#akimi.writes

“No, I do not,” he retorted as he pushed the cart loaded with VHS tapes to the thriller section. He shelved two copies of Jacob’s Ladder and one copy of Presumed Innocent. “I can choose all classics if I want to because, guess what? I’m the one who gets the free rentals. Not you.” 

“Yeah, but we’re watching them at Stu’s house, so maybe he should get a vote.” 

Randy turned and frowned at you. “If Stu had a say, he’d probably pick straight-up pornos.” 

“And you’re telling me that Halloween doesn’t count as one?” 

“No, of course not. Just because a movie has nudity and sex doesn’t mean it’s a porno. It has to do with plot!” 

“My pornos have plots,” came a voice. You both turned to see Stu leaning against the VHS shelf, smirking at you. He twirled the stick end of a sucker that was in his mouth. The corners of his lips were stained blue. “Watch ‘em if you don’t believe me.” 

Randy turned a shade of pink and pushed the cart into another aisle. You went to follow but Stu was quicker, boxing you in against the shelf. 

“You pick the movies yet?” 

“No,” you said, glancing away from him. You felt heat spread across your face and chest. Everyone in school — probably everyone in town — knew you had a crush on Stu. It didn’t seem to bother him, though he hadn’t jumped at the chance to date you like everyone claimed he would. (You’d gotten a lot of cautionary tales about how Stu was a serial dater and would break your heart before the end of the week. It’d been about a year now, and you were still waiting for it to happen.) 

“Why not? You’ve spent all day here.” He wasn’t totally exaggerating. It was a half-day at school and you’d pretty much stalked Randy to the video store as soon as class was let out. 

“Randy wants to pick all classics.” 

“You mean, like, Frankenstein?” 

“Yeah, and The Wolfman and Creature from the Black Lagoon.” 

Stu snorted and tapped the blue sucker against his bottom lip. “Randy’s the creature from the Black Lagoon.” 

You bit your bottom lip to keep from smiling but Stu saw it. 

“Ah!” He grinned, leaning down so he was eye-level with you. He was so tall, it drove you crazy. “That was a smile. I saw it. It’s okay. You know you can make fun of Randy, right?” 

“He’s my friend, Stu.” 

“So? I make fun of him all the time.” 

You stared up at him, trying to paste a look on your face that said you were unamused. You could feel yourself failing miserably. “I don’t think it’s the same. Anyway, he won’t listen to me. But I said you should get a say in the movies we watch because we’re watching them at your house.” 

“You’re right. I should get to choose.” He tapped the sucker against his lip again then popped it into his mouth. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing your wrist. 

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sudden contact, but you weren’t going to fight it. Stu dragged you into the horror section of the store. To your dismay, he released your hand and began scanning the shelves, his eyes darting over the covers of the VHS tapes. He grabbed one and then another, stopping only to drop them into your hands. 

Misery. Poltergeist. Videodrome. Ghost Story. The Exorcist. Carrie. 

Stu was just putting a copy of Black Christmas into your arms when Randy came around the corner. 

“No, no, no! What are you doing?” Randy growled, grabbing the top two VHS tapes out of your hands. “These aren’t any of the films I wanted to watch!” 

“Too bad. My house, my choice. The lady said so.” Stu punctuated this with a nod to you. 

Randy looked at you, betrayed, and you blushed deeply. 

“I said he should get to choose at least one,” you retorted. “I already told you that, Randy. We don’t have to get all of these.” 

“You can’t watch any of these together!” Randy continued, looking at the tapes. “These are different eras, different directors, different actors. They’re even different seasons.” He grabbed the last tape Stu handed you. “You can’t watch Black Christmas in October! Or Misery! It has to be snowing outside. And Poltergeist is a summer movie. What are you doing?” 

Randy began putting the tapes back on the shelves, looking distraught. Stu snatched the copy of Videodrome out of Randy’s hands and held it high in the air, too high for Randy to reach. 

“We’re keeping this one.” 

“Why? I haven’t even introduced you guys to Cronenberg yet. You won’t appreciate it. You won’t get it!” 

“It’s that chick from Blondie, and she’s into BDSM. What else is there to get?” Stu asked, staring boredly at Randy. 

“Her name is Debbie Harry and that’s not even half the plot.” 

Stu placed the tape back into your arms, then he stood behind you and wrapped his arms around yours, blocking the tape from Randy’s grasp. He rested his chin on your shoulder and, from what you could tell, grinned at Randy. 

“Well, too bad. The lady and I agree that we’re watching this one.” 

“But—”

“We’ll watch it last, after you’ve passed out,” Stu said, his breath warm against the side of your face. “So don’t worry about it. She and I could use some one-on-one time, anyway.” 

“Debbie Harry?” 

You imagined you were giving Randy the same unamused look that Stu was giving him. But yours was likely complicated by the hot streak of blush over your face and the trembling of your hands. Stu was practically hugging you, his body not just warm, but hot, against your own. And he was indirectly flirting with you. 

It was such a bad time to remember every single warning you’d received about him. 

Stu stood up but kept his arms wrapped around you. He pulled you back into his chest, almost protectively. 

“Pick your stupid movies, bro,” he ordered, “so we can get back to my place. My mom’s gonna be pissed if we take too long. She’s ordering pizza tonight.” 

Randy begrudgingly picked a few more movies, none of which had been the ones Stu had chosen. But that was okay. You still had your copy of Videodrome wrapped tight in your arms. 

The three of you walked toward the front of the store so Randy could scan the films and mark them as “Checked Out.” While you waited in line, Stu draped an arm over your shoulder and kept you close. He twirled the sucker in his mouth again and then pulled it out. 

“You want it?” 

“What? No.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes,” you stammered, trying to avoid the look Randy was giving you as he bagged up the VHS tapes. 

“Okay,” said Stu as he popped the sucker back into his mouth. “I’ll give you something else you can suck on later.” 

You turned red up to your ears as you shoved Stu’s arm off your shoulder and made a break for the parking lot. You could hear Randy chastising Stu for saying something so gross to “such a classy lady,” and you could hear Stu howling with laughter. 

“Why?” Egon asked, staring at you from behind his large glasses. 

“They’re obviously fans,” you said, turning back to look at the children as they raced up stoops to catch imaginary ghosts. “It’d be really cool for them to meet their hero.” 

Egon scoffed and you frowned at him. 

“What? Why’d you do that?” 

“You really think that I’m their hero? I bet they like Ray or Peter better. Even Winston. You know, the guys people actually know about? The ones they remember?” 

“People remember Peter because he’s loud and obnoxious,” you noted, grasping Egon’s hand in yours. “But I have no doubt people know who you are. You’ve been in practically every magazine and news article, and on every TV station. You’ve even been on the radio!” 

Egon shrugged and tried to pull you down the street away from the children. “Yeah, but I never really did those interviews. That was all Peter and sometimes Ray.” 

You watched Egon carefully, feeling his embarrassment and annoyance radiate out of him in cold waves. There was always one forgotten person in a group, and the Ghostbusters happened to have two: Egon and Winston. You’d tried several times to convince Egon that his invisibility was only in his own mind, and that most people actually did know about the quirky, awkward Ghostbuster who had saved the entire city (and on multiple occasions at that). 

You pulled free of Egon and swiveled around on your heels, seeing the kids start to take off down the sidewalk toward the corner. 

“Hey!” you shouted, waving an arm in the air. “Come back!” 

Both the children and Egon looked surprised. 

“You guys like the Ghostbusters, right?” you called after them and they exchanged looks. It was hard to tell if they were wary because you were a stranger, or if they were in disbelief that you didn’t immediately know they were Number One Fans. 

“Yeah,” said one of the boys cautiously. He had wily black curls and tortoise-shell glasses that were too big for his face. 

“Well, come here,” you said, waving them back. “You probably didn’t recognize him because he’s out of uniform, but this is Dr. Egon Spengler—”

You didn’t get a chance to finish your sentence before the children came hurtling back toward you and Egon, their vacuum hoses flapping wildly against their backpacks. They were on you in an instant, chattering excitedly and staring up in wonder at Egon, whose face had turned the same color as his sweater. 

“Mr. Spengler, I—” one kid started. 

“It’s Doctor,” another corrected sharply, elbowing the boy in the ribs. 

“How do the proton packs really work?” 

“What’s the scariest ghost you ever saw?” 

“Everyone says Dr. Venkman is the leader of the group, but I think you are.” 

“Dr. Spengler, I got new glasses to look like yours. Do you like them?” 

“Could you take us with you on your next ghost hunt?” 

“My mom says our apartment is haunted. Will you come see?” 

Egon was overwhelmed but clearly flattered. He cleared his throat and held up one hand, silencing the crowd almost instantly. A pleased smile crossed his face. 

“I can only answer one question at a time. You’ll have to take turns, so raise your hand if you have a question.” 

Every hand shot up. Some of the children held up both hands. Egon paused for a moment to think it through and then nodded to one of the stoops where curled leaves had gathered on the steps. 

“Let’s take a seat. I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while.” He sat on one of the middle steps and the children crowded around him like water filling every empty crevice. They stared up at him with wonder and admiration, every hand still up. He pointed to a little girl with pigtails. 

“Dr. Spengler,” she began with an even, patient voice, “how exactly does all this ghost stuff work? Like the ectoplasm and stuff? I tried to ask my grandpa but he thinks it’s still just a bunch of hooey.” 

“A lot of people do,” Egon said with a serious nod. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It can be hard to explain, but …” He looked around the stoop and found an uncarved pumpkin, about the size and color of a basketball. He pulled it into his lap. “Imagine this is the world we currently live in. All of our apartments and businesses and cars …” 

You leaned against the stair railing and watched him, smiling to yourself. The longer he talked, the more animated he became, and the more excited the children got. Within a few minutes, he was positively beaming. 

His dark eyes were distant, looking at something not in the room. Perhaps not even in the world. He was curled into the corner of his kitchen, blood coating his mouth and chin. It looked vaguely like dried raspberry juice. 

You reached out and ghosted your hands over his face. 

“Father Paul,” you said again. 

He finally looked at you. His eyes came into focus. He still looked scared. And he smelled like blood and fear. Your nose twitched at the strong scents. 

His lips parted for him to speak, but all that came out was the scent of blood – still warm and wet on the tongue. 

You grabbed his face and pulled him into a kiss. Your tongue rolled over his mouth, tasting the blood. 

Father Paul grabbed your arms and pushed you back, horrified. “What are you doing?” 

You wrangled an arm free and dragged your fingers over his blood-stained chin. 

“It's in you, too.” 

“What?” he shuddered, pushing your hand away and trying to crawl farther back into the corner. 

“Father Paul–” 

He looked past your shoulder to the body splayed across his living room. You shifted your body and cupped his face. 

“Don't look at it, Father Paul. Look at me.” 

His eyes darted to yours again. Your own eyes moved to the blood on his clothes. You fought the urge to kiss him again, but you did lick your lips. 

“It's okay,” you said softly. “Just keep looking at me. Joe Collie is gone. Did you kill him?” 

“N-No – No! I didn't.. It was an accident. I …” 

“It's okay, Father Paul. I believe you. But you drank, didn't you?” 

He looked down at his clothes and hands. He burst into sobs. 

“I'm so sorry. I should've – I didn't mean –” 

You pulled him into a hug, cradling his head against your chest. “It's okay, Father. It's okay.” 

He clung to you, holding tight to your waist. You buried your nose into his dark hair and breathed deeply. 

When he'd calmed, you stroked his head and sat him back up. 

“Look at me, Father.” 

He did so. His eyes were red and puffy. The blood covering his face was now streaked by tears. 

“I came to see you tonight for a reason. You've done something, haven't you? At the church. It's not just Leeza Scarborough or Riley Flynn's mom, is it?” 

His eyes were huge and he shook his head in guilt. Then it was as if something finally clicked. He stared at your face, then your body. 

“You're here.” 

“Yes.” 

“No. I mean … here. You're …. You should be home. You're out here ….” 

“I know.” You gently held his hands in his lap and smiled. “That's what I came to tell you. I don't have any pain, Father. None. It was the weirdest thing. I woke up in the middle of the night and I thought it was from the pain. I was getting ready to take a pill when I realized I didn't have any pain.. My head, my back, , my legs … It was just gone. And I knew … it was you.” 

Father Paul studied your face, freeing one hand to brush hair away from your face. His fingers were so gentle as they traced your neck and shoulder and arm. 

“No pain? At all?” 

“None. And I had this feeling … I just knew I could eat whatever I wanted, too. And so I went for a walk and Erin was sitting on her porch – you know, she doesn’t sleep much – and –” 

A look of horror crossed Father Paul's face. “Please, don't …” 

"I didn't hurt her,” you said, still smiling. It felt like you'd never be able to stop smiling. “She invited me in and she has all sorts of things I can't eat. Things I'm allergic to. And I ate all of them. And I didn't get sick. I didn't even get a stomachache. I–” You held his one hand tighter. “Whatever you did, you cured me. You healed me.” 

He reached out and brushed your cheek with the edge of his palm. A watery smile appeared on his face. It was a smile you'd seen time and time again from across the church. You'd secretly called it the Wentworth smile. Half agony, half hope. And so, so full of something you yourself more-than-half-hoped was akin to love. 

“I didn't do anything. It was the Angel.” 

You began stroking his hair again. “We're alike now, aren't we?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Joe Collie. You were hungry. It's how I felt before I got to Erin's, and I thought food would help. But I felt even hungrier after I left. I didn't know how it was possible, but I knew it wasn't something regular food could help. I came here to tell you that you healed me, Father, but when I got close to the church, I smelled the blood. It was instant. I knew that's what I was supposed to be eating.” You looked at his mouth again, the dried blood on his skin. “But it's more than that. It's everything. It's hunger. It's thirst. It's …” You kissed him again. 

He pushed you back, eyes confused. 

Then he kissed you. Softly. His lips parted and the taste of blood teased your senses. 

Suddenly, he pulled back. “No. It's wrong.” 

“Which part? The blood? The healing? The touching?” 

Father Paul was conflicted. 

“It's a miracle, Father,” you murmured, ghosting your mouth against his. “We were made new. Who are we to question that?” 

He grabbed your waist again as he kissed you. Wrapping one arm around your back and using the other to support himself, he carefully laid you on the floor. He moved over you, frantically kissing you, and settled between your legs. His heartbeat was so loud, you could hear it, feel it. Your body thrummed to the tune until your heartbeats matched. 

He hovered over you and briefly broke the kiss. When you looked up at him, his face in shadow, his eyes glowed a shimmering iridescent color. 

He grabbed your wrists and pinned your arms above your head. The backs of your hands splashed in a cold puddle. The thick, sticky blood seeped between your fingers. You spread your hand open flat and Father Paul slid his open hand over yours, dipping his own fingers into the blood. 

“I'm so hungry, Father,” you breathed, staring up at Father Paul. “It's like I've never eaten in my entire life.” 

Father Paul's fingers slid between yours, lacing your hands together. 

“Please,” you said. 

He lifted his hand and stared at the dark, thick blood coating his fingers. He turned his hand over, examined his palm. His eyes continued to glow iridescent. 

He looked down at you, protective and predatory at the same time. Lifting his fingers to your face, he pressed one blood-soaked digit to your mouth. Your lips parted and accepted the tip of his finger, your eager tongue racing to lick it clean. 

Warmth burst through your body. Everything was brighter, more vibrant. You didn't just taste Joe Collie's blood or Father Paul's skin, you tasted everything – the sky, the air, the vibrations of Father Paul's heart and lungs, the electricity of his body. 

He pressed another finger into your mouth, then a third. You sucked them clean. Then, quickly, frantically, he withdrew them and pressed his mouth to yours in an open kiss. Your tongues rolled over each other, spreading blood over teeth and the inside of cheeks. 

He grabbed your hand again and pressed it into the pool of blood, lacing fingers together. His lips pressed against yours. He rested his body weight on top of you and yanked your hand up, still tangled with his. He brought it to his mouth, tongue lashing out to lap up the blood covering the skin. 

You wrapped your legs around him and squeezed, lifting your mouth to where his was latched onto the back of your hand. When he kissed you again, he smeared blood across your face. And something else. Something warm and gentle and wet. He made soft noises as he hungrily held your mouth against his, your bodies becoming a mess of clothed limbs and blood. And then he parted for a moment – to breathe, to look at you, to drink more – and you saw it. The tears running down his face, welling up in his eyes. Mixing with Joe Collie's blood. 

He grasped at your clothes and you grasped at his. Before long, you were covered in nothing but a thin coat of drying blood. 

****

You didn't know how much time passed, but eventually you were waking up against Father Paul, your body sticking to his everywhere your bare skin touched. When you stirred, Father Paul's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, seemingly confused, until he saw you. Instead of a warm rush of excitement coming over him, it was the same fear-based sadness he had earlier. This time, it was accompanied by the unmistakable look of shame. 

You gently shook one hand free and reached up, caressing his face, running fingers over heated skin and sticky tears. 

“What's wrong?” 

“Have I done a bad thing?” 

“A bad thing? No, of course not.” 

“But I killed someone. And this …” He looked down at you. His face twisted in guilt. He began sobbing again, hiding his face in your neck. 

You soothed him, cooing gently, until he was put together enough to listen to you. 

“Father Paul.” 

He wiped his face, leaving darker stains of blood over his cheeks and eyelids. His eyelashes were coated with it, making them look longer and darker and even prettier. 

“Look at me. Did you do a bad thing? You freed me. From my pain. From being stuck in my bed. I didn't walk here tonight to tell you that. I ran. I haven’t run in years, Father Paul. You didn't do anything bad. You gave me a miracle. Me.”  

“No one was supposed to die, though. I thought I could stop it. I thought …” 

“We don't know the end of it, Father. Joe Collie could still be a part of this miracle. In a way, he already is.” You touched his lips. “He'll be a part of us, too. Whatever we are. Whatever this is.” 

Father Paul sniffled and blinked out a few more tears. “The church won't understand. Not yet. It's not the time for them to know, yet. I … I don't …” 

“Let me take care of it.” 

“I can't let you do that –” 

“Yes, you can. You don't know what it's like inside my body right now – the strength I have, the power I feel. I can take care of Joe Collie. You just stay here and clean the floor. I'll be back after a while.” 

“What if someone sees you?” 

“It's the middle of the night, Father. The island is asleep. I'm sure even Erin is. I'll be back before sunup. Promise.” You stood, dressed, and moved to Joe Collie's body, assessing just how to move it. Before you got the chance, though, you heard something. Footsteps. 

Stealthily, you peered out the window of the tiny house. Bev Keane was walking up to the church, undoubtedly getting things ready for the service. The sky was still dark, but rapidly becoming a pale slate-blue. The sky would be up soon. People would arrive in a few hours. You'd slept longer than you thought, and certainly longer than you intended. 

“It's Bev,” you said. “She's at the church.” 

Father Paul, suddenly behind you, grabbed your arm. “Leave. Now, please.” 

“But, I–” 

“No. Bev can't see you here – and she can't see Joe Collie. Please, go.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Don't worry about me. Just …” He cupped your chin and kissed you again. “Go home. Celebrate your miracle. And wash up before anyone sees you.” 

“You should do the same.” 

“I will. Now, go.” He opened the door and ushered you out. 

“I made you laugh. That’s a good sign.” 

“You always make me laugh, Shawn. That’s not a goal you’ve reached.” 

“It is for me. I wanted to make you laugh while I was asking you out. Again. And I did. Again.” 

“And every time, I turn you down. Guess what’s going to happen this time?” You grabbed your bag off the desk and stood. Shawn was already up, coming around his desk, blocking your exit. 

“You know, there’s a theory that if you get enough fish flopping around on a keyboard, they’ll eventually write the Declaration of Independence.” 

“It’s monkeys, Shawn,” Gus said from the other side of the room. “And it’s not just the Declaration of Independence, it’s every piece of text ever written.” 

“That makes no sense. Why would monkeys be flopping around? Why wouldn’t they just type? They have fingers.” 

You fought back another laugh, not wanting to give Shawn yet another win. “What’s the point?” 

“The point is, the more times I ask you out, the more likely you are to say yes. Apparently, this was not the Declaration of Independence. Maybe it was the complete works of Shakespeare. Or the Magna Carta. Maybe it was the valedictorian speech you gave at your high school graduation.” 

“I wasn’t valedictorian, Shawn, but thank you for the compliment.” 

“You’re welcome. But, anyway, eventually I’ll get there, right? I’ll keep typing and someday I’ll get the Declaration of Independence, and you can be the Diane Kruger to my Nicolas Cage.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Nicolas Cage and Eva Mendes in Ghost Rider? I have the motorcycle. I can set myself on fire if it seals the deal.” 

“Hmm, I dunno.” 

“Fine, Nicolas Cage and John Travolta in Face/Off.” 

“Gross. Listen, I have to go, Shawn. I have a job. I can’t hang around here all day.” 

“Thank you!” Gus cried out. 

You looked over your shoulder at him and he was making a face at Shawn.

“Whatever,” Shawn said. “You haven’t given me an answer yet.” 

“Yes, I have. I said no. Again.” 

“Just leave the woman alone, Shawn,” Gus said, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’ll walk you out. I have to get to my job, too.” 

“You’re leaving me, too, Gus?” Shawn whined. “But I thought we were going to watch all the Fast and Furious movies together and then do donuts in the parking lot with your car.” 

“We most certainly are not,” Gus snapped back. 

“C’mon, Gus. You’re the Tyrese Gibson to my Paul Walker. Childhood best friends, coming together to race fast cars.” 

“They’re estranged friends, Shawn, which you and I will be if you even think about using my work car to do donuts. Besides, Tyrese Gibson’s character is on house arrest after getting out of prison. I’ve never been to prison in my life, Shawn. Except for the one time my dad took me as a tour to see where I’d end up if I didn’t stop being friends with you.” 

“Wait … your dad thought you were going to end up in prison because of me?” 

“Was he wrong, Shawn? Do you know how many laws we’ve broken since we started this agency? Don’t answer that. I want plausible deniability.” 

“Fine, fine.” Shawn threw up his hands. “You can be Ludacris, then. And you.” Shawn smiled at you and grabbed one of your hands, squeezing it. “You can be Eva Mendes. Again. Look, two films where you get to be my Eva Mendes. How is this a bad deal?” 

“Thank you, but I’ll pass.” You withdrew your hand from his and pulled the straps of your bag over your shoulder. “I really do have to get going before I’m late. Oh!” 

“What? Did you realize that you’d love to be Eva Mendes?” 

“No. You never told me what you asked me over here for. I mean, I showed up and you just started trying to get me to go on a date with you. What was the reason you had me come over?” 

“That was the whole reason. I thought maybe if I serenaded you with the sounds of Gus stocking his pharmaceutical case and bribed you with carne asada tacos, you’d go out with me.” 

“There were no tacos.” 

“Right. Gus and I ate those before you got here. But I did save you a little dipping cup of their salsa verde.” He grabbed a plastic container off the desk and handed it to you. “Their salsa is so good, you don’t even need tacos for it. You could just drink it.” 

“The tacos are a vehicle for their salsa,” Gus agreed, finally rolling his case over to Shawn’s desk. “That stuff is like liquid gold.” 

“Thanks, but I think I’m good.” 

“You don’t want it?” Gus asked. 

“No–” 

Gus snatched the cup of salsa out of your hand. “Then I’ll take it, thank you very much.” 

“Gus, that was for the lady.” 

“She doesn’t want it.” 

“But it was hers. I saved it for her.” 

“I’m not going to let it go to waste, Shawn. Maybe she’d use it if you’d saved her at least one taco.” 

“Hey, I’m not the one who called dibs on the last taco, buddy.” 

“I didn’t know it was the last one when I ate it. You should’ve said something!” 

“I did. I said, ‘Gus, that’s the last taco. I’m saving it for a very special friend who is going to come over soon on her lunch break. If you eat it, she’ll have nothing for her lunch and then she’ll be crabby all day. Do you want that?’ And then you ate the last taco.” 

“You didn’t say that, Shawn. Whatever. I’ve gotta go, and I know she does, too.” 

Shawn frowned, more like pouted, as he watched Gus walk you to the front door. You were glad that he hadn’t noticed your entertained smile as you watched them bicker like siblings. Of course, knowing how perceptive Shawn was, he probably did notice and would use that to his advantage at some later date. 

In all the time you’d known Shawn, you’d never not known him to store useful tidbits about you in the back of his mind. Your one-year anniversary of being their part-time social media manager, full-time third wheel was just around the corner, and Shawn constantly reminded you of that fact. In that year since you’d first met him while he was working a case where your boss’s office had been burgled (and in which Shawn had accused you twice of being the burglar, before finding the true culprit, and apologized by trying to ask you out at least once a week, every week, for the next almost-year), Shawn had collected more information about you than you suspected your own parents had. It was a truly amazing, truly frightening, gift he had. 

Shawn followed the both of you outside. Gus loaded his case into his car and then opened your driver’s side door for you. 

You turned toward Shawn, arms crossed over your chest. 

“Uh-oh. Are you mad at me? I can have Gus drop off tacos at your work.” 

“Why don’t you do it, Shawn?” Gus said. “It’s not like you’re doing anything else.” 

“You know what your problem is, Shawn?” 

“Let me take a guess,” said Gus dryly. “Oh, wait, I don’t have all day.” 

“Ha, ha, very funny, Gus. No. What’s my problem? Tell me.” 

“You think that because you can pick up information about a girl so easily, that means you’re guaranteed a date. You think that girls want you to know everything about them from the get-go.” 

“Don’t they?” 

“You think I want to go on a date with you because you know my favorite color and what my favorite class was in high school. That might be good enough for some people, but not for me, Shawn, and not for a lot of people. Some of us don't want a psychic, fake or real, to tell us he knows everything about us. It makes us feel two-dimensional. Some of us, Shawn, want to be a little mysterious. Maybe I want to be the one to tell you who my favorite teacher was, or what my childhood was like. Maybe I want to control the speed at which you get information about me. Maybe there’s no point in going on a date with you if you presume to know everything about me already.” 

Shawn floundered for a moment, his bright eyes darting past you, to the ground, then back to your face. “I’m … sorry.” 

“You want to know what it takes to convince me to date you, Shawn? Give me autonomy. Let me tell you about myself, instead of psychoanalyzing the way I part my hair or the jewelry I wear on the weekends. Maybe I want to surprise you every once in a while.” 

Shawn glanced at Gus again, but Gus offered no help. He just kept holding your car door open. 

“Okay,” Shawn said slowly. “That’s … fair.” 

“It’s more than fair.” You pulled out your phone, opened the calendar app, typed in one of the boxes, and then sent an evite to Shawn. His phone pinged and he looked at it. 

“What’s this?” 

“Next Friday at 6pm. You and me. You owe me carne asada tacos.” 

A grin started to spread across his face. 

“And I want you to ask me questions, Shawn. Don’t make statements. Don’t tell me things you know about me. Ask questions. And I’ll ask you questions. Mostly because I know that makes you squirm.” You returned his grin, though yours was a little more devious. 

You climbed into your car, shut the door, and pulled out of the parking lot. When you looked back at the boys, they were still staring at each other, a stupid grin on Shawn’s face, a look of disbelief on Gus’s. 

By the time you pulled into the parking lot of your office building, you’d gotten no less than a dozen notifications. When you checked them, you saw each of them was a new evite to a scheduled event, all of them sent from Shawn. You opened the virtual calendar and saw weeks full of appointments, each one labeled as “DATE WITH SHAWN.” Then, a text came through. Also from Shawn. 

Sorry but after u left I got a very strong feeling that u & I would be going on a lot of dates. Figured I’d schedule them now so we didn’t forget & disrupt my psychic vibrations. 

You rolled your eyes. You texted back, First question: why’d I choose next Friday for our first date? 

A moment later: 1 year anniversary (sorry I thought u were a criminal) 

Your heart was too loud in your head for you to hear anything else. Silently, you slunk farther into the room you’d picked – the only one with an unlocked door. It was a dumb decision, you knew, since he’d figure out you were in the only unlocked room, but what else were you supposed to do? He’d heard yu escape. He’d been following after you. If you’d stayed in the hall any longer, he would’ve seen you. 

He would’ve killed you. 

Another creak. 

The room was dark but your eyes were beginning to adjust. There was some heavy furniture, a bed, and another door. You hurried toward it, turned the knob, and popped open the door. It was nearly pitch black inside but you could make out the outlines of clothes on hangers. 

With no time to think, you climbed into the closet and shut the door tight. Pushing clothes aside, you felt for the corner and hunkered down, back against the wall. Clothes draped over you like curtains. You prayed it was enough to keep you hidden. 

Inside the closet, you could hear nothing save your own breathing. How would you know id he was in the room with you? How would you know he left? 

There was a heavy thunk outside the door. You froze. Another thunk. Deep, reverberating through the floor. Mechanical. 

“Little rabbit,” a voice called. It wasn’t that man’s voice anymore. It was distorted, layered. It was like he was speaking through some sort of device that was meant to change his voice, but instead only twisted it into something out of a horror film. “Where are you hiding? It’s time to come out and play.” 

You dug your nails into your palms and tried to push yourself back through the closet wall. If this had been a dream, you could’ve conjured up a trap door that would fall open and let you escape. If this had been a dream, you could’ve pulled a weapon out of thin air and killed the man that was chasing you down. 

But your palms were bleeding (even though you couldn’t see it, you could feel it) and your body ached from being kept in a cage for so long, and your fear was causing a blinding headache, and that was how you knew it wasn’t a dream.

Another thunk, getting closer to the closet. 

“Hiding under the bed?” The layered voice asked. There was a mechanical creak and the rustling of blankets being pulled. “Come out, little rabbit.” 

It would only be a few moments before he opened the closet, and then what? What would you do? Try to keep hiding in the corner? Close your eyes and hope that he couldn’t see you? Try to run away? Fight? 

“No, not under the bed. There’s only one other place you could be hiding. Do you want to come out or do you want me to find you?” 

The thought of having a choice almost made you laugh, but you were too terrified to make a noise. Yet, somewhere in the back of your mind, you had the feeling that being found by him was a much worse option than coming out on your own. 

He was going to punish you either way. You’d escaped your room. You made him chase you all around the house. You made him play Hide and Seek. There was no option but to punish you. 

You needed a weapon. 

Forcing yourself onto your knees, you felt carefully around the bottom for the closet. Anything with any sort of weight or solidity would work. Even a shoe would work if you could swing it hard and fast enough. 

Your hands moved through the dark and you tried to imagine what it was you were touching. There were a few boxes in the far corner of the closet, the clothes above you, what felt like a hanger full of ties (you were neither strong enough nor fast enough to loop one of those around his neck and strangle him, you knew that for certain), and then something else. Large and heavy. Solid, but soft. Like a wire frame wrapped in soft fabric. Your fingers felt for the shape but couldn’t recreate it in your mind. 

Then you touched something else, near the center of it. Two things. Round, hard plastic. Cool to the touch. You pressed on them, trying to imagine what sort of thing would be hidden in this maniac’s closet. 

You didn’t have to imagine long. 

The things you’d pressed lit up brightly, almost blindingly. The light seeped through the rest of the structure, leaking through thin spots of fabric and gaps between the frame. They were eyes. Attached to a large rabbit’s head. A mechanical rabbit. 

It made a sudden whirring noise, like an old computer trying to boot up while its fans are covered in dust, and you jumped back. You slammed into the closet door, legs kicking out and knocking the head over. It tumbled and rolled toward you, eyes still shining bright. 

The closet door wrenched open. You fell backward, slamming the back of your head on the floor. Dazed, you stared up. 

Standing over you was the very same mechanical rabbit, but in full. It stared down at you, its eyes glowing. Its mouth opened partially and a voice, the distorted and layered voice you’d been hearing, came through. 

“There you are, little rabbit. Found you.” 

This had to be a dream after all. People didn’t just dress up as giant yellow rabbits and chase people around their homes. And they didn’t keep giant animatronic heads in their closets. Did they? 

“And I see you found my prototype,” the Yellow Rabbit said. “I like to keep a few spare pieces around the house, just in case. You never know what could happen.” He reached down and grabbed a fistful of your hair. His large, mechanical hands wound tightly through your tresses, pulling tight. When he stood, he yanked your head off the floor, and nearly pulled all the hair out of your scalp. 

You screamed. 

“Back to your room, now,” he said, lumbering across the room while dragging you alongside him. “I’ll have to put a much stronger lock on your door. I can’t have you escaping again.” 

Your arms and legs flailed as you tried to free yourself, but his grip was solid. You’d scalp yourself before you got close to prying his hand open. 

He dragged you down the hallway, the rabbit suit hissing and whirring as the mechanics operated the arms and legs. You passed back by every locked door, every room that had been closed off to you. Every potential means of escape, every room that could’ve helped you to hide better. 

Why hadn’t you just run down that hallway to the stairs? Why hadn’t you tried to make a break for the front door? 

Next time, you tried to tell yourself, vision blurring with pained tears. But you knew there was never going to be a next time. You’d only gotten one shot and you wasted it. Your fear had overruled your desire to escape. Hiding in that closet was your way of telling yourself you’d rather be alive and trapped than to die trying to actually escape. 

And now you’d get your chance, to be alive and trapped. 

The Yellow Rabbit drew you to the door of a tiny, dark room. It had once been a linen closet or maybe a half-bath, but it had since been repurposed. The walls and floor were lined with the hard metal bars of a dog cage, the overhead light had been stripped of its bulbs (until the man wanted to torture you with light, then he’d screw in several bright bulbs and leave them on for hours at a time), and there was no airflow, save for the small crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. 

He tossed you into the room. You landed hard on the floor, metal bars bruising your elbows and ribs. 

“I’ll have to punish you for escaping,” he said. It was unnerving just how calm his voice was. Almost bordering on happy. “And I’ll have to get a better lock. I can’t have you letting yourself out of your room anytime you want.” 

You lifted your eyes to the man. All you saw was the hulking figure of the yellow rabbit suit he was wearing. Things had never made more sense and less sense to you at the same time. 

“What do you think?” he continued. “Should I take away your food and water for a few days? Or should I get some brighter lights for your room?” 

You shook your head, keeping low to the ground. “Please. I’ll be good – I’ll be a good … rabbit.” 

The lifeless glowing eyes stared back at you. “Don’t lie. It’s okay, I know I haven’t trained you properly, yet. But I will. Someday, hopefully soon, you’ll be a very good pet. But I do still have to punish you.” 

You watched, horrified and defeated, as the door swung shut and locked in place. He retreated to another part of the house, his heavy footfalls echoing after him, until there was nothing but silence. 

Collapsing against the floor of the cage, you stared wide-eyed into the darkness. Burned into your memory was the image of his glowing eyes, brighter than any lightbulbs he could possibly use in your cramped space, and the layered voice that called after you even as you’d started to fall asleep. 

There you are, little rabbit. Found you. 

“Boromir and I were bound together by our spirits. When his fled his mortal body, I felt it. I knew the moment he had been killed.” You held your baby tighter, letting him nuzzle up against your bosom. “My sadness is increased knowing that he did not get to meet his son, and that my son will grow up without his father.” 

Aragorn produced a leaf-shaped brooch from his pocket and held it out to you. “This was his. It was a gift from Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien. It is not much but it is a token of his time with our Fellowship.” 

You took the brooch and turned it over in your hand, noting the intricate design. “Thank you, Lord Aragorn. I have nothing of my husband, except for my memories.” You tucked the brooch against the blanket swaddling your baby. “And our son.” 

A few soldiers marched across the hills, their armor clattering across the open air. Among them was Eowyn, fair and cold. She stared at you and Aragorn with a heartbroken jealousy that she quickly squirreled away behind a smile, and then she was gone. You hoped that the jealousy would not take root in her heart; she had become a good friend to you in the months you had been in Rohan. 

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably on his feet, avoiding Eowyn's intense gaze. Since his arrival, it was obvious to you that Eowyn was in love with him. It was also obvious that he was not in love with her, though he still treated her with kindness and dignity. 

“My lady,” Aragorn said, looking at you with dark, curious eyes. “How did you come to be at Rohan? Boromir told me I could find you here, but I neither asked nor did he offer an explanation for why you are not living in Gondor.” 

“Boromir and I were deeply in love, Lord Aragorn. I was perhaps the only choice Boromir made without the approval of his father. Lord Denethor has never taken kindly to me and he did not approve of our courtship. Boromir and I married anyway. Our son was nearing to be born when he was called away to Rivendell. He did not want me to stay in Gondor with Lord Denethor so he sent me to Rohan, knowing that King Théoden and his family would not turn away a woman with child. I believe he also hoped it would be the start of healing the relationship between Gondor and Rohan. He was meant to retrieve me at the end of his journey, and we would go home to Gondor with our son.” 

Aragorn reached out once more and pulled back the swaddling cloth to look at the ruddy face of your son. “Have you decided on a name for him?” 

“Ruindil.” 

“A friend of the Red Flame.” Aragorn brushed his fingers over the sparse tufts of red hair. 

“Eowyn helped me choose a name. She has also helped me in raising him. I cannot thank her enough, but she has far too many duties in Rohan already. I cannot allow her to take on this burden as well.” 

“You need not worry about that.” Aragorn withdrew his hand and looked at you, his eyes serious. “I promised Boromir that I would look after you. He told me that by the time I found you, you would have already had your child. The people of Rohan no longer need to provide for you, my lady. You are my responsibility now.” 

“You are going to war, Lord Aragorn. What is to happen to us if you do not come back from this war? You speak honestly when you say the people of Rohan do not need to take care of me, but it is because I will find my own way.” 

“No.” Aragorn grasped your hand, holding it tight. His fingers were calloused and rough, his palms warm. His dark brows drew together in a plea. “Do not rob me of my duty or my promise to Boromir. If I do not return from the war, then all I have is yours. It is not much, but you and Ruindil will want for nothing. I will take care of you for as long as both of you live, even if your lives surpass mine.” 

You nodded toward the twisting white and silver pendant hanging among his dirty clothes. “And what of the woman who gave you that? Will she not be jealous? Will I not threaten her?” 

“No, my lady. She …” Aragorn hesitated, dropping his eyes from your face. “She is with her people now. But were she here beside me, she would understand. Boromir was my brother at the end, my lady, and it would be an honor to care for his wife and son. I know that if I had taken his place, he would have made the same promise to me.” 

Ruindil cooed again and stretched his balled fists against the wrapped blanket. His face scrunched up against the cool wind that swept over the hills and buffeted against you. 

“Please, my lady,” Aragorn whispered. “Allow me to fulfill this promise.” 

“And what is our fate if you do provide for us, Lord Aragorn? Where shall we go?” 

“After the war, we will return to Gondor. Your son will be raised in the halls of his father and he will know him. Boromir will not be forgotten. You have my promise.” 

You pressed a kiss to Ruindil's forehead, and then gently tugged your hand free of Aragorn’s so you could pull the blanket over Ruindil to block the wind. “Then I accept, Lord Aragorn. I will await in Rohan for your return. If there is any hope, we will return to the Gondor we left.” 

You were the only adult The Grabber had kidnapped. At least, as far as you knew. Children were always reported missing because there were people who missed them: parents, friends, teachers. But it was much rarer for adults, especially ones who were loners and misfits, to be labeled as missing, especially in a day and age where adults young and old alike were known for jumping into their vans and heading off into the Great Unknown for once-in-a-lifetime adventures. 

Of course, it had barely been a decade after the moon landing, Woodstock, and the Manson Family murders, and society was trying to reconcile the fact that all of those things had happened the same year. Technological advances, free drugs and loose sex, and cold-blooded murder in an attempt to start a race war. 

Maybe people weren’t as free and loose as they were pre-1969, and maybe people were much more cautious around strangers, and maybe the go-getters had shifted mindsets from “go-getting American freedom” to “go-getting office jobs and high rise apartments.” 

In any case, you were still a loner, a misfit, and an outcast, and no one was missing you. You doubted people even noticed you were gone. You doubted very much that your name and photo were being broadcast on the evening news. And you knew that there were no search parties combing through the neighborhoods in search of clues. 

To be fair, it was your fault that you’d been kidnapped. You’d been tracking The Grabber for about two years. How were you supposed to know that when you were coming home from a grocery run that he’d come up behind you, blind you with some sort of powder, and throw you in the back of his van? 

Really, you were more shocked by the fact that The Grabber knew who you were. It wasn’t like you advertised yourself when you were investigating him. But word obviously got around some way or another … 

Long story short, you were now locked up in his basement, shackled to a dirty mattress, sitting in the dark. You weren’t sure how long you’d been here, probably a handful of days, but it felt like weeks. Your eyes had already adjusted to the darkness of the basement, and it burned whenever the door swung open and light pooled down the steps to you. 

You were in the middle of going through yet another scenario on how to escape this basement when the door opened and The Grabber’s shadow cascaded down the basement stairs. He took methodical steps into the darkness, his mask fixed firmly onto his face. His entire front was cast into shadows, but the light behind him illuminated the horns on the mask. He held a dinner tray with a plate and cup on it. He had long ago replaced the glass cup with a plastic children’s cup after you had smashed the glass against his mask and tried to stab him in the throat. You’d suffered more damage than he had, and now your hand was tied in a dirty bandage that hadn’t been changed once. You were certain the cut across your palm had an infection by now. 

“Are you going to behave today?” 

You stared back at him silently, studying his movements. The mask was full, complete with the devil horns and smiling face. This was what he wore when he came to check up on you. The first day of your abduction, however, you’d been greeted with a mask without a mouth. Sometimes you only got the smiling lower half, and sometimes you only got the upper half with horns. But you never got to see his full face all at once. 

“Yes,” you said, knowing he demanded an answer. You didn’t want to anger him any more than you already had over the past several days. 

“Good. I made you breakfast.” 

“Is it morning?” 

“Does it matter?” He set the tray on the end of the mattress and stood back, far enough away that you couldn’t reach him. “I saw your photo in the newspaper today.” 

You looked up at him, startled. “How?” 

“How else would I see it? I looked at it.” 

If you hadn’t been stuck to a mattress in a serial killer’s basement, you might have rolled your eyes and called him a name, but instead you tried to appeal to him. 

“I mean … how did anyone know I was missing?” 

“That’s what I was wondering. I’ve studied you almost as long as you’ve studied me. There is no one in your life. No one to miss you, no one to report you gone. So how did that happen?” 

You didn’t respond, trying to gauge if this was a test. Was he lying about the photo in the newspaper? He hadn’t brought it down to show you. Was he seeing if you would crack and admit that you’d told someone about your research into The Grabber? What was his game? 

“How did that happen?” he repeated, voice hard. 

“I-I don’t know. Maybe someone saw you take me.” 

The Grabber stared coldly at you from behind his mask. His eyes didn’t match the creepily happy smile on the bottom half of the mask. 

“Who were you working with?” 

“No one. I told you. I don’t have anyone.” 

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like it when people lie to me.” 

“I’m not lying. I didn’t tell anyone. I swear.” 

The Grabber suddenly lunged forward, throwing himself onto the mattress. He wrapped his hands around your throat and slammed you back against the mattress, your head narrowly missing the basement wall. 

“Don’t lie to me!” 

You gasped as you writhed against him, clawing at his hands. The mask smiled down at you as if it were happy you were being strangled. 

“I’m … not!” you managed to wheeze out. Pressure built in your head as your vision began to darken. Sunbursts of white light popped at the corners of your eyes. 

His hands squeezed harder. The last bits of air escaped your lungs. Your eyes began to flutter shut, perhaps for the last time. 

And then he let go. 

You coughed so hard you felt blood vessels burst in your eyes. Tears welled up as you panted for air, rolling over to press your face into the dirty mattress. Feeling returned to your body in prickling tingles through your limbs and face. 

The mattress shifted as The Grabber stood up. You heard him calmly collect the plate, cup, and tray that he had knocked to the floor when he leapt onto the mattress. When you finally looked up, you saw food and water were spilled across the floor, but he didn’t make a move to clean it up. 

“I’m glad that I can trust you,” he said, holding the tray with both hands. “It’s so hard to find people who tell the truth.” 

He stood and stared at you as if he were waiting for you to say something. You could barely catch your breath, let alone talk. So he continued, unprompted. 

“The look on your face when you heard that your picture was in the newspaper told me you were being honest when you said you had nobody in your life. But I needed to make sure. People will tell you all kinds of secrets when they think they’re going to die.” 

“I … honestly don’t know how they got my photo,” you managed to say through a sore throat. “I don’t.” 

“That’s my secret,” The Grabber said, and his voice rose in pitch with delight. “Your photo wasn’t in the newspaper. It wasn’t anywhere. It’s just as you said. No one is looking for you.” 

Coldness wrapped around your body as you stared at the man. Your stomach churned. If you weren’t afraid of what he’d do, you’re certain you would vomit. 

“Oh, before I forget.” He reached into his back pocket with one hand and tossed something onto the mattress. It was a dark green and black plaid strip of fabric. “You should swap out your bandage for something with a little more … longevity. You’re going to be here for a while. If you’re good, I’ll give you the rest of the shirt it came off of for you to wear. You look like you could use a change of clothes.” 

And now, one week after being kidnapped by his two remaining wives, you had grown fond of that look. You’d first thought it was because he wanted to devour you, to sink his fangs into your throat, to drink your blood. But you knew better now. It was more than that, different than that. He did want to devour you, but not physically. Mentally, emotionally. He wanted to occupy your every thought, be the only touch your body desired, have your complete and total loyalty. 

A single week of being isolated from the real world, and you had already fallen under his spell. It surprised you that he hadn’t already turned you into his kind, making you his new wife, but he seemed to have a reason for it. 

That reason was becoming increasingly clear as the night went on. He’d wanted to wait until tonight, during the masquerade ball, to turn you into his eternal bride. What better night than Halloween? A night when every spirit, every ghost came back to wander the earth, when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. 

Dracula kept your body close to his as he moved across the polished floor. He stared at you so intently, you could feel the force of his desire move through you. He stopped in front of a mirror that reflected only you, alone in an empty ballroom, dressed in silks and ribbons. 

“Do you feel lonely?” he asked, voice soft. Yet, you could hear him perfectly clear. His voice was in your mind, now. He gently grasped your chin between two fingers and tilted your head toward the mirror. “The only living creature in this entire castle. The only one who will grow old and wither away. The only one who will die.” 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, both amazed and terrified at the sight. An entire room, full of candles and glistening chandeliers, and you all alone. You felt Dracula’s hands crawl up your body as he turned you to face the mirror completely, but you didn’t see them. You didn’t see any part of him as he stood behind you, one hand on your waist, the other circling your throat. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you felt his mouth graze over your ear, “but still so alive. It would be a pity to let tonight pass by without finishing what we started.” His fingers ran under your jaw and tilted your head back. Your eyes stayed locked on yourself in the mirror. It was unnerving to see yourself be manipulated by invisible hands, to feel rather than see the person controlling you. 

Music continued to play throughout the large room. From the corners of your vision, you saw dozens of vampires dancing and chatting. No one paid you any attention. Was that part of his power, too? To turn both of you invisible to the rest of the vampires in the room? Or was everyone else just so well trained that they knew to ignore Dracula during moments like this. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt Dracula’s body press against yours, the hand on your waist moving up to run over your stomach and chest. He ran his fingers along your exposed collarbone, gripping the edge of your top and pulling it down your shoulder. Cupping your chin, he tilted your head to the side and teasingly ran his mouth over your neck. 

When you’d first been taken, you had spent every waking moment praying that Van Helsing would save you, that he would find the castle and destroy every monster within it. Under the influence of Dracula, it hadn’t taken long for you to change your mind. Life hadn’t been bad in the castle. It was cold and lonely and isolated, but it wasn’t bad. Dracula treated you well, he clothed you, he fed you. 

He was a monster, but only because he’d been turned into one. Even at his worst, however, he was still a gentleman, and he had treated you like a lady. Not even the men of your village had done that. Not even Van Helsing had done that. 

Your eyes opened and you looked at yourself, all alone in the mirror. You felt Dracula’s mouth ghost over your skin, his fingers holding your head in place. You knew what he was waiting for. Not a full moon, not a perfect storm, not for the clock to strike midnight. He was waiting for you. For your permission. Your desire. 

Despite it all, he was giving you a choice. You could join him in eternity, or you could remain human and live only as long as he wanted you to (which, judging from the number of hungry vampires in the room, wouldn’t be long). 

You reached up, running your fingers over the back of his head. He moved his mouth against your ear again. 

“What do you want?” he asked. “What is your”—he tightened his grip around your throat, but not enough to keep you from speaking—“desire?” 

“You. This. All of it.” 

Dracula shuddered against you as he tilted your head to the side even more to expose your throat. “As you wish.” 

You felt the pain of teeth sinking into your skin, and you let out a sharp cry, but the following sound died in your throat. A burst of warmth ran through your body, like soaking in a bathtub of hot blood, and your eyes rolled back in your head. Your head lolled back and Dracula held you up, keeping you in place. 

The heat in your body was threaded through with icy coldness, and then it was completely replaced by it. Every sound and sensation disappeared, and then came bursting into life like an explosion of noise and color and feeling. Your eyes snapped open and Dracula held you by your throat, pointing you toward the mirror. 

There was nothing there. 

You were invisible, even to yourself. 

You looked down at your own hands, the warm tone of life blood drained from it. But you felt stronger, like every glass part of your body had been replaced with steel. And you didn’t feel the cold of the castle down to your bones anymore. Nor did you feel the loneliness of isolation. You felt, almost, at home. 

Dracula turned you around to face him. His eyes were dark, but shining. A smear of blood covered his thin lips. He cupped your face in his hands, running his thumbs over your cheekbones. He turned to face the crowd, his hand on your lower back. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the two of you. 

“I present to you, my beautiful new bride.” 

There was thunderous applause and excited hissing from several guests. 

“She will need to feed. Now, take her. Go. Give her her first meal.” 

The eyes of every vampire flashed black and their fangs extended, faces turning pale gray and hollow. Hunger moved through you like a snake, filling every part of your body. You felt your own fangs begin to grow, brushing against your bottom lip. Dracula turned you toward him once more, capturing your mouth in a kiss. You tasted your own blood on his lips and wanted more. You chased after his mouth when he pulled away. 

“He’s near,” he said, holding your face in his hands again. 

You knew he meant Van Helsing. It had taken him too long to get to the castle. Too long to find you. It was too late for him, too, now. 

“Find him, and feed. He will be your first.” 

You ran your tongue over your fangs, over your lips, and grinned. “Yes, my master. Whatever you say.”