#vampire!shawn

“Shawnie, do we have any painkillers?” you inquired as you walked into the kitchen, your arms right around your sore midsection.

“Probably,” he responded as he turned to the cupboards, his sharp eyes examining their contents. “Does your head hurt?”

“No. I’m all crampy,” you confessed as you came up behind him to help him look.

Had he not been facing a different direction, you would have seen his eyes light up at your revelation.

He held out a bottle of Advil and watched you take it, helping you by handing you some water. “There. Do cuddles sound good?”

“Yeah,” you said as you rubbed your tummy one last time. “I’m kind of cold.”

Shawn walked upstairs with you right behind him and opened the bed for you to crawl into. Once you were comfortable, he laid down with his head on your tummy and his arms around your middle as he looked up at you with adoration.

“Do you need anything else before I get too comfortable?” he asked weakly, and you responded with a gentle laugh.

“No,” you answered as you ran a hand through his chocolate-colored curls. “Plus, you already look a little too comfortable. Do you need anything?”

He looked at you hungrily through his long eyelashes as his tongue darted out of his mouth to dampen his lips.

“Are you hungry, Shawn?”

“Y-yeah,” he breathed.

“What do you want? I can make you something.”

“I’m hungry for you,” he admitted, and the pieces clicked into place.

“You’re a vampire.”

Shawn furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at you. “It’s okay, baby. You can say no.”

“It’s just… gross.”

“You can say no. I can eat some crackers or something.”

“Poor baby, so hungry.” You gave Shawn a pat on the head. “You can, I guess.”

“Aww, thank you, sweet girl,” he whispered profusely as he watched you remove your pants. “I fucking love you for this.”

He nuzzled his mouth into your warm folds, lapping at everything he saw. His tongue caressed your clit, making a warm feeling swell deep in your stomach.

By the time you needed to cum, he was finished eating.

“Thank you so much, sweet girl,” he praised. “You’re such a good girl. Do you want to take a shower now?”

“Yes please,” she said as Shawn picked her up.

“Pretty little thing,” he said to no one in particular. “Come on, let’s clean up.

The Trinity. The neon sign flashed outside above the bar. Shawn had always laughed at the name, the obvious religious connotations. It was a vampire bar after all. Run by two vampires who once served wine to King Henry VIII, the bar had settled in the West Village almost a hundred years ago. It changed names, the owners changed identities, but the clientele remained cold and thirsty all the same. The Trinity was low-key but exclusive, a semi-dive bar with a bouncer out front, hilariously named Vlad, a massive Russian man with fists the size of a normal man’s head. Shawn flashed his red eyes at him, the only membership card he needed to gain entry.

“Meat is scarce,” Shawn heard him mumble. He winced at the euphemism. Meat just meant live bodies, humans who had come willingly to the bar as potential sources of blood. At Trinity, humans received a card that allowed them entry once every three weeks. For vampires, it was the best way to keep the blood supply fresh and undiluted. For humans, it was a status symbol, an underground and privileged one. But it also meant that some nights were slower than others, especially after events and holidays.

Some vampires were less appreciative of human life than others. They saw The Trinity as a trap, an easy way to catch prey. Willing sources were so scarce that vampires often lost control and bled them dry, whether they meant to or not. Shawn was a little less macabre. He was old enough to appreciate the fragility of humans, old enough to taste the subtle differences in blood quality. Humans allowed into Trinity passed a blood test, so he felt they were best kept alive. He couldn’t find a drug and disease-free meal just anywhere. Yes, he fed here. It was like Whole Foods and real-life Tinder all in one place.

He took a seat at the bar, nodding over to a group of younglings, a little too feral to be trusted. A thick cloud of smoke poured over him from the corner, choking Shawn’s sensitive sense of smell. He coughed and waved it away, revealing a familiar old woman in the corner with gleaming red eyes and long white hair. She took a long pull from her six-inch cigarette holder and blew another cloud of smoke at him, obscuring her very vintage 1820s corset.

“Bonjour, Shawn,” she said at the end of her exhale.

“Madame LaLaurie,” he waved a hand to greet her, trying not to make a face of abject revulsion at the red drops falling from her chin. Propriety was not a concept familiar to the old ones. Neither was blending in. Her costume froze her in time. Shawn looked down at his own black jeans and red short sleeve button up, a pair of chelsea boots on his feet. He was thankful that he’d been able to live—well, approximate living—over the years instead of calcifying, turning into an undead corpse refusing to move with the passing years. Dropping his head, he tried to shake the image out despite the smoke still curling in the air.

A whiskey sour, his usual, appeared like magic in front of him. Not actual magic–witches weren’t allowed here–but out of the hand of John Somerset, co-owner and purveyor of The Trinity.

“Shawn,” he nodded, his London lilt still clinging to his accent more than a century after leaving England, “it’s a slow night.” Shawn turned over his shoulder and squinted in the low light. The room was large, the size of a small warehouse, with several alcoves and nooks for privacy. Maybe twenty people milled about, some eyes flashing red, usually paired with a brown or blue or green eyed man or woman. One of them, a vampire with ginger hair and small features, wandered up to the bar with a young man, perhaps just recently legal. The vampire’s long white fingers wrapped around the boy’s hip. John’s eyes narrowed over the counter.

“Kit,” he addressed the vampire in a low voice, “be careful with the young ones.”

“Oh, John, worry not!” Kit’s grip on the boy visibly tightened. He turned to his companion and nuzzled his nose, drawing a laugh from him, “Tyler and I are just fine!” And so Tyler seemed to be, his rosy cheek pressed to Kit’s shoulder, intermittently turning to press wet kisses to his neck. It was a familiar sight. Kit Marlowe was a notorious letch, but he wasn’t much of a killer. Young Tyler was likely not in any danger, but John Somerset protected his bar as if it were his child. No foul play allowed.

Shawn slipped off his bar stool, leaving John to harass Kit. Wandering around the red-tinged room, he nursed his whiskey sour and took stock of the options in the room. He lifted his nose and closed his eyes. In one corner, the strong smell of nicotine and vaping liquid overpowered any unique notes he could have made out in blood. He moved on, scrunching his nose. There were a lot of masculine scents, pachouli, leather, amber, bergamot, and while Shawn didn’t discriminate based on gender–a man could be fun if he was looking to dominate–tonight he craved something a little more delicate.

A hand grazed his shoulder and he turned, startled, bowed and ready to attack.  

“How dare y—”

A wall of warm jasmine and citrus crashed into him. It disarmed him, turning his limbs into rubber. She smelled like summer sun, or at least, what he imagined summer sun to smell like. He’d forgotten some time around the beginning of the Wars of the Roses, a hundred years after he’d last felt sunlight. He leaned into her palm, still resting on his shoulder.

“Open your eyes,” she whispered, her breath gliding across his face adding a touch of mint to her bouquet. He hadn’t realized they were still closed. He squinted, adjusting to the harsh red lights again, and looked down at her.

At first, all he could see was white. She was wearing white from head to toe. A white sheer top over a white lace bra, white pants with little tears in the knees, white pumps. The red on the sole of her shoes was the only pop of color. Her clothes fit perfectly around her curves, the cleavage she let show leading his eye to her long neck and the pulse point there, fluttering with her beating heart. Even with all that confidence, she couldn’t hide the rush of coming face to face with time itself. She was a mortal angel looking for trouble in this hellish pit.

After the initial shock, his eyes caught hers. They glowed in the low light, twinkling his own reflection back at him. She was close, close enough that he could see each individual pore on her face, unencumbered by makeup. Her skin was beautiful, taut over her cheekbones and flushed with all that sweet smelling blood. His mouth watered a little and his eyes lost focus as he took another deep inhale. He felt that tell-tale lengthening in his mouth with a shiver. He was so...hungry.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, vampires kept time in decades and centuries not minutes and hours, but he sensed her every movement. Her feet shifted; her heart pounded; her hands flexed and relaxed. He smiled and felt her heart pick up speed, taking her hand and turning it over in his palm to trace the blue maze of veins in her wrist.

“You’ve never been here, never done this before, have you?”

“How did you—?” She ripped her hand away from him, a proud tilt to her head, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, you might,” he chuckled under his breath, tracing a cold finger down her cheek, satisfied at the gooseflesh that bloomed where he touched. “You’re certainly sure of yourself. It’s rare a human catches me unaware. How did you do that?”

“I think you were looking for someone,” the corner of his mouth upturned at her words, I was looking for you, “but I don’t usually hesitate when I see something I want.” She was so confident, he didn’t even think it was false bravado. Just pure adrenaline. He’d never met anything like her.

“So, hello,” she stuck her hand out formally, like she hadn’t already wrapped him around her fingers, like he hadn’t already made a place for her in his bed, and told him her name.

“I’m Shawn,” smiling, he took her hand and shook it, careful to control his grip and not hurt her. They stood there like that, hands clasped together, for a moment. It was long enough for Shawn to feel her skin under his fingertips and wonder if her whole body was like that, soft and firm and vibrating with energy, with so much blood. Her heartbeat rang in his ears, loud and clear as if his own heart had come back to life.

She reached up and pushed a fallen curl out of his face, “do you wanna dance?”

“I….don’t dance,” he shuffled nervously, all his smug self-assuredness gone in a second. Centuries and cat-like reflexes hadn’t improved his shoddy dancing skills and he really didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of his future meal.

“Oh, come on,” she grabbed at his hand and pulled, “everyone dances a little, even stuffy vampires.” He followed her, let her pull him onto the world’s smallest dance floor in front of a certified vintage jukebox. The Gershwins poured through the old speakers, sounding more like a gramophone than anything nearing modern audio quality. She yanked his arms about in a makeshift attempt at the Charleston, kicking her legs out at weird angles. He could tell that she could move, she just had never moved in the 20s in front of a big band.

“Okay, okay,” he caught her hips and stilled them, “that’s not bad, but it’s not the Charleston either.” He showed her how to rotate her ankles and add her arms, eventually just taking her hands and moving with her forward and backward, swinging his awkward legs around.

“See! You can dance!” she held onto his arms and stepped back and forth with him, “were you alive in the 20s?”

“Ahem, alive?” he grinned, “no, I wasn’t alive...but I was pulled onto many dance floors in this city to do the Charleston in the 20s.” Her eyes blew wide, the first truly human reaction he’d seen from her.

“So...how old are you?” she had stopped moving, too shocked and curious to concentrate on the dance.

“That’s a rude question!” He faked indignance, slapping his palm to his chest. She snorted, crossing her arms and jutting her hip out to the side.

“If I’m going to let you drink my blood, you could at least tell me how old you are!” His mouth fell open. The unspoken arrangement between vampires and humans at The Trinity was just that—unspoken. He’d been coming here for decades and no one had ever been so bold. He tried to think back to the last human who had ever demanded something of him, especially something so sacred as his age, and was coming up blank. She was serious. Moxie, they used to call it. She was overflowing with it.

Fuck it. His sigh would have been more dramatic if his chest still moved with his breath.

“I was born,” he took a deep bow, his curls flopping forward toward the floor, “in the year of our Lord 1322.”

“Oh my God,” she gasped. He watched as she did the quick math, the cogs spinning behind her eyes as they grew wider with the realization that he was—

“Seven hundred.” She wavered and he stepped forward to steady her, let her lean into his side and breathe through the shock. She looked up at him and reached for his face, but he caught her hand first and held it to his chest.

“Well, I'm 697. The big 7-0-0 is a few years away.” He grinned, his fangs just peeking out from behind his cold lips. If he could blush, he would have in that moment. With her proximity came another wave of jasmine, mixed with something else, something much more feminine and earthy. He leaned down and touched his nose to her jawline, grazing it slightly and inhaling deep. It was heady. He could tell she felt it too. Her head tipped back and invited him in. His body stirred in a way it hadn’t in a very long time.

In another, more feral, life, he would have taken her right there.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he panted, a memory of humanity rather than a need for breath. She released the tension in her body, having braced for the bite he wasn’t ready to give.

“Jesus fuck, yes,” she nodded. He wondered how long she’d been waiting for him to ask. If he had to bet, he’d say before she even laid a hand on him. They gathered their phones, checked at the door, and headed to the street.

“Excuse me, miss!” Vlad called as they passed. He locked eyes with Shawn, “sorry, Shawn, you know it’s protocol.” Shawn shrugged and nodded, presenting her to him.

“Hello, miss, I just need to make sure you’ve consented to leave with him,” he focused on her neck, at the pulse beating loud and clear there, an almost foolproof lie detector test.

“Yes, I agreed to leave with him,” she looked back at Shawn, steady as a rock, and he nodded, bracing for the next bit. The bit that caused panic in the faint of heart and had lost him many an evening meal.

“And you understand that The Trinity is absolved of any liability for any injury that might befall you after you leave here.” Shawn heard her heart kick up a little but she stood her ground, swallowing loud.

“Yes, I understand.” She nodded, holding out her hand to shake on it. Vlad’s eyes lit up with amusement, taking her hand in his much larger one and shaking. Apparently her charm worked on even the most sullen of bouncers.

“Okay, miss. You’re good to go. Have a good evening,” he tipped his head and glanced past her shoulder at Shawn, “take good care of this one.” Shawn gave him a two-finger salute.

“See you, Vlad!” She waved cheerfully, grabbing Shawn’s hand and rushing into the night. He hailed a cab, impatient to get back across town. It was late and he wanted to enjoy the rest of the night, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to want it to end.

When the cab pulled up to his six-story Greenwich Village brownstone, he was tracing patterns on her knee, the rip in her jeans the only skin available to him. She looked out the window, letting out a giggle before slapping her hand over her mouth.

“You have to be fucking joking,” she crawled out of the cab, the tiniest clutch he’d ever seen in her hand. She let him lead her up the steps to his door, her neck craned all the way back to look up.

He let her inside and shut the door, their shoes echoing off the cool black and white tile. He’d watched this house be built in the 1850s, had snatched it off the market then and there. Over the years, he’d moved around. Europe, Asia, Canada, but he always came back here. His best memories were in this city, so he called this house home.

It was covered in relics from the past. A savonarola chair from the 16th century in the corner. An original Thomas Gainsborough portrait of himself hanging in the entryway. A suit of armor, the one he was wearing when he began this new life after death, stood at the top of the stairs. He turned and watched her study the portrait.

It was provocative for the time. Shawn had foregone a powder wig in favor of his curls, wild and unkempt in a halo around his chiseled face. It had been a challenge for Thomas, so used to the round and cherubic faces of the time, his brushstrokes not suited for a man with so many angles. She looked back at him and pointed, raising her brow, and he nodded.

“Yes, Thomas made me sit for hours upon hours for that,” he moved to stand behind her, his hands busying themselves along her ribs, “thank God it made it through the Blitz.” She leaned back into him, becoming breathless at his ministrations. His fingers pulled at her sheer top, freeing it from her jeans to allow his hands underneath against the bare skin of her stomach.

“Your hands are so cold,” she gasped. He brought his lips to her neck, leaving a trail of chaste kisses along her carotid.

“I know a way,” he traced the artery with his tongue, “to warm them up.”

“Oh?” She pushed her hair over her other shoulder to expose more of her long neck to him. He smiled against her skin and turned her to face him. God, she was beautiful, so fucking full of life. Had there ever been anyone who stirred him like this? He lifted her from underneath her thighs, wrapping her legs around him.

“Not here,” he nipped at her jaw, enjoying the squeak that left her in surprise, “no one bleeds in my entryway.” He carried her up the stairs, never panting, never stumbling. Even without his eyes as a physical marker of his Otherness, no one living could watch him and not know he wasn’t exactly human. He’d been vampire for so long now that it was all he knew.

They watched each other with every flight he climbed, eyes locked. His pupils were blown wide, anticipating the coming high. She pushed her hair out of her face and bit her lip, the only outward sign of nervousness he’d seen. When they reached his bedroom, spanning a whole floor of the house, her heart was pounding against his chest. He pressed her against the wall, still holding eye contact.

He finally broke away to lay his head against her chest. The sound of her heartbeat consumed him. Her skin burned his cheek. His fangs ached. He felt the rhythmic pumping of blood course through her body, around his neck in her wrists, around his waist in her thighs, and lower as she slid down on the wall and he pressed his cock to her pulsing heat. A growl escaped him, deep and animalistic.

He couldn’t find her mouth fast enough.

Their mouths collided, teeth and tongues, harsh breath and feral moans. He sucked her citrus-soaked breath into his lungs, drunk on her scent. She slid her fingers into his hair at the nape and guided him deeper into her mouth. She sucked on his lower lip, dangerously close to his exposed fangs. Biting gently, she pulled a groan from him. He backed away from her, letting her legs fall from around his waist. She tried to catch her breath, hands braced behind her against the wall.

The air between them crackled with opposing energy, hot and cold, alive and dead, predator and prey. When they collided again it was desperate, a labyrinth of hands and arms and legs tearing off clothing. She popped most of the buttons on his shirt trying to get it off. He accidentally ripped two more holes in her jeans trying to force them down her legs. With each barrier removed, more skin was revealed. Neither of them could stop touching, the urgency overwhelming them. Her skin was butter soft, even under his sensitive fingertips. If he could burn, he thought her hands might be leaving hot welts on his skin. Both in their underwear and nothing else, Shawn stepped back, perching himself on the edge of his massive bed.

“Come,” he beckoned. She stalked toward him, her perfect breasts bouncing with each step. He bit back a whimper. There hadn’t been a woman in his bed in years. He had almost forgotten what perfect creatures they were, all curves and softness, warmth and femininity. Reaching out, he pulled her thighs toward him. She straddled his lap, knees planted in the plush crimson red duvet. He cupped her face with his hands, running the pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones .

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he looked at her unblinking, letting her have all the time she needed to be sure. “If you want, you can get dressed and leave right now and never see me again.”

“No!” she cried, digging her nails into his sides like he was the one preparing to flee, “I mean I’m sure. I don’t want to leave.” She scratched at his cold skin, a soothing gesture. He pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts, right above her heart. He let it beat against his lips, feeling the pebbled gooseflesh bloom on her skin, slowly trailing upward toward her neck. Her breathing was ragged, audible in the quiet of the room. She weaved her hands into his curls, tugging them impatiently. Smiling against her skin, he finally reached that pulse point he’d picked out earlier in the entryway. He cradled her head to the side, exposing the vein in her neck, thick and throbbing. He inhaled, running his nose from her shoulder to her jaw. Her scent was so strong. The citrus exploded in notes of lemon and tangerine. He wondered if she tasted like it.

His fangs broke skin.

Blood burst from her. Two streams of thick, hot life poured into his mouth. He battened onto her neck and suckled, his eyes fluttering shut, softly moaning against her. Colors exploded behind his eyelids, a kaleidoscope of yellow and orange and white, lemon and tangerine and jasmine. His arms curled around her, pressing her into his chest, farther into his mouth. Her whole body was vibrating with the force of her moans, her hands in his hair like a vice grip.

Her blood was liquid fire in his mouth, burning him from the inside out. He could feel the warmth returning to his fingers, a rusty pulse beating in his calcified heart. It was a hollow imitation of what being human felt like, full of faded memories that came back to life in an instant and then died again. A woman with flowers woven into her hair, a pale blue shift clinging to her nervous frame. A battle raging in a war he didn’t choose to fight in. A priest praying in Latin over the lifeless body of an infant.

Shawn’s eyes flew open.

He released her, taking harsh gulps of air, his seldom used lungs brought back to temporary life. The unbidden memories dissipated as quickly as they had come, but they left him disoriented. He fell back against the mattress, his fingers trembling against her thighs on either side of him, and looked up at her.

Her head was thrown back, chest heaving like she’d run a marathon. He winced at her neck. The puncture wounds were neat, he wasn’t an animal fresh from the Quickening, but he’d left blood smeared on her shoulder. She was still bleeding, two crimson rivulets pooling at her collarbone.

A high tinkling laugh startled him. Her face was flushed with exhilaration, the adrenaline rush overpowering the blood loss. She leaned over, placing a hand on his bare chest.

“It’s beating!” she exclaimed, wonder and confusion swimming in her eyes. He blinked at her, bleary-eyed and unsure if he could open his mouth to speak.

“Only for a little while,” he scratched out, his throat still burning from her citrus-flavored blood, “it will fade in a day or so.”

“Then will you feed again?” she looked down at her fingers, scratching lightly through his thin dusting of chest hair.

“No,” he took one of her wrists and kissed it right where her pulse beat strongest, “I only feed once every few months. This feeling, the heartbeat, it can be addicting for my kind. I try to ration as long as I can to fight the craving.” He looked over at his curtained window, checking the time. It was still dark as pitch, plenty of time left in the night with her.

“What are those?” Her fingers touched the two freckle-like spots on his neck. He hissed. She looked at him, alarmed at the sound. Quick fear made her pupils retract into pinpricks, but they relaxed as soon as he reached up to cup her cheek.

“Shh, it’s not you; they’re just sore,” he stretched his neck to the side to give her a better view. “It’s my change mark, the impression left by the vampire that created me. When I feed it aches as the first day I received it.” He didn’t know why he was telling her this. It wasn’t like him to divulge personal details about his life to take-out from The Trinity. Then again, he didn’t usually take his meal home, either. There was just something about her...he couldn’t name it. He just knew he didn’t want her to go away.

She shifted on top of him, brushing his lap. His eyes widened. She was wet. So wet that he could feel it seeping through his own boxer briefs. He took a breath to steady himself, but that only brought him musky waves of her arousal. His hands grabbed at her hips to still her.

“I can smell you,” he moved underneath her, making sure she could feel him. He was painfully hard, straining underneath the two layers of thin fabric keeping him from feeling her, from losing control completely. She gasped, bracing herself against his chest and smiling, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“You could do something about that,” she teased, running her thumbs over his hard nipples. Everything was sensitive; everything was hard, his whole body teeming with energy and life after taking his fill of her. His need for nourishment had been satisfied, leaving him with a different kind of hunger, one he was sure she was feeling too. She fought his hold on her hips and ground down on his lap pointedly.

He flipped them, loving the sound of her squeak at his display of easy strength. Her hair spread out in a halo against his duvet, making her seem more angel than human. He ducked and pressed a kiss to her lips, a quick taste before he stood to rid himself of his underwear. She lifted herself up on her elbows to look at him, finally naked in front of her. Her eyes darkened in the way that only a human’s can, in that moment when they’re most animal.

“Are you coming?” She welcomed him between her legs, feet flat against his mattress and knees spread, her pretty white lace panties practically translucent against her soaking slit. He reached behind her to the bedside table and dug a condom out of the drawer.

“Not yet, but you will be soon,” he rolled it down his length. Her eyes rolled and she fell back against the bed, too turned on to be annoyed at his bad joke. He braced himself above her, leaning down to nuzzle the mark he’d left earlier, licking at the blood still clinging to her chest. It was cold, devoid of life but still rich with her taste. She mewled, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain. He pressed a final kiss to his bite, the tang of her blood still clinging to his lips.

“Shawn,” she clawed at his back, wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her lips to his ear, “please.”

He growled, pushing inside to the hilt in one stroke. They both cried out, his head falling forward to mouth at her chest. She threaded her fingers into his hair to hold him, breathing through the stretch of him inside of her. With her arousal, the floral, fertile jasmine scent of her overwhelmed him. It rippled off of her, filling his bedroom. He slowly moved in and out, a lazy rhythm to prolong the closeness. He could have moved like that for hours, giving her just enough pleasure to keep her on edge but never sending her over. But she’d given him what he’d wanted, given him part of herself, shared what makes her alive to give him a fleeting glimpse of what that felt like again.

“Harder, baby,” she moaned. He bristled at the pet name, fucking her into the mattress harder, his hips colliding with hers over and over. They both panted profanities, her back arching and pushing her breasts into his chest. He took one of her nipples between his lips, flicking the hard bud with his tongue. The salty sweetness of her skin filled his mouth. She started to tremble beneath him, her arms clinging to his straining biceps.

“Shawn,” she looked him in the eye, her words punctuated by his relentless thrusting, “fuck...I want….you…to bite me again.”

He didn’t argue.

His fangs found a home just beneath her breast, her sweet blood, fragrant with her passion, erupted into his mouth. She screamed her release, pushing her body as far into him as she could, until he fell over the edge with her. He drank from her until they were both more blood than bone, until her limbs went limp and he couldn’t hold her up anymore. Images flickered in his memory, the same ones from before, the ones that usually made him gasp in the pain of dead memories, but he was so fully sated that they couldn’t touch him. He collapsed beside her, eyes closed and gasping for breath.

Her fingers traced his wet lips and slipped inside his mouth. They were covered in her blood. He turned to look at her as he sucked them clean and marveled at her hooded eyes, dark with the erotic sight before her. He released her fingers with a pop, swirling his tongue around the tips and smiling at the moan he elicited.

“That was…” she started.

“Incredible,” they both laughed.

Shawn crawled off the bed with unsteady legs. It was a drunk sort of walk, he hadn’t had human blood straight from the source in so long, hadn’t been fucked back to life in even longer. The intoxication was acute, the world a little more saturated and loud. He flipped the light on in his bathroom to grab a towel and discard the condom. Catching his reflection, he stopped quick. He’d almost forgotten what it looked like when he fed. His flushed complexion returned, rosy cheeks and chest colored with fresh blood under his skin. His chest moved, his heart pumping for the first time in six months. He’d gone so long without feeding this time. Too long.

He dabbed the towel at her shoulder and her breast, thankful for the enzymes in his mouth that quickened the healing. The blood around the bites had already coagulated, leaving a bit of a mess behind, but at least she had stopped bleeding. When all the excess blood was gone, she was left with four neat wounds, each smaller than the head of a pin.

“There. You might be sore for a couple of days but they should heal quickly,” Shawn instructed. She nodded, looking a little miffed about what to do next. It was the body’s natural instinct to fight or flee under the eyes of a predator, but he could tell she wanted to do neither.

“Do you…” he hesitated, he’d never done this before but he wasn’t ready to let her go yet, “do you want to sleep here? With me?”

She answered his question by burying herself in his sheets, all still pristine white underneath his red duvet. Not one drop of blood had spilled onto his bed. He crawled in after her, opening his arm to let her curl into his side.

“You really are warm now,” she wondered aloud, playing with his fingertips in between her own.

“All because of you,” he kissed the top of her head, an intimate gesture, but no more intimate than claiming her blood for his own, “now sleep.”

So they slept. He slept hard, his body surrendering to real rest for the first time in months. The dreams that usually plagued him after feeding were absent. His old life, his human life, didn’t come back to haunt him. His wife, his child, the wars he’d waged for men with too much power and no care for human life, all stayed dead. She chased it all away with her warmth and her jasmine scent and her citrus blood.

He didn’t know if it was hours or days later when he woke up to an empty house, her scent still desperately clinging to his sheets. All he knew was that she was gone and all he had was her name.

Lost in thought, in the memory of her, he found himself in front of The Trinity. He’d come here a couple of times, looking, hoping to see her again, but he’d given up. It wasn’t usual for him to ever revisit a human twice. In fact, he could only name a handful of women he’d had more than once. But she wasn’t coming back. He’d thought back on that night so many times and thought of all the things he could have done wrong, but in truth, he was a vampire and sometimes that was enough. He was too old, too mature to let a human consume him like this.

Vlad waved him in and he sat in his usual place at the bar nursing his usual whiskey sour. John chattered about some event he was hosting. Some kind of political thing, Alex Hamilton was expected to show. Shawn really hated him. Still a fucking hot head like he was in life. It had only gotten worse since the musical. If only people knew how many times the real A. Ham had been in the audience.

It was near closing time when John decided to shut up about vampire politics and let Shawn sulk in peace and quiet. He’d been so careful the last decade to temper his thirst. He went longer and longer and longer between feedings, meticulous about who he fed on and where. No personal life, no invitations, no sex.

She’d broken all his rules and then she’d just left him. It was just one night. One night that he’d never forget. He sighed, slumping over his third whiskey sour and hoping that tomorrow he’d be less pitiful. He needed to call it a night. Nodding at John, he laid down some cash and slid off his barstool.

Fingers grazed his change mark. He jumped near out of his skin, whipping around only to be knocked over by the familiar floral and citrus that he’d been looking for.

It was her.

“Shawn?”

*****

I mean like....I have to continue this, right?

(btw, his brownstone townhouse is a real place on the market for a cool $20 million rn) 

The cold wind nips at your legs as you stand outside the club.  It’s there you were waiting for your uber when you feel someone staring at you. You quickly turn thinking that it’s that damn alpha werewolf from the club following you outside but you aren't met with a body or even a sound, just a shadow of someone against the building. You try to make out a face but all you can see is a tall figure. You may not be able to see his face but you can still feel his gaze on you. Curiosity gets the best of you and you take a step in it’s direction hoping to get a better look.

 “Come on, the uber is here,” your friend Amanda calls out to you from the curb. You snap back to reality and look over at her to see she is already giving you a questioning glance. You hear a low chuckle then a quick woosh of air. You look back to where the figure once stood and see nothing. You make your way to the car and chose to think it was just some homeless guy checking you out, making it easier to dismiss. You go through the week still feeling watched now and then but every time you turn to look there is no one behind you. 

Now the weekend has come around once more and you know that you will be going out. After your three finals this week and being swamped at work you need to get out of the house. Amanda agrees saying that her alpha boyfriend Matt can get the two of you into “The Beacon”, also known as the most popular supernatural club in the city. Humans usually don't make it in but seeing as Amanda is an omega and her alpha boyfriend, Matt, is the owner of the club you get a free pass.

“Come on slow poke, we have to get there sometime tonight!” Amanda yells from the bedroom connected to the bathroom you’re currently occupying.

“Would you hang on? My lord, I'm just putting on my mascara then we can go.” When you come out of the bathroom, Amanda is laying on the bed scrolling through her phone. She looks up and you can see the biggest smile spread across her face.

“Damn! You look hot! When did you get this bad boy?” She asks referring to the flowy dark red dress you have on.

“I got it on Monday and I’ve been dying to wear it! You don't think it's too much?” you ask looking in the mirror, smoothing your hands down over the material.

“Absolutely not! Now can we goooo?” she whines, pulling at your arm.

“Yes, let's go, I need a drink,” you say as you grab your bag and lock the door behind you.

Once inside the club you head right to the bar wanting some alcohol flowing in your veins, you order two shots and quickly down them both. Turning around, you look for Amanda only to see that she and Matt are already on the dance floor acting like the animals they were deep down. You watch them for a moment, seeing how they roughly press their bodies together in a heated trance. How their mouths work together in sync before one of them moves down to the others neck and bites. You see Matt’s head fall back in pleasure and it makes you wonder what it’s like to need and want someone that badly. You sigh looking away thinking to yourself that you have got to get laid soon.

 You make your way to your favorite little purple couch in the corner of the club and take a seat, waiting to feel the drinks set in. You close your eyes and enjoy the music, feeling it  flow through the air so deeply that it shakes your bones. You feel the couch dip next to you but don't let the person take you out of the moment. That is until you feel it again. The stare that has been following you all week long. Slowly you open your eyes and look to your right to be met with a pair of bright rich brown eyes.

 “Have you been the mystery man that has been following me around all week?” you ask, deciding against the whole beating around the bush technique. 

“Now what would make you think that sweetheart?” he asks not looking away from you for a second.

You narrow your eyes at him, you take in the rest of his appearance. “ I know it’s you because I can tell when your eyes are on me. It’s like a warmth that I can feel on my skin,” you say looking him over, taking in his clearly toned body beneath his clothes. God he is tall too. Even sitting down he is at least a half a head taller than you.

 “Well if my gaze can make you feel warm, imagine what my touch can do,” he says while brushing a hand up your arm. You shudder at the sudden warmth. He was very attractive and you couldn’t say that he wasn’t turning you on. Your breathing gets unsteady as he pushes your hair back off your shoulder. Leaning in, you feel his hot breath only inches from your skin.

He presses a single kiss to your neck and you can hear him groan before dropping his head on your shoulder. You release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. He chuckles against your collarbone before pressing some open mouthed kisses up your neck. You let out a whine at the sensation and pressure...pressure? You pull away to see him smiling at you. The glisten of his white teeth obvious in the neon club lights.

“Are you a vampire?”

 “Mmm, I am,” he says and he’s leaning in again, “ and you are driving me crazy. God, your scent and your skin are just so sweet.”He noses against your neck, pressing small open mouthed kisses along your throat. 

The pressure of his fangs against your skin as he kissed you was driving you insane. It got to the point where you had to pull back and look him in the eye. You run your hand over his chest and give him a cheeky smirk. 

“You’re such a big helper, Shawnie,” you cooed, watching a rosy flush creep into his pale cheeks. “You’re so cute.”

Shawn giggled and ran a veiny hand through his chocolate brown curls.

After dinner, he had helped you load the dishwasher, cutting the task’s time in half. Now, you were lying on the couch with him sprawled out on top of you. His head was resting on your tummy, right below your breasts, and his arms were wrapped tightly around your middle. He was being more clingy than usual, a sure sign that he wanted something, but you didn’t mind. A present wouldn’t do him harm, especially after his hard work helping with the dishes.

“Can we watch Twilight now, mama?” he inquired as he gazed at you intently with his gorgeous rust-colored eyes.

“Of course, sweet boy,” you agreed, passing him the remote. “You can watch whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief as he scrolled through the channels. “Any of these?”

“Any of those,” you affirmed, watching as he selected an old, grainy western.

“You… really want to watch that?”

“Yeah,” he breathed as his eyes scanned the summary on the screen, mumbling tidbits of information under his breath. “Who’s John Wayne?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Do people die in this movie?”

“There are probably a few gun wounds involved,” you guessed, forgetting momentarily that he was a vampire. “Nothing you won’t love,” you added quickly.

“Good,” he smiled warmly, poking the corner of his tongue out between his pearly fangs.

As the movie began to play, he removed the fleece blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over the length of his body. Pulling it snugly up to his chin, he cudled into you and closed his eyes peacefully.

“Don’t you want to watch the movie, Shawnie?”

“I am watching it,” he frowned indignantly as his eyes fluttered open, his gaze falling upon your forearm.

It looked so beautiful and it was so close, he couldn’t help it. He leaned down to it and used his tongue to lick it like a kitten. The prominent veins near your wrist felt especially pleasing against his tongue. Once he was satisfied with your skin, he cocked his head to the side, preparing to sink his teeth into your forearm.

“Naughty boy,” you scolded, yanking your hand from his grip. “What are you doing?”

Shawn stared up at you with glossy puppy eyes as his chin began to tremble.

“You know better,” you continued. “It’s almost like I didn’t feed you.”

“Dinner was amazing,” Shawn commented feebly, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

“If dinner was so amazing, what are you doing?” you pressed, eyeing him coldly.

“You’re so yummy,” he whined, nuzzling his head against your neck. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You’re a big boy. You should know better.”

Shawn whimpered and looked back at the television with glossy eyes. As the movie slowly drew him back in, his lips subconciously found their way to your neck. He began sucking and gnawing at the sensitive skin until a small bruise began to form.

“Fuck, honey,” you whined, squirming under him. “Fuck off and watch the movie.”

At first, he wanted to obey you, but eventually the sight of the blood pooling under your skin was too much for him. He cupped your jaw with one hand and your neck with the other and bit into your tender skin.

“Shawn!” you exclaimed. Before thinking, you slapped his face, leaving a read hand mark on his smooth, perfect cheek.

“Ow…” He let out a soft whine as his fingers brushed the reddened skin gingerly.

“That’s what you get!” you growled, prompting him to bite his tongue nervously.

“I fed you. You shouldn’t be hungry. You’re horny aren’t you? Westerns got you all bothered? Yes?”

You took one glance at his beautiful brown puppy eyes before continuing.

“Why can’t you be horny like a normal person? Just have an orgasm and be satisfied. It’s that easy.”

“But mommy-”

“I don’t care,” you interrupted bluntly. “Do you want a taste of your own medicine?”

“N-no, mommy. I just need-”

“So fucking needy,” you griped as you grabbed his neck roughly.

One look at his face, riddled with terror, should have been enough to grant him mercy. But it wasn’t. Taking a deep breath, you latched your lips onto the most sensitive part of his neck, biting into it.

It wasn’t a sensation you enjoyed, but hearing him moan and whimper in pain was enough to keep you going. Once you were satisfied with the bite marks from one bite, you would reposition your lips to a different area.

“Does it feel good?” you questioned, teeth clenched around his skin.

“Yes, mommy,” he lied obediently, writhing his body in hopes of escaping your teeth.

“Good. So you can handle more.”

You worked your teeth further down his neck, eventually repositioning to his stomach. You took extra care to bite around his nipples. You sucked and bit mouthfuls of his skin until you became aware of the small sobs escaping his trembling body.

“Shawn,” you breathed, feeling your stomach drop. “Baby, are you okay?”

He sniffled and nodded, staring at you with respectful awe. “That felt good.”

“That couldn’t possibly feel good,” you sulked, looking down sheepishly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Kind of,” he admitted. “It hurt at first, but then it just felt good.”

“So I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, mama.”

“I didn’t teach you a lesson?”

“No, mama,” he replied, eyes twinkling mischeivously. “Can I please have your neck, though?”

“What makes you think I don’t want them to ask questions?” Shawn smiled wide enough to show his already lengthening fangs responding to the adrenaline and blood present in the room. There was no better place to feed than at a party in the presence of the king.

“Monsieur!” The Chevalier de Lorraine came up behind Philippe, tickling his sides. Ever since he’d returned from his second exile, the Chevalier and Philippe had been more and more open about their continued affair, despite Philippe’s wife dancing not ten yards from them in the ballroom. In fact, Philippe was wearing one of her heavy brocatelle gowns, much to his brother’s chagrin, and a golden mask that hid his whole face.

Shawn’s own mask was black with burgundy texture, a demon in plain sight. His jacket and culottes were black, embroidered with burgundy bats and stars. The leather sewn sleeves allowed his deep red shirt to show beneath. He was every bit a vampire, but the fools in the ballroom were too blind to see it. Especially tonight of all nights, All Hallows’ Eve.

He could see a few others here. His kind stuck out like blinding beacon amongst this crowd of flushed and greedy humans. Some were regulars in this crowd. He spotted Reynald de Chatillon, an old foe, in the corner with his ruddy beard and thirst for young ladies-in-waiting. He regarded him, nodding, receiving little more than a sneer in return. But others were new. A delicate shoulder brushed against his and a brilliant jewel caught his eye. She was cold as ice with a matching frozen glare. Her perfectly coiffed and powdered gray wig bespoke her fledgling age. The older the vampire, the more out of fashion they tended to be, and she was the epitome of fashion. Down to the smooth yellow sapphire delicately tied around her neck. He’d never seen her before, not quite a rarity, but he would be sure to ask Philippe about her later.

“Gentlemen!” Shawn clapped one hand on Philippe’s shoulder and one hand on Chevalier’s, “we feast tonight!” The two men led Shawn to the front of the room, giggling at his double entendre. Before any feasting though, the three of them had to acknowledge the king. Shawn bowed.

“Raul. So good of you to come,” the king’s lip curved up in the corner somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. Louis had never been able to stomach the truth about Shawn, even though Shawn’s money had helped make him the so-called Sun King. His disgust relegated Shawn to his brother’s company, which caused no complaint. Philippe was pleased to keep Shawn close, an addition to his band of privileged misfits.

“You know, you might be the only person my brother is more disappointed to see at these functions than me,” Philippe bumped Shawn’s shoulder as they walked away.

“Disappointed and yet he keeps you here,” Shawn reminded Philippe.

“That’s the real humor in it. To trap me under his thumb, he must gaze upon my face every day.” The duke smiled wide and curtsied, fanning out his overskirt and sticking his tongue straight out when he stood up again.

The party had been going for hours before Shawn had walked in. Generic golden masks littered the tables, some soggy from tipped champagne flutes. Chevalier seized one, licking up some stray champagne from its edge. He’d come unprepared for the occasion as he usually did, unbothered by party themes especially those hosted at Versailles. Affixing the mask to his face, he grabbed at Philippe’s hand.

“Darling! Let us dance!”

Shawn let them skitter into the center of the dance floor without him. The crowd parted  to the center as it always did. Philippe was still the king’s brother and that afforded him privileges no matter what others thought of his choice of lovers. The two of them were so caught up in each other that the opinion of others didn’t matter.

Shawn kept to the perimeter, preferring to stalk the room. He caught eyes here and there. He could smell their responses to him before he saw them. A girl no more than eighteen flushed immediately when his eyes met hers, her giggle betraying her girlish immaturity. He turned from her, hearing her little sigh of disappointment, before his eyes stopped and lingered at someone else.

He was feeling aggressive tonight. Though his body was devoid of blood, the chemicals that had once made him human still coursed through his muscles. They made him strong and virile and, more than anything, an animal. He needed to chase tonight, to delight in the thrill of catching his prey.

He turned his nose toward the breeze in the room and let it guide him, taking quick sniffs, trying to cut through the smell of champagne and red wine. Closing his eyes to strengthen his other senses, he caught a whiff of cinnamon and turned his head. He honed in on the spice of it, the touch of bergamot that thickened the blood. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t stop himself from gasping.

It was a man. A young man dressed in uniform with a navy blue mask, peacock feathers sprouting from the temples. The gold of his buttons glimmered in the candlelight, his jacket settled against a defined chest untouched by war. His turquoise and gold eyes contrasted starkly with the black eye kohl that ringed them, eyes that kept darting to and from Shawn’s face. Shawn stared, moving toward him slowly. Even though the room was filled with music and dancing and the dim hum of a thousand voices, he knew that his feet made no noise.  

The hunt had begun.

“Do you know,” Shawn reached out his hand and fingered the delicate feathers, “that these are the same color as your eyes?”

“Enchanté to you too, Monsieur Mendès. Or should I call you Shawn?” He emphasized the name with a curl in his lip.

“You know me?” Shawn’s eyes widened in surprise. In this court he’d only ever been known as Raul Mendès, the French rendering of one of his Christian names.

“If by know you, you mean do I know the truth of what people say about you?” he bowed low, his outstretched hand brushing Shawn’s shoes. “Then yes, I know you quite well.” When he reached his full height again, he had removed his mask and revealed his flushed pink cheeks. Shawn could see the blood rushing wildly with his quickly beating heart just under the skin. His mouth watered despite the panic rising in his throat.

“Well, well, and who are you, monsieur?” Shawn dipped his head, filled with nerves he’d never show. If he had a pulse right now, if would be racing. Thank God he hadn’t fed in over a month. A vampire’s name was a closely guarded secret, known only to familiars, especially a former name.

“I am Lucien de Foix, a captain in the king’s army,” he stuck out his hand for Shawn to shake. Shawn took it hesitantly, a creeping unsteadiness overtaking him. How does he know my name? He kept a grip on Lucien’s hand, squeezing a little harder than he normally would, squeezing until he could see the sweat forming on the young captain’s head. Lucien’s brow creased, his mouth opening as if he might cry out, but as he looked past Shawn something caught his eye and to Shawn’s horror, he smiled.

“There, there, Shawn,” a cold hand, accompanied by a female voice, ran down his back and caused him to shiver. “Fear not, we are the only ones here who know your secret.”

It was the young fledgling vampire with the powdered wig. Her skin, unlike the white painted faces in the room, was naturally pale as blank china, marred only by a pair of starkly painted black eyebrows and two round circles of blush. She pursed her lips, tinted crimson as if she’d recently fed and left the stain. She circled Shawn, stopping in front of him and linking her arm with Lucien’s. Shawn turned his hand, exposing Lucien’s wrist and the livid, purple pinpoint marks left by repeated feedings. He should have fucking known.

“So,” he squeezed his hand again, enough to feel the bones grind together, “you’re a blood slave.” The fledgling hissed at him, whether it was at sensing her toy’s pain or at his implication, he didn’t know. If he hadn’t been in a ballroom full of people, he might have snapped both their necks without consequence or remorse. As it was, he had to play nice.

“He is my husband,” she cooed into Lucien’s neck, her tongue darting out to trace the bulging vein running from his collar to his well-defined jaw.

“A tasty one at that, I presume,” Shawn smirked at her. He knew this game. Vampires developed a taste for certain humans, enthralling them, keeping them as pets. She may have convinced him that he meant something to her, something more permanent, but one day she would move on. He would not. He would likely descend into madness, looking for her or for his next pleasure fix, but no vampire would touch him after that. He would be persona non grata, tainted and tossed aside.

“Very,” she purred, “can I interest you in a taste?”

“That depends,” Shawn hated that his mouth was still watering, still craving the spice that his blood promised, “who are you and what do you want from me?”

“I,” she held her hand out for him to kiss in a deep curtsy, “am Madame de Montpensier, enchanté.” Her wig was fixed with several small doves, matching the embroidery on her silver and white gown. Even at her most bowed, the wig still reached clear over Shawn’s head. This vampire wanted to be seen.

“And I would like you to introduce me to your friends.” She nodded toward the two men still at the center of attention on the dance floor.

“To Philippe?” Shawn tipped his head and laughed, “Philippe has little time or regard for women. I doubt you’d gain any ground on that front.”

“Oh, it is not pour moi,” she nodded at Lucien and he advanced toward Shawn, his heart kicking up speed. Shawn’s fangs grew to full length. They ached to sink into his beautiful tan skin. God, it was as if she knew he hadn’t been feeding, knew his habits and preferences. His weakness for young men with ambition and a false sense of power. It was as if this Lucien had been groomed for this.

The pieces finally clicked. His eyes darkened and his voice lowered to a whisper through his teeth.

“Tell me, Madame, has Reynald fallen so far out of favor that he sends his young fledgling to do his bidding?” Fucking Reynald. This was low, even for a leech like Reynald. His claws were always in some king’s coattails. It was the only way to keep up with his ravenous appetite for blood and power.

“Reynald does not need you! He is just as powerful as he always was!” She seethed, tilting her head toward Lucien again. He draped himself in front of Shawn, practically offering himself for the taking. Shawn could feel his body stirring. He wanted this man, wanted to rip into his veins and drink until he couldn’t anymore, until his whole body was hot and flushed with the young captain’s blood. Until his heart beat again and the memories surged behind his eyelids.

“Reynald needs me plenty or you wouldn’t be here,” Shawn spat, locking eyes with Lucien, a hair’s breadth away from taking him right then and there. He dipped his head to Lucien’s ear, licking the outer shell and relishing the feel of his body shivering beneath him.

He could see his ministrations were having an effect on her. Her fangs were lengthening. Shawn could smell her arousal, the blood and adrenaline a trap for one so young as she was. She couldn’t have been more than fifty years dead, frozen forever in her twenty-year-old body. She was thirsty. All the time. That feeling, the clawing beast inside her skin that could never be sated, the endless need for blood in the first century of her new life would be almost unbearable.

He took Lucien’s earlobe between his teeth, grazing, but not breaking the skin before he whispered.

“Run.”

Lucien shot from Shawn’s arms, past his mistress and toward the enormous French doors that led to the outdoor terrace. Shawn was so attuned to him now, so caught up in the chase that he could hear Lucien’s booted footfalls on the delicately manicured grass over the din of the crowded room. He stood in front of Madame de Montpensier and waited.

“Thank you for the gift, you’re more than welcome to join me,” he heard his prey stumble on the gravel path near the great fountain in the garden, “but you can tell Reynald that it will take more than a beautiful boy and a game of blackmail to get me to do his bidding.” He brushed past her, too concentrated on the blood waiting for him in the garden to hear her cry of indignance.

Exiting the ballroom to the terrace, he crouched down and laid his palm against the chilly stone. He could hear Lucien breathing hard. He was running. His footfalls vibrated against the stone from the treeline, slower and slower until he stopped to catch his breath. Shawn smiled, finding his opportunity.

He sprinted, almost faster than a human eye could track, his vampire speed in the dark rendering him practically invisible. His feet barely touched the ground, silently making his way closer and closer toward Lucien’s gasping breaths. He stopped behind a tree, looking past it. Lucien was doubled over, his cheeks flushed with exhilaration, sucking cold air into his lungs and huffing out little clouds with every exhale. Shawn snapped a fallen twig under his heel on purpose.

“Who’s there?!” Lucien’s head snapped up.

“There, there, monsieur,” Shawn cooed, using his softest voice to soothe, “you knew it was me.” He smiled wide, his fangs extending past his lower lip, as if they might cut into his own skin. Stalking silently, he moved closer, taking measured, slow steps to put Lucien at ease. The blood tasted so much sweeter when it wasn’t tainted with fear.

“You won’t hurt me? Madame never makes it hurt.”

“I make no promises.” Shawn stopped just in front of him, dragging a cold finger down in his pink cheek. His skin was on fire despite the chill in the air. The warmth of his blood sang a rich melody that only Shawn could hear. It was intoxicating. He bent down to Lucien’s mouth, where the smell of him was strongest.

“Can I kiss you?” Shawn asked, an honest question. He prefered intimacy with his prey. He wanted them to feel the truth of his desire, wanted them to know that without them, he was nothing. As powerful as he was as a vampire, he was nothing without their blood. He wanted them to want it.

Lucien nodded his head, a crease between his eyes as if he was surprised he felt agreeable to it. Shawn grinned. Men were always surprised at how far they were willing to go to gain Shawn’s approval.

Shawn pressed his lips to Lucien’s and gasped into his mouth. It was simple, two lips pressed together, but it was heady with that natural spice that men always seemed to have. The power they sacrificed to be fed upon, the beautiful surrender of delicate ego. It was everything that he loved about being a vampire captured in a moment of pure submission. He pulled away light-headed, his eyes black with hunger.

Shawn’s cold fingers found Lucien’s neck, tipping it to the side, exposing that deep, pulsing vein that he could see beating a quick rhythm full of blood, even in the low light. He cradled his head and ran his tongue along the sinews, the muscles that would become his chalice. Lucien shivered, gasping a hot breath against Shawn’s cold skin, filling Shawn’s nose with that warm spice that he’d smelled on the air inside.

His fangs broke skin.

Lucien cried out. In pleasure or pain, Shawn didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he knew was the taste of the warm, viscous liquid pouring from Lucien’s neck. Cinnamon, citrus, smoke. Each note bloomed behind his closed eyes in brilliant jewel tones. Rubies, emeralds, and amethysts swirled like a kaleidoscope.

Shawn felt Lucien’s fingers curl into his hair and push his neck farther into Shawn’s mouth, forcing Shawn to pull even more of his precious blood. It overflowed, dripping in rivulets from Shawn’s mouth. There would be stains, evidence of what had happened, but Shawn didn’t care. He was lost in this man. For a split second, he understood why Montpensier had taken him as a slave. Regular encounters with these veins would surely drive him mad.

The kaleidoscope swam as it always did into images, the moments from his past that he hid from between feedings. The list he kept of the humans he’d fed on turned into faces, one by one swimming into his mind. Memories of blood, of battle, of humanity. His heart was coming alive again, beating strong with Lucien’s blood, stronger than Lucien’s own heart.

He pulled away panting. Lucien’s head lulled, still alive but incoherent. Shawn laid him gently on the cold ground and backed away, controlling the temptation to take all that Lucien would give him, all that he had to give. Leaning heavily on a massive old oak, Shawn’s mind swam. His old life, his old humanity was coming back to him on a tidal wave, slamming him over and over into the bark against his back. Poitiers, Agincourt, Bosworth, Paris, Bologne. So much death and blood and iron, battles between kings and men, all dead and buried, turned to dust.

The final wave of memories was always the same hazy image. A fire burning in the hearth of the home he’d built with his own hands, a woman and child in a chair before it. He walks up behind her, touching her shoulder, and she looks back smiling. The child suckling at her breast, warm and pink, fixes him with a blue-eyed stare. It was everything he’d ever wanted.

And it was taken from him.

His chest rose and fell. The compelling need to breathe to keep up with his newly beating heart overwhelmed him. He always felt most human in the seconds just after the feed. Though blood coated his chin and ran down to his now ruined shirt, his senses were dulled to that of a living thing. He couldn’t hear past the beating of his own heart, couldn’t taste past the life he’d consumed. He was vulnerable and she knew it.

Madame de Montpensier had been watching. She came out from behind the tree where she’d been hiding, smiling wide, fangs grown to their full length. Closing the gap between them quickly, she planted her hands above Shawn’s shoulders, her fingers playing with the loose curls at his neck.

“Isn’t he lovely?” She cooed, looking back at her pet lying on the ground.

“He is,” Shawn licked his lips, turning her head with his fingers to look him in the eye, “‘tis a dangerous game you play with Reynald. You would do well to not cross me again.”

“Reynald is gone,” she whispered, “and besides, I’m not sure he interests me anymore.” She set him with a look, a look that shouted his needs and greatest desires into existence. If he wanted her, he only needed to reach out and take.

“Oh, does he not? Madame, I know you are young,” he rested his forehead against hers, his earlier anger eroding by the second, “but you will find disavowing your sire more difficult than you think.”

“That may be,” she lifted up onto her tip-toes, reaching her tongue out to lap up some of Lucien’s still warm blood from Shawn’s chin, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while I try.” She ran her hand down his chest to where the blood he’d taken from Lucien was rapidly pooling in his groin.

He growled, taking her hand and moving to drag her off to the nearest bedroom. She dug in her heels to stop him, looking back at Lucien still passed out.

“Leave him,” Shawn barked, “perhaps it will teach him not to dally with vampires.”

In a moment, they were back in Shawn’s rooms, a trail of shredded clothing on the floor from the door to the bed. She moved to remove her choker but he stopped her.

“Leave it on,” he snarled, rolling his hose down and removing the last of his ripped and bloody shirt. She moved her hands away from her throat and sat back on the bed, leaning back on her hands. She spread her legs in an open invitation.

She was fucking beautiful. Her skin glowed in the half-burned candles sitting on every surface, smooth and unmarred by age or sickness. He couldn’t stop himself from groaning. It had been some time since he’d been with a woman. Too long. He approached her slowly, bending down to crawl on his knees to her.

He covered her body with his, taking in her clean scent suffused with Lucien’s. They were both warm, hearts beating together with the same blood. She curled her legs around his thighs.

“I want you inside me.” She purred in his ear.

All he’d needed was permission. He drove his hips into hers, pumping deep into her warm cunt. She cried out, arching her back and clamping her arms into his wrists. Her nails dug into his skin, drawing blood. Hissing, he pulled back and lifted onto his knees. She laughed, licking each of her crimson stained fingers.

“Come on, Shawn. Give me everything you’ve got.”

He roared. Grabbing her hips, he pulled almost all the way out of her warmth and then tugged her back onto him. Their skin met in a deliciously wet slap and echoed off the ornate walls. It was intense. He felt her clench around him, deep inside, all the way through his repeated strokes. He rowed into her over and over and over again until the delicate doves placed in her wig flew off the bed, cracking loudly against the floor. She held tight to the bedpost behind her, her strength creating resistance for him to fuck harder into.

He wasn’t going to last much longer like this, but he needed her there with him. To fall off the cliff and into the ocean of Lucien’s blood that they shared. He wrapped his arm around her middle, hauling her up to his chest and slamming them both backward against the headboard, still fucking his hips up into hers.

Her eyes were black, her mouth open in silent pleasure. He wanted to hear her scream.

Shawn ducked his head to her chest, placing open mouthed kisses along her breast bone. Her red-flushed nipples called to him, grazing his chest with every thrust.

“Come with me.”

He sank his fangs into her breast, suckling on her perfect diamond-hard peaks. Blood rushed again into his mouth, filling him with that spicy, citrusy blood he’d lost himself in earlier. It mixed with florals, oleander and magnolia, inside her body and he came hard with the mix of masculine and feminine.

“Shawn!” she cried, bearing down on him harder than ever, riding her own orgasm into the wall behind her. They rocked back and forth together. Shawn fucked his hips up into hers as she held his head to her chest. Her memories came to him, blooming in front of him as strong as her shaking body in his arms.

There were not many of them; as he had suspected, she was not old. He saw her as a young woman, a human, hand in hand with a child, a daughter, with bouncy, loose blond curls. He saw her dressed all in black, saw Reynald finding her on her knees beside a child’s mausoleum. He promised he could take her pain away.

Reynald lied.

He let go of her breast, breathless for the second time that night. She heaved against him, clawing at his face, pulling him to her lips. Blood poured into her mouth and they both moaned, her memories and his mixing. New and old, predator and prey, lovers.

They collapsed onto the blood stained sheets. Shawn held his arms open and she crawled into them quietly, fingering the bit of chest hair that had grown before he had left his humanity behind. She knew what he’d seen. When vampires fed from each other, the memories flashed in both their minds.

“Reynald made false promises because he wanted you,” he whispered, tracing patterns on her bare skin, “he is nothing but a liar.”

“Will I ever forget her?” she asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it from someone she knew would tell her the truth.

“No,” he kissed her forehead, “she will come to you every time you feed, just like I see my wife and child even now more than three hundred years since their passing.”

“Teach me,” she pleaded, the hazel of her human eyes bright after feeding, “teach me how to live with the pain.”

“Shhhh,” he smoothed her hair, “let us sleep.” He draped the heavy blankets over them and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Nothing could dare hurt you here.”

+

“Shawn?” John clinked his glass with an empty beer bottle, “I think someone is watching you.” He nodded to a far corner, beyond the sea of human and vampire heads now dancing idiotically to “Monster Mash.” The figure moved with inhuman speed through the crowd.

He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing a ghost.

How in the —

“Oh, don’t look so shocked to see me, Shawn,” she lifted her black leather covered leg over his, “All Hallows Eve always was our time.” Her lips, always painted red, lifted back over her cartoonishly long fake fangs.

“Hélène, what are you doing here?”

“Don’t you mean, Hélène, how did you escape when I left you for dead?” She narrowed her eyes to slits, her long chandelier earrings tinkling under her blunt-cut black bob haircut.

“It was 1792, Ellie. You wouldn’t leave France. You made your choice.”

“It was my home!”

John made a clicking noise, “vampire disputes go outside.”

“There’s no need, John. She was just going,” Shawn glared at her. “We have no dealings. If you are only interested in blaming me for what I could not change, then we have nothing to discuss.”

She slammed her hand down on the bar, leaving a wax-sealed envelope in front of him. An ornate, crimson R was pressed into the black wax.

“Reynald requests your presence.”

“You went back to him?” Shawn shook his head, a humorless grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, “after all that time?”

“Yeah, well he didn’t abandon me.” She picked up her leg and turned to leave, giving his curls a tug at the last second. He caught her hand and pulled it to his lips. She was warm, recently fed. He had always loved her skin in the days after a feeding, curling into her warmth every night in bed. They fed and fucked and drank and danced for a century and she still went back to him.

“I never meant for that to happen.” He wasn’t sure what he had meant to happen all those years ago when he left her, the peasants breaking windows and setting fires a few blocks from their Paris apartment, but he sure as hell didn’t mean for her to go to him.

“We never mean for bad things to happen, but it’s like you said that first night. I don’t know why I ever thought I could disavow him.” She wiped at the corner of her eye, ripping her hand from his and hurrying away from the bar.

Shawn ripped open the note she’d left.

Dear Shawn Peter Raul Mendes,

Did I get all of your names in? I do love knowing them all.

Isn’t she lovely? Thank you for taking her in all those years ago. She was too headstrong, too willing to leave. I love her now. My beautiful broken pony. She begged for my forgiveness. I gave it to her. It took awhile. Fifty years in an abandoned well. That was how long it took to get your stink off of her.

I do hope you’ll come see us. I’m sure you remember where to find me.

Best wishes,

  Reynald

Shawn crumpled up the old piece of paper and lobbed it into the fire near the stairs to the street. White, hot anger courses through him. He needed to leave before he took and fed on the first thing that fell into his arms, unsure if he could feed without draining. He needed to find Hélène. He needed to find Reynald.

I’m going to kill that bastard once and for all.