Reborn to Love: A Vampire's Fate

Everyone knows that the most important person in a vampire’s life is her Sire, the one whose blood is keeping a vampire tethered to the splendour of immortality—her saviour, her master. Most vampires are half in love with their Sires, slavishly devoted to their every whim and fancy, willing to change even the most fundamental aspects of their characters to gain the tiniest modicum of approval.

But not me.

I wanted to kill him.

﹒

Hello. I am, as my Sire named me after my transformation into a member of those monsters dwelling in the night, forever to be known by Favilla. Maybe it’s contradictory for me to use a name given to me by someone I hate so much, but the name my human parents gave me has long since ceased to matter so, instead, Favilla is what you shall call me.

My story started just over three decades ago, the first time I died, when my Sire first found me and claimed me for his own. However, that’s not where your story will start. No, your story will start on the night of my second death.

﹒

It’s very early in the year, so the hours of night outstrip by far the hours of day in this area of the world. I wake at sunset from my restless trance and proceed, as I do every evening, to my Sire’s rooms, where he awaits me and my sisters.

There is only one whom I shall name to you: Scintilla, the eldest of us all. She became a vampire barely a week before I did, and for a very long time, she and I were our Sire’s only progeny. She is of a similar build to me, tall and lithe, but she is golden where I am pale, fair-haired when mine is dark. I think she’s prettier than me, but she’s always said that she envies me for my more unique colouring. She means my eyes, of course, for my transformation has rendered my irises a brilliant gold. I don’t always believe her, however, since she has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, on mortals and immortals alike.

These clear blue eyes are tired but determined as she greets me this evening: “Fav! You’re looking well.”

I cannot say the same for her. Her blonde hair is limp tonight, and her golden skin is dull and dry. Only her eyes hold any spirit. So instead, I merely bid her a good evening before I accept a sisterly embrace from her.

As my lips brush by her cheek, I mouth, so quickly that anyone passing will see only a stutter of my lips, “Seven.”

Her eyes are wide when I step back, and she hooks her arm around mine. Against the crook of my elbow, she makes hand signs. First for ‘A’, then for ‘M’.

I smile and tilt my head in a discreet nod.

Her demeanour immediately becomes more nervous, and I can understand why. The sun will rise at eight in the coming morning, so the scheduled time is perilous for us creatures of the night, who yearn for trance with the rising of the hateful sun and who fade to ash in daylight. I’m not unsympathetic, but there’s also nothing to be done for it.

She composes herself eventually, and we walk arm-in-arm through the heavy doors blocking off the master’s suite of our Sire’s estate.

Our Sire is called Canus by the rest of the vampire court—Lord Canus, that is, though I have only called him Sire aloud and Canus in my mind. He appears older in age than most vampires, but I don’t know exactly how old he is physically. (Nor chronologically, for that matter. Though he has the mannerisms of someone who’s lived through history, it’s also strange that he doesn’t have progeny older than Scintilla and me, both of whom were mortal still during the turn of the millennium.) He’s very handsome, objectively speaking, with a sharp silhouette and fine features. His hair is a bit plain, ash brown and slightly wavy, but his eyes are said to be his greatest feature. They’re a grey so pale that others call it silver, but I’ve never liked them much. They’ve always seemed cold to me.

He sits at a computer desk in front of a screen that’s still loading up, and he turns those pale eyes upon Scintilla and I when we enter the room.

‘Good evening, Sire,’ Scintilla and I say in tandem.

He smiles thinly in response, but it morphs quickly into a frown as he takes in Scintilla’s current state.

‘You seem unwell,’ he says, addressing both of us, though I know he doesn’t mean me.

Scintilla kneels, and after half a beat, I follow. ‘I’m sorry, Sire,’ she says. ‘I encountered backlash last night when I was brewing a potion, and it was too close to daybreak to ask anyone to go hunting for me.’

‘Rise,’ he says without inflection, and we do. Then, ‘What potion?’ he asks. His tone is casual, but the question makes me nervous. Scintilla has never been very good at misdirection.

‘It’s my fault, Sire,’ I cut in. ‘I asked her to make it for me. I thought I might need it for my investigation.’ There have been a series of destroyed vampires turning up in Knightsbridge over the past few months, and I’ve been in charge of dealing with it.

‘A protective potion?’

I shake my head. ‘An offensive one,’ I say, hoping he won’t press further.

‘Very well, then. I’ll be gentle tonight.’ Canus holds out his hand.

This is the worst part of every evening for us both. I hear the soft sound of Scintilla swallowing in trepidation, but her movement is steady as she places her left wrist in Canus’s grasp.

There’s little fanfare to it, not from him, believing himself entitled to our daily offerings. He opens his mouth, sharp teeth gleaming palely in the dim candlelight, then bites into Scintilla’s wrist.

Scintilla gasps quietly, betraying both her pain and her exhaustion, but true to his word, Canus doesn’t drink much from her. She looks drawn and spent in the aftermath, but no much more than she did before.

Next, it’s my turn.

Generally speaking, I don’t mind being a vampire, being an undead monster reliant upon violence and misery. As difficult as it gets sometimes to feed off of mortals without losing my sense of self, as disgusted as I sometimes am by the animated corpse that is my own body, this is by far the worst part of my life—standing still as my Sire draws from me the vital energy of my blood.

I think it might be easier to bear if all vampires had to do this, less humiliating. But no, it’s just my sisters and me. Every evening, we wake and walk into this room like obedient little lambs, with no other choice but to offer our Sire, our master, some of the very blood that sustains us.

I hate it—not just the pain, but the reminder that I am not my own person, but his livestock, his slave, a creature kept for little more than the sustenance she provides her owner. And this is at the root of why I hate him, that he asks this of us, that I can’t even say no.

His fingers are chilled where they touch my wrist, and his grip is firm. He opens his mouth once more, fangs no longer flashing pale but coated in a sticky layer of crimson. When the skin of my wrist is pierced, a deep, aching pain spreads through my entire body. It isn’t even purely physical, but something deeper, something that pulls at the spirit within me, that leeches away what little vitality that courses through the sluggish veins of my lifeless body.

The seconds pass slowly—too slowly—as I feel my unlife seeping away from me. It takes longer tonight than it normally does, and I know it’s because he didn’t get as complete a drink as he typically takes from Scintilla. I resent her a little for it, but not too much, for it was, after all, at my request that she brewed the potion, which needed the rising of the new moon to complete in full. I should have known to prepare a human in advance for her.

I feel drained after Canus finally releases me, but still more than strong enough to go out on a hunt. It seems that it wasn’t twice the usual amount that Canus drew from me just now, which is both good and bad. I have been spared some of the trouble, but Canus will surely make up for his restraint when drinking from my younger sisters.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I retrieve my wrist from Canus’s hold. He’ll be dead by dawn, and none of us will ever be hurt by him again.

﹒

When I leave the estate, it is purportedly to hunt for both myself and Scintilla. Normally, this wouldn’t be too difficult, but I also have another more pressing task to complete tonight.

The night is young but frigid. It is an eternal tragedy that the world cools down in the months of longest night and only warms again when the days lengthen for summer. Winter makes most vampires stiff and unwilling to go out into the chill, but I’m one of the lucky few. Canus, as previously mentioned, is a lord, one of the three who can claim such a title in this city. His blood is about as pure as it can get, so my blood is nearly as strong. It means that I can more easily withstand the banes of vampiric existence—cold and light don’t trouble me as much as they might trouble a lesser vampire. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I show an affinity for sorcery that most vampires can only dream of.

The point is, though it is only January and the streets are still covered in ice and slush, I brave the winter chill and step out of the car in just a scant dress of sapphire silk. It’s a simple number, asymmetrical such that it exposes my right shoulder entirely, suspended from my left shoulder by an intricate weave of delicate straps. Otherwise, it’s fairly shapeless, the thin fabric clinging to my slim curves by pure static until it ends, quite abruptly, not even halfway down my thighs.

It’s not modest, and I dislike the feel of it against my skin. In fact, it’s not mine at all; I’ve disguised myself as one of Scintilla’s various personas—that of Miss Ashley Gibson, a high-end escort—for my hunt tonight.

The bouncer at the entrance of this exclusive Knightsbridge club doesn’t recognise Scintilla’s face when I look him in the eyes, but he does seem to recognise Miss Gibson’s name on the ID card I hand him, and he waves me through without further comment. When the bartender sees the same little piece of plastic, she declines to charge me for my beverage, which is a shimmering concoction of citrus and mint that I will not be drinking.

I mill about the bar for a while, trying to ignore the furtive glances that various men cast upon me. I hate dressing like this, hate the way people must be assuming the worst of me, but it is ironically easier to blend in by standing out in venues like these.

I dismiss the first man who tries to chat me up with a glare, but the next man to approach me does so more politely. He slides into the seat next to mine but stays silent, waiting for me to make the first move.

‘Are you a regular here?’ I ask after I pretend to sip from my cocktail.

The man shakes his head.

‘A pity,’ I say. ‘I was hoping someone could tell me if the food is any good here.’

‘I had their tuna tartare the first time I was here,’ he offers. ‘I liked it quite a bit.’

‘Hmm. I don’t like fish all that much. I’m more of a red meat girl,’ I confide, smiling coyly.

‘Really?’ he says. ‘But I had you pinned for a vegetarian.’

I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief. This is the right man, then. I giggle and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning on him as if infatuated. When my lips approach his ear, I whisper, ‘You may take me to him now.’

He’s rather well-trained, as far as thralls go. His movements are fluid and natural as he picks up my drink and offers me his arm. I take it and allow him to lead me upstairs.

The private room we enter is actually a suite of rooms, furnished in leather and jewel tones. Two humans lie in the central seating area, on the sofa and chaise longue respectively. They look to be napping, but I can smell opiates in the air. I crinkle my nose.

‘Drugged?’ I ask the thrall.

‘Only him,’ the thrall responds, pointing at the larger of the two humans, a man dressed in a suit. ‘The other one only took Benadryl, and that was three hours ago.’

Humans don’t hurt nearly as much from being bitten as vampires do. Most of them even enjoy the sensation. However, it’s difficult to explain away fangs and healing bite marks, and moreover against vampire law to reveal our existence to them. Most of my kind just enthral or entrance them, but it ruins their taste for me. Thus, my remaining option is often to ensure my victims remain unconscious through feeding, which is difficult to achieve without substance abuse. Only, I also abhor the taint that harsher drugs leave in my victim’s veins—as you can tell, I’m a bit of a picky eater.

The Benadryl trick is one of the few that I’ve found to work—other than just stalking a human home and waiting for them to sleep. It’s only slightly less time-consuming than normal waiting, but the consideration that has been put into this pleasant surprise is touching. The man, too, is unexpected, and I can’t help but appreciate how much easier my life has been made with these gifts.

I nod at the thrall and approach the other human, a woman dressed modestly in grey slacks and a blouse. Her hair is plainly styled and she looks to be in her early twenties, for all that her clothing is severely out of fashion. Very distantly, I recognise her as someone that I’ve fed from previously—sometime last year, if my memory hasn’t failed me. I hope that she still tastes as sweet as before.

I perch on the arm of the chaise longue that the woman is resting on and pick up her wrist. Gingerly, I bite down, careful to taste the blood for any taint before revelling in the flood of warmth that fills my mouth, slowly relieving the ever-present thirst that haunts my kind. Peace begins to suffuse me, and it is heart-wrenching to stop before I am completely sated.

I don’t wish to take so much from the woman that she might experience any adverse effects, but this also means that I’ll need to find another victim or two on my own later tonight. I lick the woman’s wrist until the wound on her wrist heals completely, then straighten from my seat.

Tonight, I have a date with the man who has promised to slay my Sire.