She stood alone on the hilltop where they used to meet.
She remembered how he used to tell her how beautiful her skin looked in the pale moonlight, how they'd lie on a blanket and count the stars together, whispering secrets in the night. He'd recite poetry and promises, and she'd listen with pounding heart. He'd made her swoon…
But then, that might've been the blood loss.
It was cloudy tonight. There was no moonlight to reveal the high, starched collar of her shirt, or the thick leather of her coat, so different from the light, innocent pastel dresses and easily-removed shawls she used to wear. That was little matter. He'd always been good at seeing in the dark.
She stood alone on the dark hilltop, hands in her pockets as a furry scrap of night broke away from the rest of the sky and fluttered down, turning into the shape of a man in front of her.
"It's wonderful to see you again," he said, white, perfect teeth gleaming. "My heart ached every moment you were away."
"You don't have a heart, Rolland," she replied. "Remember? You told me all about how tortured you are, needing to share someone else's heart and blood just to live… You're looking well, by the way. I take it you've been getting enough to eat without me?"
"None as delicious as you Marianne," he sighed, stepping closer. A shaft of moonlight peaked through the clouds, and his marble-pale skin almost gleamed in the light, his beautiful golden curls forming a halo around his head.
"I wore a new perfume tonight, just for you," Marianne said, tone light and teasing as she stepped away, hands still in her pockets. "Do you like it?" The scent was sweet and cloying, primroses and plumb-blossoms and spices absolutely overwhelming in the quantity she'd used.
"It's lovely, my darling, but not as lovely as the scent of your skin, the smell of your blood as it spills onto my tongue…" He looked at her hungrily, green eyes hypnotically warm, inviting, and all of a sudden they were only inches apart. "You have such a good heart, my sweet. Let me taste it's blood again. Once more, for old times sake…"
Rolland leaned in, ready to push that inconvenient coat from her shoulders as he kissed her senseless and got rid of all those other bothersome layers of fabric between him and his meal, and was totally unprepared when a spear of sharpened, still-green wood, came flying out of the woods, lodging itself in his back and ruining his velvet jacket
He screamed in pain and surprise, mouth open wide to reveal sharp fangs, and Marianne took her hands from her pockets and dropped two half-crushed cloves of garlic down his throat. Her perfume had covered the scent.
Rolland stumbled, clawing at his throat as his skin lost its shine and turned grey, as his own desperate clawing made it flake and crumble like dust–
–Marianne kicked him in the stomach and he fell backward onto the wooden spear still lodged in his back, causing him to impale himself on the shaft–
–A light flared, and the man who'd thrown the spear came out of the woods, torch in one hand and silver cross in the other. He towered over the two, the flickering torchlight revealing a sharp, harsh face: long nose, narrow chin darkened with stubble, hollowed cheeks and sharp cheekbones, snarling mouth with crooked teeth.
Marianne smiled as her fiance set the torch to the walking corpse who'd parodied life and love for so long. She poured a bottle of garlic-infused oil over the still-screaming vampire and watched him burn.
As the sun rose, Marianne and Bog King scattered the ashes in a nearby river, letting them be washed away by the water and torn apart in the wind.
They were both exhausted from staying up all night. They stank of smoke and garlic, stale perfume, and that unpleasant stench one always gets from killing the un-dead. They needed baths, and sleep, and coffee, and a good, solid meal, not necessarily in that order.
But they had done it.
Rolland would haunt the nights no more. He'd never lure another cheerful, trusting traveler astray to drain them dry, never prey on another vulnerable heart he could slowly bleed to death, never kill anyone ever again. They had done good.
Bog King and Marianne held hands as they made their way back to the village, smiling softly together in the warm light of day.
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