Ch. 1
(September 15th 2017)
Namjoon sighed as he lounged on the roof of the house, the moonlight making the blue veins in his arms glow. The night was noisy, unlike when he had been alive, full of car honks, yells, and from far away, several gunshots. He missed the times when there were only slight skirmishes with Indians to worry about, building a house, finding a wife and getting a good cow. Namjoon had come to America on the Mayflower, looking for a life of freedom and peace.
If only he had known.
His town had been ravaged by unknown monsters, pale, beautiful, and cold. One had bitten him, and as he watched the monsters kill his wife and newborn son, he had changed, fire coursing through his veins, transforming him. It had hurt. And when he had awoken, he had been so confused, so scared, so hungry. He had crawled out of the rubble of his home and attacked the nearest living thing, the still barely breathing body of his wife. He had drained her dry, then sobbed blood tears over her corpse.
As the times changed, so had he.
He went on several killing sprees and had several periods of calm. This time was one such period. He had lived in relative quiet for about forty years now, feeding only when needed, and generally leaving his victims alive. Usually, he took pets, people he would let in on the secret, and feed off, until he was done, when he erased their memories and sent them back. Unfortunately, he had accidentally killed his latest, and was feeling the urge to eat again.
He swung off the roof, hitting the ground with barely a thud. He briefly debated telling the other three members of his coven where he was going but figured they would guess.
He took off running into the city, vaulting over poles, cars, people, so quickly that to them it was only a passing breeze. He finally stopped on top of a large apartment complex, smelling deeply. The human blood smelled delicious as usual, but tonight, there was a new scent, one he had never smelled before. It was lavender, and warm coco. It made his stomach pitch weirdly, and he set off, following the delectable scent.
He tracked it down to a small apartment in a crappy part of town, a room on the top floor. He quietly scaled the side and peered in, ready to spring away if he was spotted. The room was empty, except for several boxes, and Namjoon was about to enter via the window when a rustle came from outside the door. A man nudged it open and backed in, turning and setting the box down. He wiped his face with his sleeve, smiling, and Namjoon examined him. The man was handsome, with pink and white skin, a mop of pale brown hair, and dark, mahogany brown eyes. He wore an oversized pink hoodie, tight white jeans, and pink sneakers.
"Well, that's the last of it." The man said in a soft, but clear voice, planting his hands on his hips and surveying the space with pride.
Namjoon felt an odd sense of affection welling up in his stomach. The man looked so adorable standing there, flushed and sweaty, but still proud of himself. Suddenly, the man's eyes flicked to the window, and Namjoon jerked away from it. Unfortunately, he lost his grip, falling. He landed in the street with a thud, and a sudden pain stabbed his stomach.
What the-? He lifted his head and groaned. A huge spike of wood, from the nearby splintered telephone pole presumably, was sticking from his side. Fortunately, it had missed his heart, but the wound would take several days, maybe a week to heal, and would scar. He was debating trying to wrench himself off, when a vaguely familiar scent washed over him, and a voice cried, "Oh, my god! Are you okay?"
