Claret: A Whiter Shade of Pale

     In the depths of my shadowed life, I hold the darkness dear. Cocooned in a tiny, fragile world, I am as much at its mercy as it is at mine. And yet the dark is where past shadows may lie. Where they may bide their time until they’ve grown large enough to consume every guilt-ridden part of me and thrust me into the scalding light.

1. Underground & Out of Sight

     Something catches my eye in the shrouded subbasement corner; movement that I track carefully with the sharpness of my senses. Everything I can control stills—though I feel that certain rapping beat beneath my ribs—my eyes keenly trained on the void. They flit through the opaque alcove, between the bricked archway that partitions off the bar from the scene of spraying sweat and blossoming contusions. I focus on nothing but the hammering in my chest; that dark corner and what it conceals until—

     “November!” Angel’s voice cuts through my mind while his hulking body blocks my view.

     The bell clangs beside the roped ring and the men within barrel toward each other, fists thrown, feet shuffling.

     I feel the air fill my dormant lungs once more whilst snapping my eyes up to Angel’s. They’re rounded out like heated coals at my lack of focus.

     “I said it looks sketchy. Watch him dropping his shoulder. You think they’re throwin’ it?” he asks in his Creole accent with an edge of concern.

     My closest confidante and business partner narrows his eyes at me, the russet in them too shaded at our table for me to see anything but his frustration, then turns his head to where I’d just been looking as I clear my throat to draw his attention back.

     “I’m keeping watch,” I assure him, tucking a stray ashen lock behind my ear. “If they throw it, I’ll know and we’ll deal with it.”

     It’s half-eleven in Québec; a late fight and one I’d had no interest in attending, though for me, it is rather early—not quite suppertime.

     A fighter in the ring narrowly avoids getting hit and I start to truly absorb my surroundings, questioning what Angel is seeing. Someone losing a fight intentionally and clients catching on could fuck up our scene. We’d have to refund some bets we’ve taken and maybe answer questions, though we’ve never been involved in cheating of any kind before.

     A flash of bare knuckles under the glow of an opulent chandelier sifts through my memory. Bare knuckles and the shouts of men with oiled-back hair in starched white-tie. The Monte Carlo scene is a life—and a death—behind me, but I can still taste the way things were, all coupe glasses and silk gloves. Though the softness of silk gloves, it very much was not. For every perfectly rounded pearl that lay on the neck of a spectator, there was a secret of empty pocket books and washed up corpses repaying debts on the beach.

     Life as a high-end bookie here and now, however, does not come with the grand façade it once did. This, I must woefully admit, is not the French Riviera of my early adulthood—the last of my human years—but the less enchanting underbelly of French Canada. The grit and smoke of a dungeon-esque subbasement in the old Grégoire building. Marred floors and worn leather furniture. Pockets of murky dimness in staunch opposition to the harsh industrial pendant lights.

     The most elegant thing in the whole of the Québec Fight Club is, without question, me.

     With intention, I retain the perfect look of an Edwardian-Belle Époque gentleman, as once I was. Franco-Anglaise in every respect, though in the twenty-first century, I may appear more like the spokesmodel of a Burberry campaign.

     Angel juts his elbow against the perfectly tailored side seam of my herringbone waistcoat and makes a grumbling noise. “This ain’t right.” His lips purse hard together while he carefully surveys the room. “And it’s too damn obvious.”

     Keeping books at an underground fight club means maintaining a low profile for the most part. I’m quiet and sure of myself, as always. I’m in and out and keep to our table in the corner, though I’ve been on hiatus for some months now with Angel at the helm in my stead. This underground world works for how I’ve crafted and choreographed my life. It works for who I am. For what I am. Never the social butterfly before or after my change, though even less so now. I’ve practically gone through reverse metamorphosis, opting instead for the safety of my cocoon.

     But I worry the club has grown too large with too many patrons I cannot trust. And now this. A thrown fight. Eyes prying. Whispers questioning who might have paid the kid in the ring enough to upend his streak. It could have been anyone, of course, and the speculations will run the gamut. Someone who placed a very large bet on the opponent’s win, for certain. But the real question is: did we take that bet?

     I tug my small book out from my jacket’s inner pocket and scan the pages. They’re all large bets when it comes to the QFC, naturally, so there’s no surprise that nothing sticks out. It may be gritty in this underground world, but there’s a massive amount of money exchanging hands. And knowing that, alone, could make the culprit that much harder to sniff out.

     “Have you an idea of the mastermind behind it?” I ask Angel, keeping my eyes trained on the fight and far from the stirring shadows that pull at my focus for some reason on this night.

     A bone-splitting jaw hit drops the suspicious fighter to a hunch and he starts to sway. His win-loss record is too solid to be taking a hit so squarely in the face. I turn subtly toward Angel and raise one brow. Not enough to draw attention, but to show that I’m seeing what he’s seeing.

     On the other side of the ring, whispers spread. I can hear them. Every soft utterance perfectly plain to my ears like it’s being spoken straight to me. One guy grumbles his much louder protest that gets lost in the muddle of sounds, but again, is quite clear to the keenness of my ears. They’re seeing it, the people who will surely lose a lot of money and come for those who colluded in the scheme.

     The fights are real-deal events here, regardless of how hidden and secretive the club is. The QFC has operated in numerous capacities for longer than I’ve existed, alive or otherwise. There are council members and various office holders from all over who attend and keep things hush-hush. After all, it may be illegal, but it’s not as if these are fights to the death. People get roughed up a lot, but there are real champion fighters here. The stakes are high.

     And because the stakes are as high as they are, with clients placing weekly bets that would make the average person retch, the concept of a fight being thrown could land the entire club in hot water.

     And that is something I truly cannot have.

     “Qu'est-ce que c'est que cette merde?”

     An irate client who is nearly always irate slams his hand on our table, demanding answers. Angel prefers doing business with M. Gagnon’s liaison, but for some masochistic reason, I enjoy watching the vein throb in his forehead when he’s spitting mad. It’s a treat after these long months away from the club, contemplating my very existence in the confinement of my tiny world.

     “Que veux-tu dire?” I ask what he means in the most even voice possible and the vein lifts as his eyes bulge.

     I’m calm as always while he shakes his head in my direction. No one ever considers that Angel isn’t the muscle in our operation until they really deal with me. He’s a mass of a man, after all. And beyond my height, I’m rather thin and far too polished for them to assume I get my hands dirty.

     Until I do.

     “Calmez-vous,” Angel warns, jaw tight and eyes narrowed at M. Gagnon.

     He squares his shoulders while I keep my relaxed posture beside him. There’s no other way to handle the situation until we can glean who created it in the first place. Across the ring, people stand. The fighter has taken another blow to the chin and a spray of blood stains the mat below. I suck in a breath at the sight of the growing puddle, fed by the dripping open wound.

     It’s been nigh on a fortnight since I’ve truly eaten, though it’s rare I struggle around blood these days.

     “I want mon money back, tout de suite!” The voice beside me grows louder and a few people turn to look at our table.

     “This’s gettin’ bad, November.”

     Angry fingers clasp tightly around the vicuña wool sheathing my arm and Angel stands. I eye the fingers that I’d easily snap with one subtle movement, then make to reach for them just as someone beside us tips a table. Glassware scatters and I’m unhanded while Angel bodies M. Gagnon away from our table.

     Across the ring, behind me, in every corner of the dank subbasement, people are starting to shout. The fight continues on, but everyone knows it won’t be long. Bulbous swells of flesh cover the framework of the prize fighter’s face. His cheekbones are round and purple. His chin is fat with fluid. The fight could have gone either way, which is why the two men in the ring were pitted against one another.

     But not like this.

     Another blow lands across his face, he takes it without the hint of a dodge, and I jump to my feet. The ripple of anger in the club is spreading, heightening. I peer out over the mob for something to put an end to this. For someone to do anything at all.

     “They need to get Gary in here,” Angel says, following my eyes across the smoke plumes rising in the room. The bar crowd has meandered over to gawp at the brewing mess. Too many people here.

     “I’m surprised he’s not already here and handling it,” I answer, surveying the mass strangers around me with apprehension. It’s possible nobody’s thought to go up and get the man who organizes the QFC, though. Anger begets irrationality.

     Low music from the bar drifts through the archways to the main club while the hammering in my chest quickens. It tries its best to cut through the cacophony of enraged spectators. Vivaldi. Befitting for the scene that’s now set me on edge. I do not need a mess like this in my quiet life. 

     Strings resonate through the dungeon in their vibrato, and I carefully step away from our table.

     “Monsieur Claret!” a voice calls out.

     I still and turn, while at the very same time I hear, between the layers of chaos, the heavy thud of a body hitting the mats. The fighter has taken his final blow, and the ten-count starts, bellowing over the cries of protest.

     Fuck.

     Sounds stir from every corner, fighting for triumph, climbing to reach the surface of what is now a drowning, oppressive level of noise. There’s no air in this paltry space for anything to breathe and now the restless crowd is turning its anger in on itself.

     The club is unrecognizable—the space in which I’ve kept my business cloaked and quiet—and now I feel its mayhem acutely as it strikes upon the rigid shield I’ve worn for all these years.

     This is noise I do not need. Eyes I do not need.

     This is disorder I cannot afford.

     “I don’t see Gary any fucking where!” Angel shouts after weaving through the mess and back again. Somehow, I barely hear it. Barely hear the robust sound of Angel’s voice to which I am accustomed.

     Instead, the amplified sound of my own heartbeat drowns my mind as I remember a time when noise and disorder threatened to ruin me.

     He let her body fall limp in his arms before discarding her at his feet. There in the alley where he’d fed from her so violently; so viciously. He hadn’t even wiped his mouth clean before smiling up at me and telling me to come home with him. Passersby shouted then, spotting her bloodied flesh, her motionless frame. The noise of horror rose; the calls for help; the harsh sirens that seemed to follow where we’d fled.

     My senses are suddenly being cooked into a frenzy while everything around me brings me back to the fear of that day.

     A few tables over, two men furiously grip each other’s suits. Their voices boil in rage up through their throats.

     Sirens stir in the street and my heart thunders. Each body—each headline—is another thing that could bring them here.

     Waves of angry blood pump through the crowd.

     She’s dead! Those men; him! Stop him!

     Empty bottles clink atop metal tables. Refs blow whistles that pierce at my eardrums. The tiny hairs on my neck stand up.

     A rosined bow slides over the strings of a violin, eliciting a haunting hum from the bar speakers. The sound lifts above all others for what appears to be only my ears. I attempt to swallow down my rising fear and follow it cautiously—the noise that eases me a touch amidst the chaos in my heart and head—measuring my steps, my eyes returned to the transfixion of the shadowed corner. The feeling of a presence washes over me once more and I nearly follow my instinct to retreat. But instead, I float closer, a cable car tied to its destination, locked into its track with nowhere else to go, no choice to make.

     It’s not the first time I’ve felt them—the watchful eyes.

     And yet, just as quickly as I was ensnared, I’m torn away.

     The measured ticking in my chest changes its pace, a symphony of its own.

My attention is severed from the shadows. So sudden, so abrupt and jolting, this change, I haven’t even time to feel the hold on my body before I’m lifting my chin and parting the smoke before me.

     Something new—some foreign and unequivocally profound thing—has hit me square in my chest to redirect my body, my being. My cable car is derailed, careening toward yet another presence, and I must know why.

2. A Swift Seduction

     It is perhaps the first time in my life and the years I’ve existed afterward that I’ve been so consumed by that which I have yet to lay eyes on.

     A scent, akin to a cup of Earl Grey, comes to me, straight to my nose. It envelops my senses—a muddling of bergamot with the richness of a black tea…creamy calendula…the essence of blue cornflower. Mmmm and just a touch of rose balm on the lips of…

     Of a woman.

     I swallow and something tightens in my gut.

     Through the curtains of sweet Fuente smoke is a woman. This creature. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she were levitating in the bar, but it may very well be me, swept up and drawn toward her, parting the sea of milling bodies that face the opposite direction.

     There's something altogether heady about it—the rose and tea lingering so close to me. The way it seems to sift through the air and fight the smoke and sweat and anger like it wants to find and breach the senses of its hostage. My senses.

     And there’s something familiar about it all as well. Familiar, yet far away. Something of a good memory, perhaps. Tea and warmth and budding roses in the summer sun.

     There’s a harsh thrumming in me the moment she starts to speak. Her hand holds a tray, her fingers grasping for bits of broken glass where they trail across a high-top table and onto the floor. I listen to the syrupy tones that emit from her mouth. She’s waiting tables and frustrated by the mess that seems to grow while the audience fumes and fights.

     “…not what I expected,” she mutters under her breath.

     “I’m sorry, Gwenyth,” another server answers, assuring her this has never happened before.

     Gwenyth.

     She answers back with a dulcet, enrapturing tone—kindness in that it’s not the server’s fault—and I am bewitched by her voice. She is not Québécois, but I cannot quite place her accent in my current state.

     Gwenyth. I search through the archives of my mind for its meaning. Blessed, happy…fair. And fair you are. So fair of skin—the ghostly flesh of her frame, the pale points at the tops of her bare shoulders, dappled in the tiniest wash of pink from the briskness of her movements as she swipes empty glasses from the tables.

     I’ve only seen the back of her—the sway of soft waves that fall between her shoulder blades, the stubborn way in which she persists as she scrubs at the top of a table—and yet I know that every fraction of her will continue to ensnare me whilst I let it draw me closer.

     The space between us is shrinking.

     What are you? A ghost from my past?

     I form words of wonder while the haze that reminds me of a bygone era grabs hold of me with imprisoning intentions. Success, if I’ve ever felt it. I am captive. I am in her cage. And I must allow whatever she is, whoever she is, to keep me under lock and key so I might never forget the most spellbinding aroma I have ever known.

     “Monsieur Claret! You must answer about le combats!”

     The madness of the club is so removed from my mind, it’s like it never existed. Like I was never at fight night at all. I struggle to turn my head from this creature in the bar. She is tempting to me in ways I cannot rightly fathom. My tongue is slick with intoxication, stupefied, glazing over in its immediate need to taste this new, transfixing nectar.

     Taste? No. I do not want to taste you like that.

     Or do I? My body’s primal reaction is alarming, to be sure. The night, in its entirety, is alarming beyond my understanding. Never a hair out of place, and yet now…

     It is in the moment I begin to question the urge within me that a man slides up beside the captivating Gwenyth and I see a bit of her face as he cuffs his thick fingers around her upper arm. A wave of concern laced heavily with an unexpected anger falls over me. The man tugs her to a corner in which all sound is muffled from my prying ears. She cowers from him a touch, his face too close to hers, his fingers tensed and sinking deeply into her skin.

     I make to approach them, to stop the interaction that is now causing the vicious tips of my teeth to descend, when somewhere behind me comes another loud crash. A body has taken out a table and a thick and compelling substance spills from the temple of a client who now stumbles toward me.

     I’ve turned to watch the scene, reluctantly breaking my attentions—my intentions—and cutting through my anger, whilst Angel addresses the high roller who called to me in his broken English.

     Gwenyth has shaken the aggressive man from her and now drifts farther from where I stand, this much I know by the way in which her scent dissipates. It’s masked by the putrefying fragrance of blood that courses down the injured client’s cheek. Never have I wanted to be removed from the presence of blood until now, in this very moment where temptation of one kind may best another.

     This monstrous thing within my chest—which I do well to ignore most days—strikes its metronomic pace as I’m pulled both here and there. She’s made me want for something. Anything. Something to satisfy. Something to please. And now, to protect. Protect? This stranger to me—whose arm was imprisoned by a man I’d happily break to pieces for his handling of her, a feeling I do not understand, but which rages within me.

     My eyes trace the trails of blood down the client’s face, waiting for the heavy droplets to coat the concrete floor. Ripe, infuriating droplets I want nothing to do with.

     It’s been too long; that’s all. You need to eat.

     And perhaps it has. Perhaps I do. I could quell this odd craving and snuff out the desire overtaking me.

     I make connection with Angel’s eyes from across the room. They’re larger than before, gaping at me. And that’s when I feel it. The change to my face I am certain he’s seen. The ghostly hollows I know encompass my eyes. Plum shadows affixed to my lower lids that amplify the sharpness of my cheekbones.

     He sees that I am overcome. That I am struggling.

     I swallow a rising breath and keep my jaw clenched together while the peaks of my cuspids push from their sheaths.

     “Go!” he shouts through the throng. Angel has known for the entirety of our friendship exactly what I am. And what I need in times like these.

     Another cloud settles over me as I turn for the freight lifts. Black tea heaven soaked in a bucket of uninvited, watery blood.

     Time seems to be rocketing forward, rivaling my own speed. Security has pulled apart the fighting men, the harsh overhead lights are on, and a rush of staff cleans the glass and mops up the ruddy mess from the floor. The metal gate closes ahead of me, then the doors, and the scent which drenched my senses dissipates further. It floats away from me, enclosed within the lift, rising through the subfloors and reaching street level.

     The woman. Gwenyth. She’s leaving.

     Something compels me to weave through the throng of people blocking the exit and take the next lift up. It’s the hunger, I tell myself when the doors open and I’m pushing out into the street. The darkened narrows beside the club steeped in her aroma. It’s just that I’m hungry. I need to be more on top of my feeding, that’s all.

     You’ll find someone to feed from and be done with this.

     I ignore this thought and find her at an intersection, waiting for the lights to change. At this time of night there is nearly no traffic, but she’s cautious. She’s careful. That tells me something about her.

     It seems she’s headed in the direction I, too, need to go. I cross behind her, keeping a dozen feet between us, then slowly trail in her wake whilst she navigates the largest streets of Québec.

     I’d have taken these streets home, regardless, I tell myself.

     But not at this pace.

     Usually I would dash right through the alleys and meandering lanes to find my next meal before returning to my flat. Zip past the pubs and nab a drunken straggler to cosy up to until I drink my fill. But tonight I walk leisurely, appearing human, casual.

     I push my thoughts of shadows and fights and feeding deep into the recesses of my mind while the swirls of Gwenyth’s floral bliss consume me. We pass along the roads with more modern architecture. The ones framed by buildings of the current era that tell me I am far from the early-twentieth century and my human life.

     Sharp corners and metal, concrete and oppressive squares. They’re usually a blur to me, though now, with my sights on something so lovely, the contrast reminds me of my distaste of them. Of this new part of the city. This is why I keep to the old city—the one much older than me. Old Québec is my true stomping grounds now.

     It’s like a strange little fortress to me, OQ, or it has been for some time. It feels a bit more like home, though. More like the Paris of my youth, long before we made our way to London, then back across the water to settle in Monaco. In the days when I could take in the elegance of each building lit by summer sunshine. Those days are long gone now, but still, I am more comfortable relegated to my tiny world, the prison of my own making, than anywhere else.

     I let out a breath of relief as we pass through streets that now mix just a touch with the older styles of buildings. Patinated copper details, mansard roofs here and there. The old city is starting to present itself as she heads toward it.

     Do you live in my town, Gwenyth?

     But how could she? I’d have noticed. It is a small enclave; this sensory spell would have entranced me before now. It’s a wonder I haven’t seen her at the club before, in fact, though it has been some time since I’ve attended fight night.

     We cut under the highway overpass, and I’m made painfully aware of the fact that it’s just the two of us out here. Most pubs are closing up. The cars on the streets are few. And as for pedestrians… It is ever the more obvious that I am walking too closely behind her for how vacant the streets are.

     Finally, we near my neighborhood. The golden streetlamps glow their velvet-soft light upon the bricked roads and skinny lanes. I do my best to avoid following so closely, letting her dip through the alleyways I know so well. She won’t be able to lose me, honed in on the scent of her skin as I am.

     I’ve had my teeth in someone’s throat here. She steps beyond a familiar spot and the palpable memory of a meal claws at my parched throat.

     I cross back to a larger road she’s now traversed, swallowing down my discomfort, our proximity too close, and she finally turns her head ever so slightly toward me. I am gifted with an imperceptible peek at her face before centering my view back on the sidewalk. Nonchalant. Yes, nothing out of the ordinary.

     My hands have returned to their pockets, a leisurely display while I fight the urge to propel myself straight into this wondrous thing. An urge made worse now I’ve seen her face. An urge beyond compare. The deep amber curtains of her hair have been lifted and tucked precariously behind each ear. Subtle waves fall over her shoulders, dancing on the wind and reminding me of the black-tea heaven she’s injected into the air on which I am veritably drunk.

     But the face. Never has there been a whiter shade of pale, not even in my case. And praise be to Procol Harum for providing such an eloquent image—one she perfectly embodies. She is practically radiating in the moonlight before me, amplified in powder tones and spot lit in harsh contrast from above like a fucking ballerina on the darkest stage I’ve ever seen.

     This is the face of old-world beauty. Of someone who could have come straight from the richest of tables at the casino in Monte Carlo a hundred years ago.

     Finally, we’re deep within my neck of the woods. I could throw a stone and hit my flat. We’re passing buildings I see every day—or night, as it is. My heart is thundering as I think of all the things she reminds me of and question why I’m feeling this now, seeing this now.

     And what in the fuck I am doing?

     Following her, November? To what end?

     My mouth is dry, yet somehow salivating. I do not want to feed from this woman. I do not want to taste the essence flowing under her skin that would likely satisfy every deep and tantalizing craving I have ever had. I do not want her flesh inside my mouth, nor her blood spreading its rich flavor over my tongue.

     Oh, fuck fuck fuck.

     I catch glimpse after glimpse of myself in the panes of the shopfront windows as we pass. Pale curls hook around my even paler jaw, coming down to the top of my throat. Cold blue pops through a mirror in a home decor shop—the hardness of my eyes that came with the change.

     And then a shock. The sure reflection in a picture window fills my view. She at one end, me at the other, and our eyes connect.

     Her brows are turned down in sheer anger and only now do I notice that she’s clutching her handbag to her side. She stares daggers at me, fishing into the bag for what I can only assume is some form of mace, then whips around to face me.

     Part of me coils to move, to flit away in the blink of an eye to where she cannot see me. But another part of me dominates when it takes in her rounded, glinting eyes. They’ve gone from angry to gaping at me while her mouth falls open a touch.

     “I’m…sorry. I. I thought you were someone else.” She says it softly, her hand shaking on her purse strap while a mess of cerulean flecks dance beneath the glassy sheen of her eyes. Her eyes, which are fixed on mine. We stand that way for long seconds before her brows turn down once more and she recovers her anger. “Why are you following me?!”

     I open my mouth to answer, but am surprised when she quickly takes a step backward, then another. She peers behind me into the shadows, eyes even wider, hand finally clutching some form of defensive spray, and an uptick in my own heartbeat surges. What? What do you see?

     I tense once more and the sharpness of my fully-extended teeth shocks my tongue as I turn to search for what has startled her. The form of a body emerges from a darkened corner and an unfamiliar wash of gooseflesh spreads over my body. My hands shake.

I cannot be found out.

     Not now.

     Not after this night.

     This humming warmth within me.

     But it’s the man from the club; the one who’d had his clutches on Gwenyth and who now invades my space in a bulky frame that’s nearly twice my size. A sigh of relief leaves me. A human. It’s just a human.

     “What did she tell you?” The stranger’s question is delivered with a harshness I do not like. The threat in his voice is thick from where he towers over me and I cock my head at him before glancing back to see Gwenyth’s body disappearing around a corner. I’m certain the grip he’d had on her was painful just in hearing the tone of his voice. “What did that bitch tell you?!”

     His volume rises and his choice of words immediately puts a sour taste in my mouth. I feel she’s far from us, at least. Away from this disgusting thing with his bushy brows and his terrible breath.

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s all I give him before he squares his broad shoulders at me.

     There’s a strength to his jaw that holds my attention. It frames the mass of his neck, and under the brilliant streetlight, brings out the bulge of veins there.

     “You’re gonna tell me what she said now. I know your face, and I know you don’t have your backup with you here.”

     The anger in him at not receiving whatever information he’s seeking is flooding those neck veins. Hot, boiling anger that makes me wonder what it is that Gwenyth could have told me. But just as quickly as I wonder, I feel something hard and metallic press into my ribcage.

     “You feel that?” he asks, jamming the gun against my skin once more. “You tell me what she fucking told you and we settle this here. Now.”

     And see, this is what I do not allow. Not in the quiet of my town, nor the solace of my secret, safe profession. There will be no threats. Not to me. Not to Angel. Not to the club. Not to Old Quebec. And now…not to her. 

     I swallow at the thought of what possibly could have transpired between this man and Gwenyth while he pushes the muzzle of his handgun deeper into my torso. Were I human, it would be painful. Instead, it does nothing but further infuriate me.

     I feel the shadows beneath my eyes as they darken with blood and rage, then curl my fingers around the barrel of his weapon and pull it away from my body with no effort against his strength.

     “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken on who the backup is in my operation,” I tell him, expecting shock or confusion.

     Instead, I’m met with more hostility as he shoves back at the gun and slips a knife from his belt.

     My palm closes on the open blade of the knife and it slices into me, starting to heal before any pain of it can even register.

     “You don’t want to do this.” The sound of my own voice is throaty. Severe in its threat and gravelly in its rage.

     Never has a human challenged me like this, and it’s another something I do not need in my life. I’ve enough worry. Enough to hold together. Enough to keep contained and sheltered.

     I take a daring step in his direction, opening my mouth to let the tips of my teeth show in the harsh light above us. I’ll scare him out of his mind. Drain him of his memory. Keep him shaking like a leaf when he sees me at the club. Keep him far from Gwenyth.

     I’ll—BANG!

     Or I’ll do none of those things.

     It’s a shock to my system and I’m still and staring at him when his gun goes off, lodging a bullet under my ribs. It grazes my heart, which is somehow also paralyzed at the bemusement of what has happened. Shot? You’ve never been shot.

     I look down and see just as the bullet falls from my body in a quick, white-hot pain. The wound has closed, and in the moment the tiny hunk of metal clinks to the ground at my feet, I feel the fury in me double.

     My features contort as I bring my eyes up to meet his, my mouth opens, and a rumble leaves my throat.

     BANG! BANG BANG!

     Three more shots plunge into me and I stumble back a step before gnashing my teeth and hurtling at him. He hits the ground beneath my weight, bones creak at the force, and he shouts just once. His eyes flutter in fear for the only second I give him of my open jaw and glinting teeth just as I lunge for his throat and slice into his hammering veins.

     There’s an urge of thirst and confusion goading me to rip away at his memory. Drain as much as I can and leave him a husk of himself. Fear peppers his blood, muting him entirely as the luscious tide of warmth breaks over my tongue. THIS is the pleasure I live for. The pleasure I die for. And it’s made that much better by the knowledge that this man deserves the pain I give him.

     I’m far from nice tonight. Far from my gentle self that leaves no marks. Instead I shake my anger through my teeth where they’re anchored in his flesh. Shake his throat and grip it harder like a wild cat squeezing the life from its prey.

     I siphon every thought of the evening from his mind until it’s fading away into the pool of satisfaction that fills my stomach. Fading fast whilst I leach at his neck with a force I’ve never exerted on anyone in all my years.

     Over a century and now I’m red with rage at this stranger who I know does not deserve my mercy.

     But I must stop.

     You mustn’t—

     The distinct sound of someone shouting at me from the street draws me quickly back, and I drag my eyes over the still frame and bloodied mess beneath me. …dead! Stop him! A wash of blue and red lights flare in my peripheral vision. Each body…another thing that could bring them here. I take another look at the motionless body. The empty eyes of the man I’ve just killed. Killed.

     And then I cut away into the darkness before the cops can spot me above the corpse.