Title: The Last Vampire

Author: Annie1230

Rating: Pg-13.... nothing really bad in this one, although there may be some bad language later on.

Notes: This is based very much on a series of books called "The Last Vampire." I loved this series so much I thought it would be wicked to see if I could re-write it with BtVS/AtS characters.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to ME/ Joss Whedon and Co. The basic storyline belongs to Christopher Pike, who wrote these fabulous books.

A/N: I don't know if I plan to do the whole 6-book series or not, I guess it depends on how this one turns out. At the moment the story is pretty close with that of the original text, but I hope to steer away from that as it progresses. And I know it kinda seems out of character a bit, but she's 5000 yrs old for god sakes and she's thinking internally so she doesn't need to use as much of the cursing and such that she usually would. so bear with me and I'm trying to work on it...kay?

Feedback:...I live off of it and it would be kick ass if you did, but I'm kinda writing this one for me, just to see how it turns out. But feedback away please, cause I need to know if I suck and should drop off the face of the earth.

Dedication: Hmmm. To my Sarah, who I know will never read this. I'm glad we're together, hopefully we can help each other with some of our baggage lol. To Starburst!!! I don't know if she'll see this either, but you're such a cutie! And you deserve any good thing that comes your way. And to anyone else who reads this, I have lots of love for all of you.

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Chapter 1 - He Who Laughs Last...

The truth...I'm a vampire. But not today's meaning of the word vampire, some of the stories that are floating around today about our kind are not all that true, more like completely bogus. I don't burst into flames and turn to ash as the sunrises, and I don't cringe and hide my face when I see a cross. In fact, I wear a small gold cross on a chain around my neck, but only because I think it's pretty. I don't have the power to command a pack of wolves nor can I fly though the air. I can't make another of my kind simply by drinking from them. Wolves are attracted to me however, and I can jump so high that one could imagine I could fly. And blood -- the subject captivates me. I do enjoy warm dripping blood when I'm thirsty...and I'm always thirsty.

My name, at least for the moment is Faith Perne -- they're just two words, they'll last me a few decades. I'm not attached to them by any means more than I am attached to the sound of the wind. My hair is dark, almost black, and silk like, my eyes -- dark almost black also. By modern standards in stature I'm of average height I guess for a girl, I stand five five in sandals, but I have very well muscled arms and legs, but not unattractively so. Before I even speak to you I seem like I am just another eighteen year old girl, but there's something about my voice -- the coolness of my expression, and the echo of thousands of years of experience-- that make people feel like I'm much older. But I hardly ever think about the time when I was born, long before the pyramids came to stand under the pale moon. I was there, in that desert, during that time...although I'm not from that part of the world.

Questions, questions...Do I need blood to survive? Am I immortal? After the years, I still really have no clue. I drink blood because I crave it. But I can eat normal food as well, and digest it. I need food just as much as the next guy or girl. I am a living breathing creature. My heart does beat -- and I can hear it as I talk to you, like thunder pounding throughout my head. My hearing and sight are wicked sensitive. I can hear a dry leaf break off of a branch a mile away, and I can clearly see the craters of the moon without a telescope. As I grow older, my senses grow more acute.

My immune system is invulnerable, my regenerative system is miraculous, if you believe in miracles -- which I don't. I can be stabbed in the arm with a knife and heal in minutes without scarring. But if I were to be say, stabbed in the heart with an incredibly fashionable wooden stake...then maybe I would die. I don't know for sure. It's hard for even a vampire's flesh to heal around an implanted blade. But, it's not something I'm too keen on experimenting with.

But who would stab me? Who would even be able to get a chance? I have the strength of five men and the reflexives of the mother of all cats. I'm a master of all systems of physical attack and defense. A dozen black belts could corner me in a dark alley, and I could make a dress fit for a vampire out of the sashes that hold their fighting jackets closed. I love fighting, it's true, almost as much as I love to kill. Yet, as the years go by, I kill less and less...the need isn't there anymore, and the upshot if murder in the modern world is a waste of my precious time. Some loves must be forgotten, others have to be given up. It may sound strange, if you think of me as a monster, but I can love, and I do very passionately. I do not think that I am evil.

Why the hell am I talking about this? And who exactly am I talking to? I putting out these words, my thoughts, because I think it's time. Time for what, I really don't know, and it doesn't matter because it is what I want that's always reason damn good enough for me. My wants -- however few they may be, but how deep they burn. And right now, as of the present...I can't tell you who I'm talking to.

At the moment, I'm standing outside the door of Detective Hank Summers' office. It's pretty late; he's in his private office in the back, with the light down low -- I can feel this, without seeing. Mr. Summers had called me three hours ago to tell me I had t come to his office to have a little chat about some things I may find interesting. I could catch the note of a threat in his voice, and a little more. I can sense emotion, although I cannot read minds. Curiously I stand, cramped in the small hallway. I happened to be annoyed, highly, as well...which is not beneficial to Mr. Summers. Knocking lightly on the outer door to his office, I open it before he can even respond.

"Hey." I say. I don't sound very dangerous, this I know. But I am after all supposed to sound like a teenager right? I'm standing beside the unhappy secretary's desk. I can imagine that she's been told one to many times that her last few paychecks are "practically in the mail." Mr. Summers is at his desk, in his office standing as he notices my entrance. He has on a brown sports coat that looks like it's seen better days, and in a glance I see the heavy bulge of the revolver he has strapped to his left breast. Ahh, Hank Summers believes that I'm dangerous. Noting this, my curiosity goes up another notch or two. But I'm not afraid that he knows what I really am, or he definitely wouldn't have chosen to meet me at all, even in broad daylight. "Faith Perne?" he asks. His tone uneasy. "Yup." Looking at me from twenty feet away he gestures. "Please come in and have a seat." Entering his office I don't take the offered chair in front of his desk, but one against the right wall. I want a direct line to him in case the ass tries to pull a gun on me...and if he does, he's gonna die. Maybe even a bit painfully.

He looks at me, trying to size me up, which is difficult since I'm just sitting here. He, however, is a montage of impressions. His coat is not only wrinkled but stained -- greasy burgers eaten way to hastily. Looking him over I note it all. His eyes are red rimmed, from a drug just as much as from fatigue. Speed, most likely. Medicine to feed the long hours of pounding pavement. After me? Most likely. I catch the slight glimmer of satisfaction in his stare, a prey finally caught. Smiling inwardly at the thought, I can't help the thread of uncertainty that enters me also. His office is stuffy, and cold....which is something I have never liked. Although I could survive an arctic winter completely sans clothing.

"I'm guessing that you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you so urgently?" he says. I nod uninterestedly. My legs are uncrossed and my black leather pants creaking with the movement of my tapping boot. One hand resting on my lap while the other plays in my hair -- doesn't matter, left or right hand...I'm both and neither. "May I call you Faith?" he asks. "Yeah, you can call me what you wish Mr. Summers."

My voice startles him, slightly, and it's the effect that I was hoping for. I could have pitched it like a modern teenager, but I have allowed my past to become a part of it, the heavy power that it grips. I want to keep Mr. Summers nervous, nervous people say things that they regret later. "Call me Hank," he says. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?" "No." "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soda?" "No."

Glancing at a folder on his desk he flips it open. He clears his throat and again I can hear how tired he is, and how afraid also. But is he afraid of me? Not sure. Besides the gun under his jacket, I can smell the powder and bullets of another in his desk drawer. That's a lot of firepower to meet a teenage girl. Faintly I hear the scratch of plastic and moving metal...and I figure he's taping the conversation.

"First off I should tell you who I am," he says. "As I told you earlier I'm a private detective. I own my own business, entirely freelance stuff. People come to me to look for loved ones, research tricky investments, give protection, when necessary, and to get hard-to-find background information on certain individuals." I smile slightly. "And to spy." He blinks. "I do not spy Miss Perne." "Really." I say as my smile broadens. Leaning forward, I make sure that the tops of my breasts are visible at the open neck of my black tank top. "It's late Mr. Summers. Tell me what you want."

He shakes his head. "You have a lot of confidence for a kid." I'm getting increasingly more annoyed, and it's starting to look dismal for Hank.

"And you have a lot of nerve for a down-on-his-luck private dick." He doesn't like that one at all, he taps the open folder on his desk. "I've been researching you for the past few months Miss Perne, ever since you moved to Sunnydale. You have an intriguing past, as well as many investments. But I'm pretty sure you knew that." "Really." "Before I begin, may I ask how old you are?" "You may ask." "How old are you?" "None of your fucking business." Smiling at me, he thinks he scored a point. What he doesn't realize is that I'm already thinking of how he should bite it, although I'm trying to avoid such an severe measure. Never ask a vampire her age. We don't like that question. It's wicked rude. Mr. Summers clears his throat, shaking me out of my thoughts...and now I think that maybe I should strangle him.

"Before moving to Sunnydale," he says, "you lived in Los Angeles -- Beverly Hills in fact -- at Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four- thousand-square foot mansion, with two swimming pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property was valued at six-point-five million. To this day you are listed as the sole owner Miss Perne." "It's not a crime to be rich Hank." "You're not just rich. You are very rich. My research indicates that you own five separate estates scattered across the country. Further research tells me that you probably own as much, if not more, property n Europe and the Far East. Your stock bond assets are vast -- in the hundreds of millions. But what none of my research has uncovered is how you cam across this incredible wealth. You have no record of family anywhere, and believe me, Miss Perne I have looked far and wide." "Yeah, I believe you. Who did you get in contact with for all of this information?" He's enjoying knowing that he has my interest. "My sources are of course confidential." "Of course." I stare at him; my stare happens to be very powerful. Sometimes if I stare at a flower too long it withers and dies. Mr. Summers loses his smile and starts to shift uneasily in his chair. "Are you gonna tell me why you're researching me?" "You admit that my facts are correct?" he asks. "Do you really need my assurance?" I pause with my eyes still firmly staring at him. I see sweat begin to glisten in his forehead and upper lip. "Why the research?"

He blinks and turns away from my stare grabbing a hanker-chief to dab at the sweat. "Because you fascinate me," he says. "I think to myself, here is one of the wealthiest women in the world, and no one knows who she is. Plus she can't be more that twenty-five years old, and she has no family. It makes me wonder." "What does it make you wonder?" He glances quickly in my direction. Although I'm very beautiful it makes him uncomfortable to look at me. "Why you go to such extreme lengths to remain invisible," he says. "And it also makes you wonder if I would pay to stay invisible," I say. He has the nerve to act surprised. "I didn't say that." "How much?"

My question stuns and pleases him. He doesn't have to be the first one to put the dirt on his hands. He's still not getting that blood stains deeper than dirt, and much longer. He definitely ma not have much longer to live. "How much are you offering?" he ventures. I shrug. "Depends." "On what?" "On whether or not you tell me who pointed you in my direction.' He is indignant. "I didn't need anyone to point me in your direction. I discovered all of your interesting qualities all by myself."

Now I'm positive he's lying. I can always tell when someone is lying to me. Only certain remarkable people can fool me, at the most the have to be lucky. I hate being fooled, so I guess one would have to wonder at their luck.

"Then I guess my offer is nothing," I say. At this he straightens visibly. He thinks he's ready to pounce. "Then my counter offer, Miss Perne, is to make what I now know public knowledge." He pauses. "What do you think of that?"

I answer distractedly. "It won't happen." I say looking at my nails. He smiles yet again, which I'm beginning to grow sick of. "You don't think so?" I look up an smile mockingly back at him. "You would die before that happened." His smile cracks his face and he begins to laugh. "You would take a contract out on my life?" "Something like that."

Immediately he stops laughing, now he's dead serious, now that we're talking about death. But my smile remains....death amuses me. Pointing a finger at me he begins to speak again, somewhat shakily. "You can be sure that if anything happened to me the police would be at your door the very same day," he says. I let a small snort slip from nose. "You arranged to have my records sent to someone else, just in case something happened to you?" I say.

"Something to that effect." Oh, now he's trying to be witty. He's also lying, again. Sliding back in my chair further it looks as if I'm relaxing. I'm not. I decided if I'm going to strike it will be with my right foot. This position allows me to have my feet out straight in front of me.

"Mr. Summers," I say. "We shouldn't argue. You want something from...I want something from you. I'm okay with putting a million dollars in the account of your choice, wherever you want...just tell me who told you about me."

He looks at me straight in the eye, or at lest tries to. And now he can feel the heat building in me. I can tell because he flinches before he speaks again, and when he does he sounds more confused as to why I'm so much more intimidating. "No one is interested in you except me," he says. I sigh. "You're armed Hank." "I am?" My voice hardens considerably. "You have a gun under your coat, and under your papers in the drawer. Not to mention you're taping our little conversation. Now, one may think that these are blackmail precautions, but I don't think so. I'm a young women. Do I look dangerous? No. But somebody told you I'm more dangerous than I seem ad to treat me with a bit of caution....right? And you know who that someone is," I pause. "Don't you Mr. Summers? Who is it?"

He shakes his head, now he sees me in a different light and he's so not liking what he sees. My eyes continue to look straight through him. And now there's an even bigger splinter of fear in his mind. "H-how do you know all these things?" He asks. "You admit my facts are accurate?" I ask mocking his earlier words. He shakes his head again. Now I'm angry, and I finally let my voice change more, it's deeper, resonating with the fullness of an incredibly long life. The effect is that of a normal one for the circumstance. He shakes visibly, as if now he finally realizes that he is sitting next to a monster.

"Someone hired you to research me," I say. "I know that for fact. Don't deny it again, or it'll make me angry...er. I get kinda crazy when I'm mad. I do things I may regret later, and I think I may regret killing you, Mr. Summers -- but not for long." I pause. "Now for the last time, tell me who sent you after me. The million is yours and you can walk out of here, just tell." He stares at me incredulously. His eyes see one thing and his ears hear another, I know. He sees a pretty brunette with startlingly deep dark eyes, and he hears the velvety voice of a succubus from hell. It's too much, and he begins to stutter like a three-year old caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. "Miss Perne," he begins. "You misunderstand me. I don't mean you any harm. I just want to complete a simple business deal with you. No one has to uhh....get hurt." I take in a slow deep breath. I do need air of course. But I can hold my breath for over an hour in necessary. The room cools even more when I let that breath escape my lips. Hank shivers. "Answer my question," I say simply. He coughs. "There is no one else." Ooops. There goes the final chance. I decide to give him a heads up. "You'd better reach for your gun." "Pardon?" "Well you're gonna die now, and I assume you'd rather die fighting." "Miss Perne--" "I'm five thousand years old." He blinks. "What?" I let him have my full un-cocked gaze, which I have used in the past all by itself to kill. "I'm a vampire," I say softly. "And you pissed me off." He believes me too. All of the sudden he begins to believe all the horror stories he's been told since he was a boy. That the were all true: the dead things hungering for a taste of warm flesh, the hand coming out of the closet in the dark of night; the monster who comes from an unturned page of reality, on who could look so innocent, so human, so cute. He reaches for his gun, but too slowly, much. I shove myself out of my chair with suck force that I'm for a minute airborne. My senses snap into hyperactive mode. Over the last few thousand years, when I'm threatened, I've developed the ability to see things in slow motion. Doesn't mean that I slow down, the opposite actually, Mr. Summers can see nothing but a blur. As I moved I shifted my leg to deliver a devastating blow.

My right foot lashed out and the heel of my boot catches him in the center of his breastbone. I hear the crack of bone as he topples backward onto the floor with his gun still holstered in his coat. I land smoothly on my feet beside him. Gasping for breath, blood pouring out of his mouth, I crushed the walls of his heart and the bones in his chest, and he will die. Just not yet. I kneel beside him and put my hand on his head, I have love for my victims... as sick as that may seem, I often do. "Hank." I say gently. "You wouldn't listen to me." He's having trouble breathing as he drowns in his own blood. I hear it gurgling deep in his lungs and I'm somewhat tempted to put my lips on his and suck away the red fluid for him. But I leave him alone. "Who?" he gasps at me. Stroking his head I continue. "I told you the truth. I'm a vampire. You never stood a chance, unfair I know. But that's the way it is." I lean in an whisper to him. "Tell the truth and the pain will stop. Who sent you after me?" He stares at me. "Slim," he whispers. "Who's Slim? A man?" "Yes." "Wicked, Hank. Now, how do you contact Slim?" "No." "Yes." I say caressing his cheek. "Where's Slim?" He starts to cry. The tears, the blood-- they make a sad ass combination. His whole body trembles. "I don't want to die," he moans. "My daughter." "Tell me about Slim and I will take care of your daughter," I say. My nature is kind, deep inside. I could have said if you don't tell me about Slim, I will find your darling daughter and slowly peel off her skin. But Summers is in too much pain to hear me, and now I regret hitting him so quickly, not slowly torturing the truth out of him. Hey, I gave him warning, I told him a was impulsive when I'm angry, I told the truth. "Help me," he pleads. "Sorry, I can only kill not heal, and you're hurt too bad." I sit back on my heels and look around the office. I see a picture on his desk of him posed by a beautiful blonde girl around eighteen. I remove my right hand for Mr. Summers to reach for the picture and show it to him. "This is your daughter?" I ask innocently. Suddenly he's terrified. "No!" he cries. I lean close to him once again. "Damn, I'm not gonna hurt her. I just want to know where Slim is...tell me." The pain grips him and he spasms. I grab him to try and steady him, but I'm too late. He tears a hole in his bottom lip with his teeth and adds to the blood already messing his face. He draws in a breath that throws more dirt on his coffin. There's a series of grotesque wet sounds and finally his eyes roll back in his head and he goes limp in my arms. I study the picture of the girl. I reach over and close Mr. Hank Summers' eyes. The girl has a wicked cute smile. Must have taken after her mother.

My situation is even more crappy then when I arrived here. Now I know someone is after me. And I killed my only lead. I search through his desk to find anything that could help with another lead besides his home address. The reason is currently sitting behind the desk. Summers has a computer and there's no doubt that he stored his important records on it. Which is then confirmed when I switch it on and find out that I need an access code. I know much about computers, more than most experts, but I doubt I'd be able to get into his data banks without a little outside help. I pick up the picture of father and daughter again. She might know the access codes. I decide to have a talk with her.

After I get rid of the body. Which is somewhat easier that expected because Mr. Summers doesn't have a carpet. I search the office building and find the janitor's closet and come back with a mop and bucket to do the job the secretary probably resents doing. I slip Mr. Summers; body into the two large green trash bags I found, and before leaving with my sagging burden I wipe all the fingerprints that I left. There's not one spot I have touched that I don't remember.

There's not a soul around as I carry Mr. Summers from the building and dump him in my trunk. This is a good, because I'm really not in the mood to kill again, and murder, for me, is tied to my mood, like sex. Even when it's necessary. Sunnydale is a town on the California coast, chilly in late fall, trees on one side, salt water on the other. I don't feel like wading in the water to dump his body, so I head for the forests. This is the first burial for me in this area. I haven't killed anyone since moving to Sunny-D a few moths ago. I park at the end of a narrow dirt road and carry the body over my shoulder deep into the woods. I don't need a shovel. My fingers can impale the hardest of soil even better than a knife can a man's flesh. When I get deep enough in I drop the body and begin to dig. Naturally my clothes get dirty, but I do own a washing machine, and I have detergent at home. I don't worry about the body being found, ever. But I do worry about other things. Who is Slim? How did he find me? How did he know to warn Summers about me, to treat me with caution.

I lay Hank Summers six feet under and cover him in minutes without a whispered prayer. Who would I pray to? Krishna? I can't tell him that I'm sorry, I have before though. No, he wouldn't listen to my prayer, even if it was for the soul of my victim. He would laugh and return to his flute. His song of Life. Where was the music for his followers that were already worse than dead? Where is the happy? No. I won't pray to God for Summers. Not even for his daughter.

Back in my home, my mansion by the sea, late at night, I stare at the girl's picture and wonder why she seems so familiar to me. Her green eyes are so enchanting, wide and innocent, but alert, like a baby owl under the moonlight. I wonder if I'll be burying her beside her pops in the next few days. And for some reason the thought makes me wicked depressed.