(Disclaimer- I own nothing but the general storyline and any OCs)

Author's Note: And now for chapter one introducing the OC Myra. Just a quick shout out to Pretty Reckless with their song 'Make Me Wanna Die' which is the inspiration for this story- enjoy!

Drink My Soul

Chapter One: Take Me

Heels clacked roughly against the cobble-stoned streets as the sound ricocheted into the empty night air. Myra kept her head down, and hidden by her long black locks.

Dirty, that's what she felt. And used, and beaten, and—she swallowed a sob, moving even faster, running almost. The cold night air whipped at pale skin and in a mini black dress, with matching thigh high boots there was a lot of that. But cold was all in the mind, and Myra ignored all other thoughts except the desire to keep moving. Where? She didn't know. But anywhere was better than where she had been. At least, that's what she kept telling herself. She'd flown to two different countries, flittered from one place to another—hadn't even stopped to drink. Of course the sun posed a large problem for a vampire, and so she took shelter only when the heat prickled at her skin before beginning the agonising burn.

Yes, Myra was a vampire.

She didn't have a death wish. But she had nowhere to go. She destroyed all ties to those who at one time called her 'friend', even with her brother Bertrand. Myra stopped in her tracks. A pair of footsteps bumbled to a halt behind her—she was being followed. The hunger from weeks came alive and gnawed at her senses. She could hear the fast paced heartbeat as blood was pumped through a large body, the scent of alcohol on its' musky breath. This prey was perfect. Light brown eyes, golden in the light, flickered about her surroundings, and took in a dark alleyway. It was clichéd for a reason—alleyways were perfect for feeing and not being disturbed. Swinging her hips just a little more than usual, Myra made her way to the perfect feeding ground, before leaning casually against the stoned wall.

Moments later, a man rounded the corner. He was overweight, mid 40s and seemed to have a receding hairline. It was also apparent he must be having a midlife crisis with clothes of a 20 year old–Myra shuddered to think—or younger even. Dark jeans tightly encasing legs and an equally tight bright red tee with the name of a band she didn't care to remember. Blinking to clear away the repulsion she managed to catch the last of what the man said,

"...such a great li'l body too. How old are yah, huh? 25," he chuckled to himself, "20? Nah. Nah. You look like a li'l 18 year old'."

Myra smirked, saying nothing verbally.

"Tut, tut love- we must remember manners when dealing wif our elders."

"Elders?" Myra repeated softly, scoffing inwardly.

"Yeah, love- elders, but use teenagers fink you know everthin'. But yah don't. How'd yah like to be wif a real man? Bet yah still got yah cherry ay?"

"You, sir," Myra's sultry voice caused a dazed expression, before closing the distance between herself and him, "talk too much." A smirk crossed his face, and was mirrored by Myra as she placed her mouth close to his. "Don't scream, now," she murmured her golden eyes seemed to become even brighter, for only a moment before he gave a stunted nod.

Myra allowed her lips to close against his throat—felt the slowing pulse of her victim. It was a calming music to her. She didn't dare bite him on the neck, no, that was too medieval. She brought her right hand to his neck, removed her lips and with her sharpened thumbnail made a thin incision. The man whimpered slightly as she closed her mouth against the wound and sucked lightly.

Entering a sense of euphoria Myra imagined sipping at a glass of Clarice Chardon, 1908.

That was until a hand closed around her shoulder, roughly yanking her away from her victim. Myra swiped blindly at the intruder as her hunger amplified. Having only had a mouthful of nature's warmth she felt stronger and yet weaker at the same time. Her strength, however, was of no use as she was slammed into the wall as easily as a bird could fly. Myra whimpered, but came to her senses. His face was long and slightly rounded, with a strong jaw. Lips parted slightly as bright grey eyes bored into brown, and a black curl fell onto the centre of his forehead.

"Dear sister, what an honour it is that you have graced us with your presence." Bertrand's voice was deep and lashed at Myra. She winced. Over their first hundred or so years together the siblings had been close. Bertrand was well known for his infectious excitement and stubbornness to get what he wanted, while Myra was addicted to danger. She secretly loved when her older brother came to her protection when she was in over her head. That was until Bertrand began his duty as guardian over the Praedictum Impaver and had begun training so he may tutor the Chosen One when they appeared. It was then, she believed, that they started to drift apart- he to his duty and her to... well, someone else.

"Bertrand," she replied softly, golden eyes downcast; "here I was thinking you were dead."

"Last I checked I've always been dead," he murmured, as his gaze intensified to a spot on her neck. A frown appeared.

"Glad to see you haven't started breathing then—" she spoke hastily but another voice called to the siblings.

"What in the name of garlic is going on here?" Bertrand reluctantly took a step back from his sister, eyes never leaving her neck. Myra immediately looked towards the newcomer. The Chosen One, she realised- if what Fang magazine had said was true. He was taller than her, but shorter than Bertrand by several inches. Myra also noticed how attractive this vampire was—skin pale, and glowing in the dimly lit alley, eyes a crystal blue. With a frown the Chosen One swallowed repetitively, and she realised, he had never tasted the blood of a breather. Said breather was staring blankly forwards. The Chosen One moved towards him, eyes beginning to blacken out as fangs appeared. Myra watched in fascination, as he shook his head and pinched his nose trying to block out the scent of the man's blood. "Get out of here," came the nasally order, "GO!"

The breather suddenly realised he was in a dark alley with two other males, and scampered for his pathetic life, yelling curses at the three as he left. The Chosen One turned to Bertrand, who still had yet to take his eyes from Myra's neck.

"What was that, Bertrand?" he demanded, flitting to Bertrand's side.

The latter merely turned his head a fraction. "What was what, Vlad?"

"The breather," Vlad suddenly looked to Myra and frowned wondering how long she had been standing there, "Who are you? I've not seen you around Garside Grange before. Not a lot of visitors come to the school—well unless, they're visitors, or parents."

Myra tilted her head slightly. "So that is where I've ended up," she whispered to herself, before turning to Bertrand, "and where is Garside Grange located, Brother?"

"The United Kingdom."

"Brother?" Vlad shot out incredulously, "Bertrand, you have a sister? You never told me."

"It never came up," he replied finally looking to Vlad. The younger vampire gave Myra a smile, holding out his hand.

"I'm Vlad, well Vladimir Dracula, but everyone calls me Vlad."

"Myra," she looked at the hand and back up at the stranger before gently shaking his hand.

"Nice to meet you, why don't you come back with us—the sun's due to rise in a couple of hours, and by the looks of it you need a place to rest, maybe a change of clothes?" She looked to Bertrand quickly, and then at the ground. The desire to stay close to her brother, to be protected—it was an attractive idea. But she couldn't risk the chance of being caught anywhere near the Chosen One, for her own sake, her brother's as well as for Vlad. It would be stupid. Reckless.

"I…I'm not sure that's a good idea," she replied uncertainly.

"Nonsense, I'm sure Bertrand would love to catch up, and besides, it'd be great to hear what Bertrand was like in his younger… uh, 'years'."

Myra felt a small smile appear. Even after all she'd been through, it was a nice feeling. And yet… "As much as that sounds like a great idea Vlad, I'm afraid I've been in some bad company of late and I wouldn't wish to endanger you or your family."

"All the more reason for you to stay, you'd be protected. Perhaps you can stay until the danger's passed you by. I mean, why not?"

She frowned.

"Listen to the Chosen One," Bertrand said before adding, "Myra."

"Really? That's your way of convincing someone Bertrand, 'listen to him, he's the Chosen One'. I'm not a good incentive, not really. You could offer, uh, a warm coffin, some of Dad's blood wine—" Bertrand raised his eye, and Vlad turned back to a smiling Myra, gulping before continuing. "Uh, that aside, don't you think it's really in your best interest? At least for today, if you still feel like you should leave… then, I won't stop you."

"Fine."

"Fine?" Vlad repeated, and Myra nodded. He smiled, "I'll lead the way."