Twilight pressed its damp hands against the hills, choking the heather in mist. The air smelled of loam, blood, and slow regret. A stag twitched in the bracken, its life slipping through Gregorâs trembling fingers into a weathered glass flask.
He hadnât meant to scare it. Hadnât meant to leap from the trees. But hunger was a cruel tutor, and even now, years into his afterlife, the beast inside clawed at his ribs when the scent of blood was too close, too warm.
Gregor wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Crimson streaked across his pale wrist like a wound that couldnât heal.
The darkness, the thirst, the way food tasted like chalk and joy felt like something he barely remembered. Heâd been turned at twenty-threeâa cobblerâs apprentice with strong hands, quick stitches, and a laugh that used to echo down alleyways. Heâd worked in a cramped shop with a man who snored louder than he hammered, and he was happy.
Until that thing found him.
A shimmering-eyed French vampire who mistook Gregorâs shy smile for charm and his squinting in candlelight for mystery. She declared him âadorable,â kissed him on the forehead, and vanished into a crypt without ever explaining what being a vampire entailed.
Gregor figured it out on his own.
Which meant no feeding rules. No glamour tricks. No subtle throat-nipping in parlors with lace curtains.
Instead, there was the forest.
Tonight, his hunt was nearly done. The blood heâd taken from the stag would last another day, two if he rationed it. He tucked the flask into a leather satchel beside a bundle of dried rosemary and a worn prayer.
Two of them. One sharp and precise. The other unsure, but eager. They were closeâmoving through the thicket with purpose and creaking leather boots.
He could smell it on themâgarlic oil, silver wire, and the unmistakable confidence of people who thought they were righteous.
âYou smell that?â the younger voice said. âBlood. Fresh.â
âDonât get ahead of yourself,â said the older. âCould be a wolf. Could be worse.â
Gregor crouched low behind a tree, silent.
âTracks,â the young one said. âHuman. The stagâs been drained.â
âClean slit across the neck.â
Gregor winced. He was trying to be better.
âCould be a vampire,â the boy whispered.
Gregor stepped into the clearing before he could second-guess it
He held up both hands. Flask still in one. The other empty.
âPlease do not shoot,â he said. âOr stab. Or throw unpleasant vials at me. I have very sensitive skin.â
The hunters whipped around, blades drawn in less than a second. The boyâs hand trembled. The man did not.
âYouâre the one who drained the deer,â said the older man.
âYes,â Gregor nodded. âIt was quite tasty.â
The boy blinked. âWaitâyouâre admitting it?â
âI do not lie. It gets one into trouble.â
âWho are you?â the man asked sharply.
Gregor hesitated. âI... am Gregor.â
He didnât lower his weapon. âYouâre a vampire.â
âYouâre not denying it?â
âShould I?â He looked around. âIs that the expected game?â
âWhy didnât you attack us?â
âI have lunch,â he said, lifting the flask. âAlso, I do not like fighting. Last time, I broke a nail on a tree.â
The man finally lowered his bladeâbarely. âYou drink animal blood.â
âI do not like the screaming,â Gregor said simply. âOr the guilt. Or the throat fractures. Animals do not beg. They also do not sing love ballads as they die, which is... unexpectedly common among poets.â
The boy looked rattled. âYouâre serious.â
The man cracked a grin despite himself. âYouâre the weirdest thing Iâve met all year.â
âThank you. I assure you, it is mutual.â
He sheathed his sword. âIâm Ivan. This is Simon. Weâre part of the Night Watch.â
âMeans weâve done our job then.â
There was a long pause, then Simon asked the question Gregor had been dreading for decades.
âAre you gonna keep living like this?â
Gregor looked at the fog-choked trees. The flask in his hand. His cold fingers and his colder heart.
âYes,â he said softly. âI will make do. Better than making victims.â
Then, slowly, he reached into his coat and pulled out a leather-bound journal.
âThereâs a coastal town near here,â he said. âOakhurst. Weâve had trouble with disappearances. We were headed there to investigate.â
Gregor blinked. âYou want me to help?â
âI want you to come with us. Thereâs a place across the Ocean, they know almost nothing of your kind,â he said. âIf you want any semblance of a normal life, thatâs where you should go, and Oakhurst is the only city in the country that can get you there.â
Simon muttered, âI still think this is a bad idea.â
âThen weâll watch him closely,â he replied. âAnd if he tries anything...â
âI do not want to be staked,â Gregor offered. âAlso, I am flammable. We can agree on rules.â
He stared at it for a moment, unsure if it would burn him.
The road to the coast was long and muddy, winding through quiet villages and dense pine groves. Ivan walked like heâd done it a hundred times. Simon grumbled. Gregor floated quietly behind, cloak dragging in the dirt, a moth perpetually fluttering near his shoulder.
They stopped oftenâto sleep, to check maps, to avoid patrols. Gregor never slept. He sharpened sticks, cleaned their boots, and one night, quietly sewed a patch onto Simonâs ripped satchel using an old cobblerâs needle.
âYou fixed this?â Simon asked in the morning, lifting the flap.
Gregor nodded, bashful. âThe leather was good. It deserved a second chance.â
A week later, they had finally found their way to civilization again. For the Hunters, it had been a month. For Gregor, close to three decades.
In a foggy hamlet outside Brevik, they stopped for food. Ivan bartered for meat and bread while Gregor wandered, drawn by the sound of childrenâs laughter.
He found them near a well: three little ones kicking around a ball. A few were barefoot and filthy. One tripped and yelped, his foot bleeding from a cracked sole.
Gregor knelt before the child.
He examined the shoeâwhat was left of itâand sighed.
From his satchel, he pulled a bundle of canvas, waxed thread, and one perfectly shaped last. He hadnât touched it in years.
Within the hour, heâd repaired two pairs and crafted a third from scraps.
The children stared in awe. âYouâre like... a shoemaker angel.â
Gregor blinked. âI am not an angel,â he said. âBut... thank you.â
By the third week, Ivan had taken to telling Gregor stories about America.
âTheyâve got guns that shoot ten rounds before you can blink,â Ivan said.
Gregor nodded solemnly. âThey must have very twitchy fingers.â
âAlso, they eat corn for dessert.â
âThey call it corn syrup. Put it in everything. Itâs sweet and thatâs all they care about, they love their sugar.â
âAnd they donât have kings. Just... voting.â
Gregor blinked. âThey make decisions⌠what was the word?â
âDemocratically.â Simon chimed in.
Ivan chuckled. âIn theory.â
That night, Gregor tried to construct a diagram in his notebook labeled "American Governance." It included a corn field, a ballot box, and what looked suspiciously like a turkey with a gavel.
Later, while crossing a river ferry operated by a very old man with one eye, Gregor leaned close and whispered, âI hear in the Americas, there are men who fly in metal birds.â
The ferryman blinked. â...What?â
Gregor nodded gravely. âI have prepared emotionally.â
When they reached Oakhurst, the mist was thicker than ever. Ivan and Simon unpacked their weapons.
Gregor stood back, sipping from his flask.
âI do not like this place,â he muttered.
âYou donât like anything,â Simon replied.
âI like shoemaking. And squirrels. And sometimes bread.â
âIt smells like how I used to feel.â
Then, quietly, offered a piece of his travel loaf.
Gregor accepted it like a gift from a king.
Hours later, they prepared to hunt. If things worked out, this would be Gregor's last night in Europe.
Gregor checked the soles of their boots, replaced Simonâs worn laces, and stitched a tear in Ivanâs boots.
âI feel for doubting you were ever a cobbler,â Simon said.
Gregor smiled softly. âI was good at it. I think I still am.â
They set off toward the darkness together.
But for the first time, Gregor didnât feel like a monster with the face of a human.
No longer afraid of society at large.
He felt like part of it now.
Even if he misunderstood how voting worked.