be no saving grace.
I pulled him close in a false, passionate embrace — the lover's trick after a long separation — and with one sharp motion I sank my teeth into his throat.
The warm liquid filled my mouth almost instantly, flooding my body with a wave of ecstasy. The wound was deep enough that I didn't even need to draw — the blood poured out freely, eager to surrender itself, as if it too believed its current vessel unworthy. His life force flowed into me, and with gratitude I accepted the gift. The current was so strong I couldn't take it all in; it ran down my chin, dripping from my face, and for a fleeting moment I regretted wearing my white fur jacket tonight.
The man writhed in my grasp, desperate to break free. Poor fool — he had no idea what kind of strength hid inside a vampire's body. The more blood left him, the weaker his struggles became, until finally, the man in my arms went limp.
A thin stream still trickled from the wound, and I forced myself to pull away from the feast. You couldn't drain a victim completely — an empty shell drew too much attention, as did those two unmistakable punctures. With my fangs, I tore through the surrounding skin to blur the marks. One glance at the result, and I was satisfied. With careless ease, I tossed his corpse into the shadows by the trash bins, beyond the reach of the streetlight. Where it belonged.
I looked down and grimaced — the snowy fur of my jacket was greedily soaking up the red. Pity. I had liked that one.
The rush of the hunt spread warmth through my veins. His foreign vitality still hummed beneath my skin as I stood over what was left of him — an empty shell, nothing more.
The memory was so vivid I could almost taste his blood again. My throat burned treacherously with thirst, dragging me out of that night and back into the dim light of the car's interior. Dusk had thickened outside, and the vehicle rocked lazily over the bumps on the road leading to the main building. Where was that damn parking lot? The last thing I needed was to start vividly reliving what had come after that evening.
I rolled the window down, letting in the cool night air, and took a deep breath, forcing away the intrusive thought of feeding on someone from the glamping park. I tried to focus on the road, but the slow drive dulled my senses, inviting back the sort of thoughts I had no right to entertain. This trip had to go smoothly. I'd promised myself that much.
Mark and I would behave like any ordinary couple — strolling arm in arm along the forest paths, showing up to communal dinners, listening to local legends about the old settlement that once stood where the glamping site now was.
No drained bodies. No cleanup squads lurking in the background.
The last thing I needed was for the clan to find out my boyfriend was human. They had barely tolerated my father's decision to let me live publicly as a writer. To them, it was already a reckless risk. I'd been breaking rules and walking away unpunished for too long. It had to stay that way — especially now, with me preparing to take my father's place as clan head.
Without an official ceremony, I had no formal protection, no authority. For now, the council held power, waiting for me to tidy up my mortal affairs and disappear quietly. I intended to use those two allotted years to their fullest — to enjoy every moment of our "short but damn happy" life together with Mark.
A simple getaway.
An ordinary couple.
A bit of work on a new novel in between.
By the time the sky had fully darkened, I finally pulled up to the main building of the glamping site. Dim lights glowed inside, letting me see what was happening through the wide windows. In the play of shadows, I could make out the human outlines of guests — some seated at tables, others swaying together in a slow dance.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard the soft melody of Debussy drifting through the air. The sound turned my stomach inside out.
My father had adored that composer — he knew every note of the Suite bergamasque by heart. More than that, he had even helped write Clair de Lune, though he later refused any credit for it. I sometimes wondered whether he would have regretted that choice, had he known that a mere century later his immortal life would be cut short, and his memory locked away behind seven seals, accessible only to a chosen few.
Would he have acted differently, knowing how it would end? Perhaps it was that very regret that made him defend my right to live publicly before the clan council. I'd never know for certain. The dead don't answer the questions that haunt the living.
For as long as I could remember, Father would sit at the piano during the clan's summer gatherings and play for us — his hands conjuring poetry, weaving magic into melody. What I was hearing now, however, was a pale, insulting parody of his gift.
My legs refused to move. I couldn't tear my gaze away from the window. Beneath the melody came laughter — careless, drunken laughter. How dare they use what he had created as background noise for their shallow amusements? I wanted to climb those steps, burst into the hall, and give them all one final lesson — to paint those grotesque taxidermy beasts hanging on the walls a deep, vivid red.
I came to my senses only when I found myself standing at the foot of the staircase. The wind carried a familiar scent from the forest — sandalwood mixed with something warm, something his. Mark's scent. I hesitated.
When Mark appeared in my life, I began to reconsider my principles. The mere existence of such a person — someone who now fell asleep beside me every night — forced me to see humanity through a different lens. Mark was kind in a way that felt ancient, unspoiled. He was attentive, gentle, full of light. During our time together, I had seen him pour so much of that light into others that it sometimes seemed impossible one man could hold so much goodness.
Because of Mark — because of his quiet, persistent humanity — a sliver of doubt had taken root inside me. What if people aren't what we've always believed them to be? What if vampires, in our arrogance, had simply forgotten how to see them?
Now, I tried — truly tried — to see humans as more than walking vessels of blood, to push away the old thought that the world was rotting from the inside. To see the person where I once saw only prey. Sometimes I even succeeded. But the moment blood touched my lips, the thrill of the hunt would swell too fiercely, and the line between instinct and restraint would vanish. Instinct always won.
It took effort — real effort — to smother the fury rising inside me. I forced myself one step back, then another, and another. The people beyond the window went on laughing, blissfully unaware how close they stood to death. My eyes stayed fixed on them. I was afraid that if I looked away, I might lose control and destroy our entire trip within the first hour of arriving.
Clinging to that thought — as a drowning woman clings to driftwood — I spun around and fled into the forest, running as fast as I could, spilling my rage and hunger into the night.
Branches whipped across my face, sharp and stinging, pulling me back into myself, chasing away the haze of madness. My skin grew wet, and when I wiped my face with my sleeve, it came away smeared with dark stains. The branches lashed at me like whips, slicing open skin that would heal long before Mark even woke.
Physical pain sobered me, though the ache inside — that gnawing, endless ache — tore me apart.
When I finally stopped, I was deep in the forest, far enough that even my hearing couldn't catch the faintest trace of the music anymore. I dropped to my knees and broke. The sobs came hard, raw, unrestrained — the kind that claw their way out from somewhere buried so deep you'd forgotten it existed.
How could my father have died in that fire? What was he even doing in that forgotten little town? Why did he go alone? How could he have put everyone at risk — how could he have forced me to take responsibility for the clan at nineteen?
Those questions haunted me, circling endlessly like vultures over a carcass. So did the emptiness that had replaced him — the eternal presence that was supposed to stay with me to the end of my days. It felt as if part of me had burned with him, leaving only silence where his voice once guided mine.
Everyone was waiting for me to write again, but there was nothing left inside. My plots were hollow, my characters made of paper, and the loss devoured the girl I used to be.
Who could I talk to — honestly, without choosing my words carefully? No human, not if I wanted to keep my secret.
Mark? Never. Not if I wanted to keep him far from the world I came from.
All I had was this forest — and the brief luxury of weakness, alone, before I had to go back and play my part, pretending that one day it might all hurt a little less.
When the tears finally stopped, I gave myself a few more minutes. I waited until the wounds on my face closed, then started the slow walk back to our rented cabin, praying that Mark was still asleep.
The moonlight slipped through the twisted branches, silvering the bark and snaring on my clothes as if the forest itself were trying to hold me captive. But what could nature do to one who lived in defiance of its laws?
The house was dark.
When I stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind me, I found Mark exactly where I had left him—on the carpet, its long white fibers flaring out like a cloud. He lay curled up in the middle of that soft expanse, peaceful, childlike, asleep in a fetal pose.
I knelt beside him and gently brushed his dark, unruly fringe from his forehead with the tips of my fingers.
Serene. Tender.
My Mark.
I would have given anything to be honest with him—to tell him everything. But I couldn't. The price of that honesty could cost Mark his ordinary, beautiful life. It could cost us us.
"All they ever wanted from me was immortality," my father used to say about the women who learned our secret and played at love just long enough to get what they desired.
I didn't want to test our love that way. I was terrified that if I tried to turn Mark, I'd lose him forever.
Transformation was a gamble—a cruel lottery where only a few ever won. Most bodies rejected the gift, their human lives ending mid-sentence, their stories abruptly erased. I wasn't ready to wager Mark's future on such odds.
He stirred in his sleep, curling tighter into himself. He must have been cold. My eyes swept the room until I spotted something draped across the couch—a blanket, or something close to it. On tiptoe, I crossed the floor and discovered it was a long, chunky-knit throw. It was large enough to serve as a quilt, so I lifted it carefully and draped it over him, trying not to wake him as I tucked in the edges.
I didn't want to sleep. The thoughts circling in my head were too heavy, too loud. If I lay down beside him now, the grief would come flooding back, pulling me under with the same old questions, the same regrets that never seemed to end.
Tonight, I didn't want to be part of him.
Tonight, I had already wept enough.
Even monsters can cry.
It took me a while to remember where I'd left my bag with all the electronics. I fished out my work laptop, carried it to the dining table, and flipped open the lid. After the soft chime of the startup, I created a new file for a new novel.
A blank page—my personal vision of the abyss.
The tenth circle of Hell, with the foundation freshly laid.
I needed to start somewhere, but I just sat there, staring at the blinking cursor, waiting for the right words to come. What story did I want to tell this time? What truth did I need to speak—first of all—to myself?
Behind me, Mark exhaled softly in his sleep. I turned to look at him again. How I wished things were simpler between us—no secrets, no divided worlds, no hunger that separated us.
Something clicked inside my mind. I knew exactly what I wanted to write.
I would give myself this one gift: a fairytale where all the buts dissolved like morning mist, and our story would end in happiness. A story where we finally got what reality would never allow.
I sighed and flexed my fingers. The night ahead promised to be impossibly long.