Evangeline stood in the doorway to his office, narrowing her eyes as she peered into the darkened space, her hand wrapped around the brass handle. Only a singular beam of sunlight cut through drapes, illuminating the particles as it stretched across the floorboards. She stepped forward, allowing it to cast her in that warm, familiar sheen. Carefully, she reached out and felt for the wall, running her hands across the embossed wallpaper in search of a light switch. Her fingers fumbling over it several times before turning it on. At once, a soft orange light filled the room and illuminated the fabulous oil paintings that lined the walls, all of them capturing cities and landscapes which had once crawled with people but were now lost to history. Ornate bookshelves and damask furniture took the remaining space. His once lavish Victorian lifestyle now lived on in the confines of this room; amongst the clutter and the Scheele green hues.

The floorboards groaned under the weight of her feet as she walked about his office, her gait slow and graceful as if she was a man entranced by some architectural splendour. Even his belongings possessed a hypnotic-like quality about them; they were of human origin, but it was as though his vampiric touch had altered them somehow. This was most noticeable with his grand piano and classical violin, both of which occupied the outermost corner of the room. She half expected the keys to play themselves, as if she were being haunted by a ghostly apparition. She drew nearer to the parlour grand and sat on the leather stool, scanning the flurry of sheets for a piece she recognised and could play. Finally, settling on Chopin's prelude in E minor. Her left hand spread across the keys forming the first cord whilst her right rhythmically danced across the ivories, occasionally catching a black key in passing. She closed her eyes, feeling the piano vibrate from the melancholy music beneath her fingertips; the tender sound barely audible to her ears before the ever-growing excitement and ferocity took over. It enraptured her. The feeling of sorrow and contempt being withdrawn from her person and transformed into music. Rarely did she experience such therapeutic pleasures. . . but that did not last.

An eerie silence descended upon the room as reverberation from the final cord faded away; and in the absence of sound, a feeling of uneasiness grew in Evangeline, a tense, anxious feeling as if the quietness masked something most foul.

"You're full of surprises," Vincent teased, now taking a step towards her. "You never told me that you could play."

She turned her head suddenly as if to glance over her shoulder, but her eyes remained fixed in place. His unexpected appearance would have startled her, but the sound and feel of the piano had diverted her senses, which paid little heed to his presence.

"Well, not to a high degree. But, yes, I can play." She wafted her hand dismissively, as if her ability was some common talent and not worth acknowledging.

"You're too hard on yourself," he said, now turning towards the bookshelves. His back bent ever so slightly as he scanned the spine of each book. Their decaying leather-bindings obscuring what little text that remained.

Evangeline shifted on the stool, lifting one leg, followed by the next over the leather to face him. He seemed blissfully unaware of her watching as he flicked through one book, then another, and another after that; turning each page with such speed that she questioned whether he could read the contents. He seemed to withdraw them at random, placing a chosen few on the wooden-desk beside him whilst slotting others back into place. The stack of books on his desk had grown to five before he spoke again.

"Feel free to read some for yourself . . ."

He gestured absent mindedly towards the bookshelf on her right.

She raised a brow in confusion, unsure of what he was trying to communicate, but stood up and regarded the shelf in its entirety. The leather books formed a wall that seemed to stretch upwards forever, a looming visage of medieval literature. The bindings on all the books had given away from age, the withered leather had peeled away revealing the mouldering animal glue beneath. She scrunched her nose in disgust and carefully avoided the books that would not survive being moved and ran her thumb over the embossed lettering of the others. Flakes of gold fell from the titles and stuck to the pad of her thumb as she felt each spine. Many were written in Latin or Gaelic, whilst others were purely illustrative. Few of the books were dedicated to the occult; some - she assumed - were factual whilst others arose from a more superstitious origin.

She plucked one from the top shelf and held it in her hands, unsure of what to read first. The cover revealed nothing about its contents, only brandishing the author's name. Her finger underlined each word as she skimmed the introductory pages, the medieval French slowly revealing the purpose of the book. The title read: The handbook of biting regions on the human form. She grimaced at the thought of such a book and how it would describe the human body in tantalising detail. She wanted to place it back, but a morbid curiosity tugged at her, and she opened it. Each page showed a delicately drawn woman dressed in linen undergarments that hugged her body beneath her corset, her skin smooth and unaltered by makeup or adorned with jewellery, and behind her stood a brooding figure that was overcome with her simple beauty: a vampire. It snatched her and held her tightly, sometimes she fought back against the porcelain hunter, vainly pounding on its chest or giving its outstretched hand a mighty blow, only for the creature to subdue her before feasting on a limb, pawing at the silk to reveal the plump and tender flesh beneath. Evangeline closed her eyes in disgust. Had Vincent fed on humans in such away? Did he leer over the bare necks of others, lusting over the thin mobile skin? Panic rose within her stomach as she hurried through each page, possessed by the same morbid intrigue, hoping the next would offer her solace, only to meet with the same image of the woman, lying limp and lifeless in the vampire's arms as it bit down on her neck, her arm, her wrist, her inner thigh: impassioned. Lifting the confines of her nightgown as if to humiliate her before her inevitable demise. In an instant, Evangeline slammed the book shut and wedged it into the shelf, hoping that it would not see the light of day again.

"Wh- Are you all right?"

He faced her now, with a book in hand, his eyebrows arched in concern.

"Yeah . . . I'm fine. I just- do you agree with everything that's written in these books?"

He paused for a moment.

"Well, not if its mere opinion or speculation. Why? What did you read?" He placed the final book on the desk and settled into the damask armchair, resting his cheek in his palm. "Come, sit." He beckoned, gesturing towards the chair opposing him.

She sank into it; the velvet embracing her weary legs. "I read a handbook on biting . . ."

"And it disturbed you?" His voice was sympathetic, as though he were reaffirming her feelings instead of questioning them in surprise.

"Yes. Well, not necessarily the biting - although that upset me - it was how the vampire acted, without remorse or sympathy, only focusing on feeding . . ."

He sighed in an instant, his demeanour changed. She couldn't identify the emotion that contorted his face. His brows and lips were bent with frustration, but his eyes seemed weary and defeated. "Is that how you see me? Without remorse or sympathy?"

"No! Of course not!" She reached out for his hand, clasping at it, desperately trying to convince him that she saw and adored his humanity. "You've already shown me that you're more than capable of those feelings. . . I'm just worried that you could disregard them out of instinct."

"And what instinct would that be?!" He stared at her now, his eyes wide with outrage, wounded by her accusation that he could ignore his humanity despite himself. 'If you only knew what you accuse me of, how you'd refrain from making such comments!' He thought.

"Blood lust" She blurted out, her voice weak and devoid of the confidence which it once had. "Please, be honest with me . . . Do you have it?"

'Blood lust'. He sighed and rubbed his forehead soothingly, his voice failing him.

"What- I told you when you first arrived that vampires no longer hunt humans and have changed their morals-"

"Don't avoid the question!" She interrupted him, her fists clenched by her sides in frustration. "You know perfectly well the difference between morals and instinct. This morality doesn't rid them of instinct, they just know better than to give into it! If I am to remain friends with you, I ought to know if I am at risk! For my sake tell me, do you have blood lust!"

"Yes!"

Silence engulfed the room.

Instead of him, it was she who was staring now, her eyes wide and fearful. Her plump rouge lips lay slack in shock. He gazed at them, then looked at her eyes, his eyes mirroring the same fear as he felt the nauseating sting from his confession, it was as if he were being whipped over and over, unable able to breathe as each following blow stole his strength. He looked away suddenly, as though her gaze had burned him. How he wanted to reach for her, to clasp her hands and convince her that this lust changes nothing, that he was still the humane, empathetic man that he was before.

It was the sound of her swallowing that broke the silence.

"Have you wanted to feed on me?" She whispered, her right hand cupping her taut neck in fear. "Have you fed on others? Have you killed people?" Her voice broke as uncontrollable sobs escaped her throat, her hands instinctively moving to cover her face.

"No, no . . ." He pulled himself forward in the chair and slipped his hands around her back, holding her close. "Shh, don't be frightened. . . I've never fed on anyone and I'd never dream of hurting you." He felt the press of her cheek against his waistcoat as he held her, her dark red hair falling loosely around her shoulders as he ran his fingers through the curls. But he couldn't see the uneasiness which warped her buried face, her inner struggle as she clung tightly to the fabric of his dress shirt. He frightened her. His vampiric nature made him capable of such vicious spontaneity that she could not trust him completely. He appeared to her like a wild beast. Who is docile and agreeable when satiated, but became a mindless, self-indulgent animal as soon as the instinctual craving returned. . . Yet, she couldn't accept this. Her mind wouldn't allow it. He had endured a lifetime of torment, of injustice, and was reduced to hiding in shadows and preying on vermin just to survive. Yet, he remained hopeful. Bitterness and resentment failed to take a hold over him, even in his loneliness; he suppressed his vampiric nature despite himself.

She sighed into his warm chest, her breath still shaken from the dying sobs. She longed for this affection; she had been starved of it and felt her arms wrap around his waist as if they had a mind of their own and were carrying out her repressed desires. A minute passed between them before they moved. He reached for her face, gently guiding her chin upwards to meet his gaze, his thumb caressing her flushed cheeks.

"Better?" He asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, forcing the remaining tears down her cheeks to clear her blurred vision. It was then that she noticed the glassy sheen which covered his reddened eyes.

"You . . . were crying?"

"Almost . . ." His lips formed a faint, embarrassed smile, "I'd dread to think that you resent me; that you think of me like an animal. I'd hate to lose your good opinion and be alone again, you are the only human I've ever confided in."

She shook her head, her eyes lined with guilt.

"No, I don't hate you. I am cautious of your vampirism, but I don't hate you - I think quite the opposite, I adore your compassion and wit, you've listened to me and cared for me, unlike many others . . . You're a good man, Vince." Her fingers stroked his knuckles as she spoke, their softness taking her by surprise.

A playful grin spread across his lips, enlarged by her flattery.

"'Vince'? . . . Is that the nickname you've given me?" He teased as he reached for the stack of books beside him, pushing the leather and parchment tower towards her. Seemingly unaffected by what had just passed between them, as though it were a distant memory.

"These books are best to start with-" He said as he handed her the first tome. "- They do not explain everything, but will introduce you to my kind far more eloquently than I can."

She regarded the cover of each volume as he spoke, only looking up to meet his eye as if to say "I'm still listening". All of them discussed an aspect of vampiric life, ranging from history, sociology, philosophy, psychology and biology. Her heart sank at the sheer number and size of these vampiric tomes. Her curiosity knew no bounds, but she couldn't deny how daunting they appeared.

"You need not read them all in one sitting and you're more than welcome to take them home." He reassured her. "Once you've read them, I'll introduce you to my studies."

Her curls bounced like springs as she nodded, their deep maple sheen glinting in the light, and they swung to the side as her eyes followed Vincent across the room, watching him walk from his velvet seat towards his violin. His soft hands that caressed her hair a few moments ago now caressed the lacquered instrument in admiration. He turned to face her then, with his bow in hand and the violin neatly tucked under his chin. He stood there, like a soloist poised in front of an orchestra, waiting for his instruction to begin. His eyes soft and demanding, desperate for her acknowledgement.

A smile spread across her lips, and she shook her head. The movements in her hand mirroring her passiveness.

"If you want to play, then do so. You don't need my permission." Her hand returned to the first book, laying flat on the parchment pages as she read. Her head pricked to one side in anticipation of his playing.

A bitter-sweet whine radiated from the violin as he dragged the bow across the strings, his fingers manipulating the sound. Like her playing, his too was laced with melancholy and longing, reflecting his feelings far clearer than his expression or his words could ever achieve. There was a strange beauty in it. Witnessing how deeply his playing and emotions were intertwined, a bizarre form of symbiosis, one enhancing the other. When the music grew desperate, he grew desperate; when it calmed, he calmed.

She couldn't say how long they spent like that. The sun had begun to set and was peering from beneath the curtain, casting the desk and books in an orange glow. Vincent had not long stopped his playing and retired to his armchair beside her, his eyelids heavy with listlessness brought on by the warmth and familiarity of his office. It was that drugged sleep which was devoid of any comfort or refreshment, cloaking the mind in darkness only to cause a headache once woken.

She placed a ribbon in the fold of the page as to not lose her place and sat back for a moment. Her mind slowly detaching from the book and overcoming the strange sense of emptiness that returning to reality brings. It was quiet. Even Vincent's subtle breaths did little to dispel the silence. She looked at him, watching his chest rise and fall slowly. He had been reading over her shoulder whilst toying with the buttons on his waistcoat - which now lay open and sagged to the side, exposing his shirt beneath, his hand slumped clumsily on his groin. She couldn't help but smile at him. He did not resemble any vampiric archetype at all; he was not a sinister, old womaniser with a passion for the macabre, nor was he a brooding, young vampire that glistened like light on disturbed water. Instead, he was his very own vampiric incarnation, and he wore it proudly without shame, like a lapel upon his chest.

Her gaze drifted towards the shelves again, but not to admire the books. Instead, it was his heirlooms that had caught her attention. They occupied any space that Vincent could find, adding to the cluttered appearance of the room. At the back of the desk, in a crumpled pile of chains, laid a mourning lavaliere. She reached for it and slowly untangled the chain as to not make a sound and wake him. Each locket was filled with delicately curled locks of black, blonde or auburn hair and a photograph. Those that had their likeness captured bore a striking similarity to Vincent; from the slight curve of his upper lip to his luxurious, thick hair. She wondered who they were. Were they the siblings he spoke of, or his adoptive Georgian family? Had they all passed away, leaving him behind? The lockets shut with a sudden click and she placed the lavaliere towards the back of the desk, returning it to its resting place.

There were other photos slipped behind books and hidden within albums, private keepsakes which he had concealed from prying eyes and even himself. She did not dare to explore what he kept buried between those pages, as she was already cognisant of the guilt she felt from disturbing the chain. It was as though she had disturbed the dead.

A soft moan escaped Vincent's parted lips, snatching her attention away from the photos as if in sleep he could sense her curiosity and disproved of it. Then from behind him, on the mantlepiece, a large wooden stake materialised from the shade; the light glinting off of the varnished body and silver filigree that encased the tip, and beside it hung a wreath of dried garlic; free from its once pungent, acidic perfume. It was then that she noticed the various vampiric deterrents and crucifixes placed about the room, some bearing the visage of Christ skilfully carved from marble, whilst others remained bare; all of which had no affect him.

The glow of the evening sun had stretched across the desk and reached his stomach, slowly advancing up the fabric like a soldier, determined to meet the cool, pale crest of his cheek. She would have to wake him soon - if he did not wake himself - or else his skin would burn. Her eyes settled on his face, admiring the brilliance of his alabaster flesh, his handsome features softened by sleep. He had pressed his lips against her hair when he held her; she was sure of it. She wanted to feel their tenderness again and envisioned herself caressing his cupid's bow with her thumb, parting his bloodless lips and feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin. She felt her hand reach out for him as if it possessed its own will, moving closer to stroke his hair despite herself, but it hesitated, conflicted between the desires of her heart and mind. She needed to return to the book, but desperately wanted to touch him. Did he desire it as much as she did? If he did not, what then? Her body paid little heed to these questions and in an impulse she lent close to him, contending herself by touching his forehead with her lips. It was as bold as she dared to be with him. Then, overcome by bashfulness, she returned to her book.