Darkness fell in heavy raindrops, casting a shadow over the city. The townspeople were warned to stay inside when the cover of night slipped over streets and stone buildings, but that didn't mean they all listened. While many feared the night and the monsters that crept throughout it, there were others—though very few—who ignored tales of fanged beasts with beautifully pale faces. Tales of which came from priests and beggars alike, who painted London as a city of terror, a place to be afraid of.
It hadn't always been like that. Just as the darkness fell and night took over, so did the gloom and the horror as deaths unplaceable became more and more apparent, driving people into their homes and keeping the streets empty as soon as the sun winked away.
Elena Gilbert, whether curious or stupid or maybe a combination of both, did not heed these tales as true but as lunacy. She'd seen innkeepers with bushels of garlic above their doors and men with stakes slipped into their jackets and it all felt comical to her. Men with sharpened teeth drinking the blood of young women in the street? Leaving them drained of blood in back alleys? The stories couldn't possibly have any truth to them, could they? No. Certainly not. Elena had no room for self doubt, no space for mistrust of her own wit.
She did not carry a stake, nor a weapon of any kind. There was no garlic hanging from around her neck, no precautions taken to turn away the demonic creatures who apparently hid in shadows longing for her blood. Perhaps if she had their sense of hearing, she would have already heard the faint steps behind her, would have had the decency to be afraid.
But fear was not an old friend of hers. It did not tuck her in at night, nor hang heavy outside the windowpane. It did not keep a close eye or follow her home. Fear kept its distance, afraid of the girl who braved the night despite.
He was drawn to that bravery. He lurked in the space between street lamps, moving in the shadows—vanishing. There and gone. He didn't approach her. Not at first. Instead, he watched, her own curiosity driving him mad. Who was she to stand up to him? Who was she to defy the stories he'd spread with action? Did she have no fear, or did she wish to face death himself?
Nothing good would come of meeting her, he knew. But neither could he stop from following as she walked with head held high. Where had she come from? What task had she needed to complete so late at night? At once his mistrust of the woman, alongside his interest, began to take hold. She acted as he would—but bolder. And his mind could only reel, why, why, why?
The not knowing drove him mad. But neither could he bring himself to step out of the shadow, to let the flickering flame of the street lamps cast upon the glow of his pale skin—neither could he move toward her, fearing she would crumble in his hands.
Like any vampire, he loved the kill. There was nothing else to love, nothing that compared to the feeling of hot blood sliding down his throat and warming his cheeks. That night, he'd yet to feed. And while perfect targets awaited in bars and theaters, he couldn't help but follow the one who might put up a fight. But killing her did not occupy his mind. For once, he looked upon a human and didn't think of shredding their throat, of satisfying himself. Something about her drove him mad with feelings he didn't wish to examine. And he could only follow.
For nights it went on in this way. Elena was only a girl of twenty and four, with long brown hair that fell to her mid back, sometimes braided into a crown atop her head and sometimes cascading freely and fluttering in the night's breeze. Nothing of much importance took her to the streets past sunset except for pure curiosity and a desire to tempt fate.
Her dress was plain, casual. Nothing that would insight stalking from an ordinary man. It was only this vampire whom temptation captured. But her less than cheap rags and her pleasant face didn't drive him. It was her contempt that captured his eye, had his steps falling behind hers silent, deadly.
In the light, of which the vampire was hardly spotted if he could help it, he resembled most men of the age. He dressed in black, a requirement for blending into the shadows. Though it made him more appealing too, when he allowed others to see him. His long black tailcoat was anything but simple with its exaggerated features, golden buttons lined up the front, and gray handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He carried no weapons either, of course. There was no need.
Staunching his need for the girl he'd convinced himself he could not have, could not kill, he disappeared from her shadow in search of an easier victim. It didn't take long to find another young woman, one with less determination, no gritted teeth or clenched fists, but fear in her eyes as she scurried home under the cover of night. She never made it all the way. He didn't think about who could have been waiting for her. If there was a husband or a mother checking out the window for their loved one to finally make it back. Those kinds of thoughts never crossed his mind. Considering loved ones was a trait for newborns, of which he certainly was not.
Even the chase didn't excite him as it used to. He simply moved with unnatural speed, grabbing the woman and dragging her into an alley. His eyes found hers and he consumed her gaze, explaining quickly that she was not to scream. Her nod spurred him forward, fangs sharpening as a cold smile overtook his otherwise handsome face.
To her credit, she did not scream even as his teeth pierced the fragile skin of her neck, nor did she scream as she went from strong and healthy to on the brink of death, nearly unconscious in his arms in a span of only a few seconds.
It was boring—killing her. She was not the one that he wanted, not the girl he'd been following slowly night after night, keeping pace with her as she trekked through the city. He should have just killed her. Why couldn't he? What kept him away? Headstrong did not equate to unkillable, and lest her blood was laced with something dangerous to him, she'd be an easy kill just like the rest. But still, something kept him at arm's length from this girl he knew nothing about.
Perhaps it was simply that he would have no one to follow anymore. If he took her out now, succumbed to his desires, she would be gone, plain and simple. These confusing nights with feelings he could not parse, did not understand, and did not wish to, they would be over. And he would return to tedium, to the same routine of killing without interest. Satisfying, yes, but interesting? Intriguing? Not as she was.
When at last Elena stepped through the threshold of her family home, she was met immediately with her mother's hands wrapping around her upper arms, checking her for injuries.
"Mother," Elena groaned under her ministrations. She brushed her hair away from her neck, showing her pale, unbitten neck. One side and then the other. "See?" she said pointedly. "I'm fine. These stories you believe in, they're untrue."
Her mother, a kind woman with warm brown eyes and years of worrying about her daughter under her belt, simply sighed, dropping her hands into Elena's. "You tempt fate."
"Perhaps fate tempts me," Elena said, a smile playing on her lips.
It was her mother who groaned this time. "You are just like your father, but even he has the sense to stay home during nightfall." She reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind her daughter's ear.
Elena seized her mother's hand gently, pulling it downward and squeezing it gently. "Speaking of my dear father, where is he?"
Her mother smiled, soft and kind, the fear for her daughter's safety melting away now that the girl was safe within the four walls of their home. "Where do you think?" she asked playfully, nodding her head in the direction of his workshop.
The girl wrapped her arms tight around her mother, breathing in the comforting smell of her shampoo, orchids and lavender, a smell that had meant safety ever since she was a little girl. After a lingering moment, the pair detached and Elena walked out of the room with a skip in her step. While she had a good relationship with both of her parents and of course, her little brother—even though he was a pain—her relationship with her father had always felt the most important.
She knocked on the door to his workshop, smoothing her hands over her semi-tattered dress. While they weren't the worst-off family in London, their money never seemed to go as far as everyone else's.
"Come in," her father called from behind the closed door.
She cracked it open, stepping inside. Immediately the smell of sawdust filled her nose. Used to it, it didn't give her the hacking cough it used to when she first started visiting him at work. Now, she only strode across the room and took a seat across from him. He turned off the machine he was using and lowered it, raising his visor to look at her.
The room was filled to capacity with bits and bobs, all sorts of different things her father had worked on over the past few years. Everything from the smallest carved birds to larger pieces with intricate details, a bed for a baby doll, or an ornate clock with a working mechanism. His work never ceased to amaze her.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my lovely daughter," he said, offering her a soft smile as he brushed sawdust off his brow.
She never had much reason to visit him. There was nothing she needed from him, per se, aside from his company. Or occasionally, she would have stories to tell him or stories to listen to. Tonight wasn't one of those nights. She simply felt the safest in his company, the most herself. "Just wanted to see what you were working on," she said slyly, a sort of code they'd developed over the years. He knew what that meant immediately, that she longed for some kind of escape, and that no other family member's company would do.
He opened a drawer to the left of his leg and pulled out a fresh block of wood and a pencil, setting it in front of her with a nod. Quality time meant a lesson.
"You know this is a waste of wood," she joked, beginning to sketch a simple bird on the side like he'd taught her. He set out a block for himself too, and started working on a similar sketch.
He shook his head at her comment, chuckling under his breath. Elena had never exactly nailed any of his assignments. Her wood carvings always ended up chunky and imperfect, while his were smooth and identical to the birds she'd seen flitting around nearby parks. "You just need more practice."
"I'm not sure any amount of practice will put me on your level."
He reached out and placed a hand over hers, stopping her from sketching. "Is everything okay, Elena?"
The cadence of his voice nearly broke her. Immediately she could feel her nose sting, the onslaught of tears threatening to overflow after days of keeping them at bay. But still, she pushed them away, refusing to cry in front of her father. But he was observant, could see the pause on her face, the determination to keep her features straight.
"Yes," she said finally, looking down at their hands.
"Your mother says you've been getting home late. Should I be worried?"
A forced chuckle left her throat before she could stop it. "Don't tell me you're worried about what the priests have been saying. You have to know that's folklore. Old wives tales. It's nonsense."
"And that's why you're out late, to prove them wrong?"
She huffed, hating how easily he was able to cut through to the center of her motive, seeing her fully and easily without hesitation. "No," she said forcefully, but they both knew it was a lie. Even she couldn't place a finger on why exactly she traversed the city at night. London had never been safe, even before these rumors. But the night held her in a warm embrace, and she'd always achieved her best thinking under the moon and stars, with the darkness draped over her like a blanket.
Her father released her hand. "I do a lot of things I don't quite understand either," he said, attempting to make her feel better—or perhaps make himself feel better about the daughter that confused him so. He slid open a wide flat drawer under the table and seized another piece of wood. This one was long and pointed on one end. He placed it in her grasp. "This, at least, will give me and your mother peace of mind."
She turned the wood in her hand. "What is it?"
"Should they turn out not to be an old wives tale, this will kill a vampire," he said, glancing between his daughter and the stake. "Aim for the heart."