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covenbeyond · 29 days ago

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blood spilled and drank

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vampire!141 x humantovampire!reader

series tags f reader, slow burn, poly 141, victorian vampire au, angst, eventual smut, kyle is whipped immediately, creating insane lore for no reason, no use of y/n, no reader description except boobies, violence and blood, 141 are kinda ooc but they're literally vampires lmao, will probably add more <3

word count 4.5k

Garrick holds you to his chest as he rides his horse through the depths of the woods, expertly winding through trees and dividing between shadows.

You fall in and out of consciousness, weakened body jolting with every sharp turn down dark, unknown paths.

Your hands clutch tightly to his shirt, bloodied hands leaving stains against white fabric.

Through fluttering eyelashes, you see the ominous, looming silhouette of a large building.

“Stay with me, sweetheart.” Garrick pleads, voice cutting through the fog, “We’re almost there. You just have to hold on just a little longer.”

You wish you could believe him, as your eyes slip closed.

It has started to rain.

Heavy downpour echoing through an abandoned castle, the raindrops tapping against shards of glass and the leaves of overgrown vines.

The pitter pattering and splashing grates on the nerves of all who linger in the castle’s shadowed halls. The crows, the rodents, the foxes, and the vampires alike.

Three members of the recently relocated a hundred and forty first clan linger idly inside of the decrepit ballroom, uneasy due to their missing

Captain John Price is pacing, heavy boots scuffing dirt across the stone flooring.

His companions, Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish and Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, watch him warily, from their places sprawled across ancient furniture. The Scotsman’s knee shakes, pent up energy and the beginnings of hunger making him restless.

He is thrown a cautionary look by his masked friend, a silent order to practise silence while in the presence of their leader’s frustration.

If only Johnny was one to listen, Ghost gripes internally, as Soap opens his big mouth.

“Gaz’ll be back soon, Cap’.” The Scot assures, blatantly ignoring the warning grunt from Ghost.

His attempt at comfort falls on deaf ears. Price scowls, scratching his fingers through his hair, “He was out of control last night. He’s too young to be left wandering.”

He aims a pointed glare at Ghost, who simply shrugs, “Found him, didn’t I?”

“Damn near too late.”

“He's new t’this” Soap states, reclining against his chair in a carefree manner, even if his jittering limbs betray his true feelings of discomfort.

“Exactly.” Price growls, “He can’t contain himself yet. He’s a risk to every bleeder out there. If Simon hadn’t found him, he would have torn that girl to shreds. Damn near in her own backyard!”

He stands at the antique fireplace, staring into it’s darkened depths, “Could you imagine what would have happened if she had been gutted? Left in that forest? The hunters would have a field day, the townspeople would panic. And if someone had seen him do it? We’d be lucky to escape with our lives.”

“Didn’t happen though, did it?” Ghost says, pointedly, ignored by Price.

“And now he’s gone and gotten his bleeding heart broken.” He scoffs, “Pining over some girl who was always going to be afraid of him. Bloody fool.

Soap snorts, “Lads jus’ nae used t’ pretty girls runnin’ off screamin’ when he shows off ‘is pearly whites.”

“You know all about that, Johnny.” Simon says, “Plenty o’ experience, even before you turned.”

“Awa’ and bile yer heid, ye grumpy bastard.”

“Don't know why the girl was even out there.” Simon grumbles, looking at their leader, “But if she's got any sense, she won't be going out there again.”

A humourless chuckle escapes the captain, “Nothing about sense. If Garrick calls out to her again, she might not be able to resist.”

A thud echoes through the castle, booming along it’s hallowed halls.

The men jump into action, recognising the sound of the old doors opening. As they rush into the foyer, they’re taken back by the sight of Gaz, his white shirt sodden from the rain and carrying a shaking figure wrapped in his coat.

“Christ almighty.” Soap says under his breath, as Gaz lowers the woman to the ground, revealing it to be you.

Bloodied, skin ashy, eyelids fluttering. They can hear your heartbeat, the poor muscle within your chest fighting a losing battle to keep you alive, while the hole in your chest seeps your acrid, precious blood with the ease of an undisturbed river.

They know, without a doubt, that you are dying.

“What did you do?!” Price demands, pushing the younger vampire away from you, mistaking the scene for that of a fresh hunt.

“Not me. The hunters.” Gaz seethes, shoving Price back as he begins tearing off the old curtains to cover your weakened form, “I saw him, Price. Phillip fucking Graves.”

Soap snarls, snapping his jaws at the mention of the American hunter. A rageful hum reverberates from the three vampires, swallowing the air around them as they look between you and Gaz.

“He staked her.” Gaz says, crouching beside you to tuck the thick fabric of the curtain around your shoulders, though they all know that it will do no good in your current state. “She’s bleeding out, John. We have to do something!”

His words give the others pause, understanding his meaning. It makes them uneasy, looking between each other while Gaz flits about you like an anxious bird.

“Gaz…” Simon warns, deep baritone slicing through the tense silence.

Gaz ignores him, looking at Price and opening his mouth-

“Why didn’t ye stop ‘im?” Soap asks, almost accusingly.

“I wasn’t there, you idiot!” Gaz snaps, “Smelt her blood a mile away, heard her heartbeat… Christ, she’s dying, John!”

Price’s face grows stormy, “What exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“I want you to turn her!”

Silence.

Soap and Ghost share a look, as Gaz steps up to Price, the two of them stand toe to toe. It’s aggressive, unlike the two who are extremely close, bonded in a way which cannot be understanded by outsiders looking in.

But now, there’s a challenge in the air. The youngest of the group demanding something of the leader, something that he does not understand the weight of.

“We can’t.” Price bites.

“And why not?!”

“We only turn people when we feel the call.” Price says through gritted teeth, “Not just because they’re dying and pretty.”

Gaz snarls, stepping closer to his leader. His eyes flash, fangs shining in the candlelight.

“If you don't do it, I will!” He yells.

Simon pushes Gaz back, gripping him by the back of his neck, “Calm yourself, Kyle. Don’t go looking for a fight you won’t win.”

Gaz sneers, but allows his companion to press him close to his body, nosing at his hairline with a throaty purr.

Price huffs, his moustache twitching as he looks between his men and the dying girl. You’re still, a statue made of marble, swaddled in fabric quickly stained red. The smell of your blood is pungent, filling the entire room, adding to the unease the vampires feel.

Three sets of eyes watch Price as he kneels beside you, tracing his knuckles over the soft skin of your cold cheek.

He can admit, you are pretty. He noticed it the first time he saw you, talking to Gaz on the street after he saved you from a fall.

The second your eyes met his, he knew you could be… significant.

Price sighs through his nose, before looking up, staring at Gaz.

“Fine.”

Is this death?

You wonder to yourself, your body numb and weightless, floating in the infinite darkness surrounding you.

You feel nothing. Not just physically, but emotionally. Your mind is soft, with dulled edges. You feel almost transparent, floating in an ocean of nothingness.

Something nudges you, something foreign to your surroundings, disturbing the waves and the peace.

Cold breath. Sharp points pressing into your neck.

You gasp back into life.

Eyes opening, blurred objects shift into focus. The black void disappears in front of you, leaving behind a high, cracked ceiling.

A face looks down at you, blood dripping from lips hidden behind a moustache.

“'ello, again.”

You cough, sucking down air that only leaves you once again. Your lungs have no need for it, expelling it instantaneously. Your body is… cold. Motionless. You feel no movement inside of you, your heart still and solid where it should be beating.

Is this death?

No, this is worse.

You sit up, pushing the vampire away with all the strength you can muster.

He’s a wall of solid muscle, not moving an inch from where he crouches, regarding you with the apathy one reserves for looking at an insect beneath their shoe.

You shift to your knees, looking down at your bloodied dress and healed chest, not even a scar in the place where Graves had stabbed you.

Reborn, a vampire.

You hate it.

A sob escapes you, your hands pressing to your chest, willing your organs to work, willing your life to return to you. Tears blur your vision, other faces swimming closer in front of you.

“Stay away from me!” You scream, cowering from them like a wild animal, standing and shrinking back.

You move on uneasy legs, falling backwards and into the arms of someone. You look up, feeling deja vu at the sight of the masked man and his cobalt eyes looking down at you.

“Let me go!” You scream, trying to escape the prison of his arms as he holds you up.

“Ghost.” Price warns, and the other man sets you upright, allowing you to scamper away.

You look around wildly, trying to find an exit. You meet the worried eyes of Garrick, and the uncertain face of MacTavish. You glare at both of them, trying to fight your tears to show how enraged you should be, and not how terrified and grief stricken you truly are.

It hits you then. Hunger. Hunger like you’ve never felt.

Price takes a step forward, holding his hand out in a placating manner, “You need blood, love.”

“Leave me be!” You wail, “You’ve made me a monster.”

The men stare at you, but you ignore them, stumbling away on shaking legs to the large, broken doors leading towards the outside.

But it’s only a balcony. You huff out an angry sob, looking down past the barrier to the long drop down into overgrown bushes.

No way to jump down. No escape from here.

Looking out to the horizon, you see the town. A mere dot amongst miles of green, but it’s there. It’s still the same.

Someone clears their throat behind you.

Garrick seems sad when you turn to look at him, shoulders slumped and head tilted downwards.

“I wish it hadn't come to this, my lady.” He says, “I swear, if I had known-”

“Stop, Garrick.” You say, wiping your hands over your face, “I don’t… I don't want to hear apologies.”

“Then what do you want?”

You look back to the horizon, your mind a cramped cluster, a twisted and tangled ball of wire.

“I don't know.” You settle on, “I… everything's different now. I'm different now. It's not fair.”

Garrick nods, looking regretful, “We wouldn't have done it if there was any other option-”

“You could have let me die.”

Garrick is silent at that.

The horizon is endless as you look at it. Never ending trees and fields and distant houses. The world seems so different now, though you know it hasn't changed. You're the one who's changed.

“Why were you back in the woods?” Garrick asks, looking over at you inquisitively.

His question startles you, but you shrug, giving the simplest answer, “I went looking for you.”

It is silent, until a hand presses to your shoulder, turning you around to face him. Garrick smiles sadly, bringing both hands up to hold your face.

"I'm-"

"No apologies." You reiterate.

“I was going to say, I'm the same as you. Well, not exactly. But I was where you are, not too long ago.” Garrick murmurs, his thumbs rubbing soothingly over your cheeks.

You furrow your brows, not understanding what he means, "How?"

"I'm a new vampire, too. Twelve years ago, I worked in construction, and I fell off of a moving train. Watched the sun rise on the tracks, no feeling in my body… I thought I was done for. Then-” He looks away, back to the castle, “Price found me. He brought me back. But,” He looks at you, “I was afraid too. I felt like an outsider in my own body. But I can promise you, it will get better.”

“Why did you…” You take a second, “Why did you do it?”

Garrick furrows his brows, “Do what, my lady?”

“...Save me.”

Kyle smiles, “It wasn’t a choice I made, my lady. There was no other option than to save you. I…" He trails off, looking away as he searches for the words.

He settles on, “You have enchanted me.”

You blink, caught off guard. He looks at you earnestly, but his words only confuse you.

Yet you have the urge to learn to understand.

“Kyle.”

Ghost stands in the doorway, dark eyes set on you though he speaks to his friend.

“We’re going hunting.” The masked man says, “She needs blood and we ain't got none.”

Kyle follows him in, you trailing behind, “Blood? You- you're hunting… people.”

Garrick is quick to try to reassure you, “We don't hunt people-”

“Not in smaller towns like this.” Price states, voice cold and indifferent, “Too easy for someone to notice.”

The weight of the words left unsaid linger, and you feel a chill. They have hunted people... they've done it to survive, selfish and imprisoned in their own hunger.

How many people have they killed, in cities where people can easily disappear?

“Ghost, stay here. Make sure she doesn't go wandering and get herself lost.”

With that, Price turns away, a dark cloud around him.

You avoid Garrick's look, MacTavish's nod and Ghost’s stare, walking in the opposite direction, further into your new prison.

With your newfound isolation, you find yourself pacing the library.

A mirror, cracked and rusted and overgrown with weeds, leans against the wall. As you look at it, you take in your appearance.

You look… the same.

Your hair is messy, your skin is dull, your dress is torn and covered in dirt and blood, but you haven't changed.

It almost makes you… angry? That your entire life has changed, yet reality seems unwilling to show it, not an eyelash or a blemish changed upon your face to dignify your transformation with evidence.

Seeking answers to your questions, you press your finger against the glass, applying enough pressure to slice the flesh. You feel dulled pain, like you’re feeling it through a barrier.

When your skin cuts, nothing escapes. No blood. Just more flesh, red muscle and white bone.

Something ugly crawls up your body, a feeling of grief. Anguish.

It’s not fair. You’re an outsider in your own body now. The living dead, walking around in a carcass that refuses to decompose.

You feel hatred towards them. Garrick, Graves, Price, everyone. They’ve taken your life from you.

Looking back at the mirror, you see your eyes-

Your iris has expanded, bleeding into the white of the sclera. They shine like metal, your pupils mere pinpricks surrounded by oceans of iridescent colour.

It startles you, and you gasp, revealing your fangs. Sharp, pointed teeth where your molars were. You bring a hand to your lips, and see long claws where your fingernails should be.

Finally, you can see how much you’ve changed.

Blinking, your eyes return to normal. Your fangs shrink back, smaller but still pointed. Your claws retract, still sharpened like blades but now they resemble normal nails.

It can't be real, can it?

You’ll wake up in your own bed, embarrassed about this strange dream. You’ll go about your day to day life, slowly forgetting about the odd men you fabricated and-

A knock on your door.

You turn around, and MacTavish pops his head in, giving you a roguish, lopsided smile, “Y’alright, bonnie?”

Opening your mouth, words escape you. You try to enunciate your horror at your new situation, but you cannot.

MacTavish seems to understand, paying no mind to your stuttering and taking a step closer into the room.

“I came to, uh, help ye with feedin’, lass.” MacTavish says, “Cap wanted someone to sit with ya, it can be quite dauntin’ at first.”

He carries a glass. Inside it is thick, red liquid.

Blood.

It makes the logical side of your brain reel, disgusted and horrified....whilst your body hones in on it, craving it.

“Here.” MacTavish says, voice softened, “Looking at’it can be weird’, I'll help ye."

He crosses the room, sitting on one of the dusty sofas. Patting the space next to him, he urges you forward.

Perhaps you really are stupid, because you sit beside him. A reasonable distance apart, and with posture statuesque, but sat regardless.

MacTavish doesn't mention it, instead saying, "Close yer eyes, lass.”

You shouldn't trust them. They’re the monsters hiding in closets, they’ve stormed into your life like a hurricane and turned everything upside down.

You shouldn't trust John MacTavish. But you do, because you have no other options.

So, you close your eyes.

After a moment of waiting, listening to the sound of clinking class and shifting fabric, cold lips press to yours, and you jolt away.

"How dare you-!"

“Easy now.” MacTavish says, giving you a smile, "I'm just trying to feed you."

You stay in place, feeling uneasy, but allow your eyes to close again.

Surely this doesn't mean anything, he's trying to put blood in my mouth for crying out loud.

The lips return, firmly moulding to yours.

It's not... unpleasant. In fact, in any other circumstance, you might even say it's nice.

But you barely know him... and what could Garrick think of you kissing his friend?

Fighting the urge to pull away, you feel his tongue lick at your lips, seeking entrance. Allowing it, you taste copper coating your mouth.

It’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.

Shame be damned, you sink into the feeling, licking against him to drink every drop of blood he offers.

When the flavour runs dry, you keep kissing him, seeking out more blood. MacTavish pulls away with a chuckle, and you open your eyes to find his handsome face looking down at you with kind eyes.

“More?” MacTavish asks, a teasing smile on his face.

You don’t even bother answering, leaning forward and licking the blood left on his lips. MacTavish hums appreciatively, butting his forehead to yours as he grabs the glass again.

Sipping more, he eagerly presses his mouth back to yours, letting you drink from him.

Before long, the glass is empty, and your hunger is gone. You lick your lips, smacking them as you enjoy the new feeling of buzzing energy rushing through you.

MacTavish nudges his nose to your cheek like a cat, nipping you with sharp teeth and causing you to huff out a laugh. He smiles at the sound, and the moment is calm. Sweet, almost.

You smile, “I have a feeling that’s not the conventional way to drink blood?”

“Maybe not.” MacTavish smirks, taking the glass and standing, “But it’s the best way.”

He leaves you with that, disappearing back out the door.

The moment is over, and your anxieties return. You’re left sated, but confused. With an aftertaste of blood and a strange sense of yearning, mixed with apprehension.

Garrick, Kyle as he seems to be known to most, or 'Gaz' as he is called by his clan, is working outside.

Sleeves rolled up, waistcoat unbuttoned, looking every bit the strong working man he mentioned he was before his transformation.

You linger in the shadows, watching him as he slots a plank of wood atop layered bricks, creating a canopy for his horse to hide under during the winter storms.

Approaching him, you spot the horse close by, grazing on the overgrown grass, her dark fur shining in the winter sun.

She looks up at you, huffing through her nose in what you could only hope is recognition. Kyle notices you, smiling warmly.

“This is Posie.” Kyle introduces, petting her nose.

You smile, gingerly holding out your hand for Posie to sniff. She noses at your fingers, before stepping closer to allow you to pet her neck.

“She likes you.” Kyle chuckles, “Strange. Animals don't usually take to vampires so quickly.”

“Maybe she recognises me from before.” You say, carding your fingers through her mane, “In the woods.”

“Maybe.” Kyle muses, voice soft as he watches you with kind, sympathetic eyes.

The sound of approaching horses slices the calm atmosphere in two, the two of you turning to watch as the other three return to the courtyard.

Posie huffs, returning to grazing on the overgrown grass as Kyle approaches Price.

“What do you know?” He asks, voice taking on a dangerous edge.

“We saw Graves.” MacTavish says, dismounting and running an aggravated hand through his hair “Parading her death around, gatherin’ th’town and tellin’ ‘em all about th’poor lass slaughtered by the evil vampires.”

You shudder, instinctively stepping closer to Kyle at the news of your death being so callously broadcasted.

Kyle rests a hand on your arm, comforting you, “I'm sorry, love.”

With the horses tethered, Price leads the group back into the castle, ripping his coat off with angered vigour.

“They’re here for us.” Price states, moustache twitching with annoyance, “The shadow company. Said it themselves, with that bastard Shepherd with them.”

“Well we knew that.” Kyle scoffs, keeping to your side as the others mill about the ballroom.

“Is that why you’re here?” You ask, causing all four of them to look at you, “For the… shadow company?”

“No.” Price says, hesitating, “We’re here for my sire, the vampire who made me. Her name is Katherine Laswell.”

You know that name. Miss Laswell is a stoic, older woman, living on the outskirts of town and minding her own business. She wasn't one for socialising, always staying indoors with her ward, Emma.

Neither of them have been seen in months, and you tell them as such.

Price sneers, “Yeah, we lost contact with her a while ago. Came here to find out what happened. I believe Shepherd found her out and tried to kill her. That's why we’re here.”

“In secret?” That’s unusual. Vampire hunts are usually a big deal, whole provinces getting involved, never in secret. “Why would he do that?”

“Because she was encroaching on his territory.”

His territory…

“Wait... mayor Shepherd is a vampire?” You ask, surprised.

Ghost nods, “The worst kind. He’s a coward, who sends others out to do his dirty work. Orchestrating the annihilation of his own people to gain the bleeders trust, keep the herd close and to himself. He's been doing it for centuries.”

“We’re nae monsters.” MacTavish says, “There are many o’ us, everywhere. ‘T’s the worst of us that make us seem so evil.”

“Laswell lived in your town for decades and you never knew.” Kyle says, “She never killed anyone, always found better means. Animals, the dying, good samaritans. Her lover was human, and she was who fed her until recently.”

You raise your eyebrows, “Emma?”

Price hums, “Poor woman. We found her buried behind the town hall. We think she was used to draw Kate out.”

“Where’s she now? Laswell?” You ask, looking between them.

“In hiding.” Ghost growls, “With the Shadows lingering and Shepherd’s vampires on the lookout for her, she’ll be holed up somewhere.”

“We thought here, but…” Price grunts, shrugging and taking a seat.

It's a lot of information, and you feel your head getting woozy, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively. Kyle notices, taking a step closer and resting his hand on your arm.

“Why don’t you get some rest, my lady.”

You scoff, “Vampires sleep?”

“Vampires rest.” He chuckles, “We choose to sleep because it helps the passing of time, but our bodies tire just like everyone else. Lie down for a while, rest your body. It's been a rough couple of days.”

You nod, giving the others a lingering look before turning and leaving.

Night has fallen, and though Kyle said vampires could choose to sleep, it's the last thing you want to do right now.

You find yourself wandering around the castle. It’s a wondrous building, or at least it would have been when people lived in it. But centuries of abandonment have made it dark, overgrown ruins.

The beginnings of hunger are encroaching on your peace, a deep, painful feeling coursing through your body.

It will take some getting used to, you have to remind yourself.

Turning another corridor, you spot two familiar silhouettes.

Kyle and MacTavish are talking quietly, barely a breath apart. The Scot noses at his friend's cheek, before letting out a choked sound. It stops you in your steps, unsure of the scene you have walked upon.

You look down to see Kyle’s hand in MacTavish's trousers.

Their bodies move in harmony, pushing and pulling as one as they exchange whispered words and euphoric sounds. Kyle’s hand flexes, and Johnny goes taunt, before pressing his forehead to the other man's.

Kyle presses his lips to Soaps, murmuring-

“I love you.”

Shocked, confused, you round the corner once again, bringing a hand to your mouth.

You thought… maybe Gaz had feelings towards you. The way he acted made you think there was something there, perhaps feelings or a longing for more.

How foolish. Of course this gorgeous, intelligent, kind vampire would already be romantically involved with another beautiful vampire.

What chance did you have?

Perhaps you were just a game to him. Perhaps he just wanted to play with the naive young human. Perhaps Soap is in on it.

Embarressment, longing and the bitter aftertaste of disappointment linger in your heart as you walk away, leaving the soft sounds of the men’s enjoyment behind you.

The ballroom had become dark with the night, the broken windows letting whistling wind through the cracks and sending the whole room into an icy chill.

You shiver as you walk in, looking for a source of warmth and comfort with your spiraling thoughts.

The fire has been lit, and two men sit beside the hearth, their backs to you as they talk. Price’s fingers cradle a half smoked cigar, the smell of it sour in the air. Beside him, Ghost cleans a shot gun, fingers nimble and dark eyes focused on his task, though they seem deep in conversation.

“Gaz is young, but he's intuitive.” Price muses, voice gruff, “If he thinks there's a reason why he's so drawn to her, then there may well be.”

“He’s still got too much life in him.” Ghost bites, “He’s thinking with his bollocks.”

You swallow, stepping back into the shadows to avoid being seen, a feeling of unease taking over at their callous words and cold dispositions.

“Don't bloody need her.” Ghost growls, and if your lungs worked, your breath would stutter in hurt.

Price huffs, “Let the boys have their fun. Once we’ve dealt with Shepherd and Graves, we’ll be gone. Back to London, just the four of us.”

You stumble back, your bare feet quiet on the stone floor, turning and rushing back the way you came.

“They’ll forget about her soon enough.”

tags @pinkpuppipawz

beautiful dividers by @uzmacchiato !

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covenbeyond · 1 month ago

Text

wrong place / wrong time

pentagram m.list | next chapter

vampire!141 x human!reader (victorian era au)

word count 5.4k

December 29th, 1899.

The streets of your quaint little town are as busy as they’ll ever be, with folks running around in a haze of post-Christmas joy and pre-new years excitement.

Looking up, you note that a storm is approaching, snowflakes cover the streets in white as the winds blow harshly and the temperature drops.

There are rich couples with snow covering their fur coats, rushing about to leave this tiny town. With Christmas over, winter holidays have come to an end. They’ll return to their luxurious estates, to celebrate the new year amongst their other rich friends.

The locals are buying and selling festive supplies for smaller prices, tinkling laughter of children and shouts of people bargaining bounce off the cobblestone paths, filling the market with ambience.

And you, you’re helping your cousin deconstruct his stall, pulling down the tarps as Alex dismantles the plywood beams. With the end of the Christmas sales, he will return to his travelling, and you’ll miss him terribly.

“It’s a cold one, today.” Alex gripes, moustache twitching below his nose, damp from snowflakes.

You snort, “Yes, you would almost think it’s Winter.”

Alex gives you a look, shaking his head. “Instead of playing the comedian, could you take those tarps over to Daisy? I’m almost done with pulling these poles down, and I’d like to leave before dark.”

“So grumpy.” You laugh, darting away from him before he can pull down your hood in retaliation for your cheek.

Collecting the folded tarps, you swiftly walk over to Alex’s horse Daisy, and her adjoining wagon. She neighs tersely at you as you approach, her hide covered in snow. Her tale swishes angrily, explicitly showing her disdain for the weather.

“I know, pretty girl.” You chuckle, your breath leaving you in clouds, “Almost done, then you can head home.” You pile the tarps into her cart, patting her neck affectionately as you leave her side.

You understand how she feels, your cheap clothes have been fighting against the harsh cold of the oncoming blizzard. Having bought an entire outfit to combat the ever decreasing temperature, you would have thought you were prepared for this.

However, it would seem your boots are no match for the winter, as a patch of black ice on the stone floor catches you out, your weight shifting forward and sending you stumbling.

You shriek, feeling the world spin around you as you fall backwards. You clench your eyes shut as you brace for the impact of the floor-

But it never comes. Warmth surrounds you, and you open your eyes, finding yourself looking at a… very handsome man.

“Are you alright, miss?” He asks, voice smooth and words enunciated. A Londoner, if you were to guess. A very, very handsome Londoner.

Who you’re currently embraced in the arms of.

“Oh!” You gasp, face flushing, “Quite fine. Just… gravities worst enemy.”

The man chuckles, lifting you upright and helping you find your footing. His hands remain on your biceps, keeping you steady against the brutal winds.

“I wouldn't say gravity. Though, perhaps ice has it out for you.” He jokes, a dazzling smile on his face.

He finally removes his arms, and you immediately miss the weight of them, even if they offered little warmth. Probably due to the thick layers he’s wearing. An immaculate navy suit under a thick, fur lined black coat.

He adjusts his fedora, shielding his honey brown eyes from the sun. He flashes you a pearly white smile, and you believe you’re done for.

“Perhaps I could learn the name of my saviour?” You ask, offering your hand to shake.

He stiffens for a second, tilting his head at you in a contemplative manner, before taking your gloved hand in his own. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to the back of it.

Perhaps it really is gravity that hates you, for you feel like the world is spinning once again.

“Kyle Garrick, miss.” He says, rising again to offer another one of his dazzling smiles, “At your service.”

Service me, please- you shake your head, fighting a blush, and give him your name, “A pleasure.”

He smiles again, “The pleasure is all mine-”

“Gaz!”

The both of you jump as a loud, deep voice calls out. Looking around for the source, you find another man standing a few feet away, looking between the both of you.

Like Mr Garrick, he is dressed impeccably, deep green three-piece over a matching heavy coat, with a unique hat and a fierce moustache. And like Mr Garrick, he’s very handsome. God forbid.

The man raises an eyebrow at your Mr Garrick, who sighs loudly through his nose.

“Gaz?” You ask, letting out a confused laugh, “What’s a gaz?”

“It’s a, uh, nickname.” Mr ‘Gaz’ Garrick explains, smiling at you bashfully, “Not one that I’m overly fond of at this moment.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, “And why is that?”

“Because it means that my time with you is being cut short.” He says apologetically.

“That’s a shame.” You say, your disappointment evident in your downtrodden expression.

Garrick gives you a somber smile, once again leaning forward to take your hand in his, pressing another, lingering kiss. He stares deep into your eyes as he bids you goodbye, “My lady.”

“Mr Garrick.”

With that, he turns and strides over to join his comrade. The moustached man remains still as a statue, staring directly at you, eyes narrowed, deep in thought.

You’re so focused on watching him and Mr Garrick as they look at you and begin to converse, that you don’t notice your cousin arriving at your side with the rest of his belongings.

Alex clears his throat, giving you an odd look when you jump in surprise.

“Y’alright?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at the two men. Mr Garrick and his friend take their leave, disappearing amongst the throngs of people and vanishing like ghosts.

“Always.” You smile, hiding the disappointment of losing sight of the pair, “Now, let’s get Daisy out of this god awful cold.”

“And you as well. Are you feeling alright?” Alex inquires as he packs up his cart, soothing a whinnying Daisy.

“Perfectly fine, why?”

“Your face is awfully red.” He smirks, “Unless that has something to do with the man I saw leaving your side?”

You send him off with a smack to his arm, ignoring his teasing laugh.

Alex waves to you as he clicks his tongue and sends Daisy on her way. You watch with a sad smile as your cousin is swallowed by the crowd, before looking back to the devious patch of ice that Mr Garrick had to save you from.

Perhaps you are blushing, just a little bit.

Who could blame you?

On the morning of December 30th, your neighbour's baby wakes you up with the sun.

The cottage you live in is small, gifted to you in your will by your late aunt. It was homely, made so by you, but often lonely. The sound of the weeping child, the soothing voice of his mother, the older children playing in the snow as their father laughs at their antics, reminds you of what you do not have.

A family of your own.

Your parents long gone, no siblings, your aunt recently passed. Your only living relative is your cousin, but he is always travelling, a wild soul who seeks a life of opportunity.

And while he’s asked if you would like to join him, you’re not one for adventure.

So you’re left alone. No husband, no children, no real clan. Just four walls and dusty floorboards, the sounds of your neighbours and the life you wish you had.

It presses down on your chest, forcing you out of your bed and readying for the day far earlier than you usually would.

Maybe today you’ll stock up on firewood like you've been meaning to, you tell yourself as you don your coat and boots. A quick walk around town will make you forget your isolation, surely.

And it’ll be a completely coincidental benefit if you happen to run into a certain Mr Garrick…

The town is less chaotic this morning. Only a few farmers and their sons wander about with their goods, and an old couple walking arm and arm to avoid slipping on the snowy paths.

Though the snow has ceased to fall, it has generously left behind a thick layer of fluffy snow across the walkways and roads, thick enough to reach your shins. You hold your skirts up to jog to the local shop, taking long strides to avoid larger lumps of snow.

What a sight you must look, bouncing through the snow like some wild thing.

A tinkling bell announces your arrival as you enter the general store, and you’re met with a much appreciated warmth. Your teeth are chattering, your gloved hands rubbing your arms to regain some heat.

“Morning, Mrs Thompson.” You greet the woman behind the counter, who looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Good morning, dear.” The elderly lady says with a smile, “What are you doing out in that weather?”

“I needed more firewood.” You explain, “The old house does not magically warm itself.”

“It should be ashamed of itself.” Mrs Thomson says before returning to her chores.

You huff out a laugh, nodding at her as you walk deeper into the shop.

While the shop constantly changes the places it organises supplies, it’s small enough that you can find whatever you need rather easily. But firewood seems to be evading you, forcing you into the dark, back corridor which stores the recently re-supplied goods.

As you search, a startlingly familiar voice echoes down the smaller hallway, and you feel your heart beat quicker when you recognise the deep tone.

“...ridiculous. We’re too out in the open in this town, we can’t just… disappear like we did back in London.”

It’s Mr Kyle Garrick, whispering to someone else.

“Aye, no’ with all these small town folk gossipin’ about every new face they spot.” A Scottish voice responds to him.

Looking around for the sources of the voices, you see two, tall shadows lingering at the end. They're leaning close, talking animatedly.

As you approach, Garrick continues muttering, “I can’t understand why the captain would insist we come here. And why not tell us? Soap, I can’t help but worry-”

“Mr Garrick?” You smile, interrupting them and announcing yourself, worrying about eavesdropping.

Two heads snap to look in your direction, two pairs of bright eyes finding you in the darkness. One cerulean blue, the other golden brown.

Recognition fills the latter, and Garrick’s face lights up upon seeing you, “Miss? What are you doing here?”

“Just a bit of shopping.” You smile, looking between the two of them.

“Oh? Buying anything of note?” Garrick asks, taking a step closer and subtly shielding his friend from view.

You pretend not to notice; “Firewood, very exciting stuff.”

Garrick laughs, “Riveting.”

His accomplice eyes you, looking you up and down with appraising eyes. He steps out of the darkness, the lamplight flooding his face. Handsome, just like Garrick. Less clean cut, with a stubbled jaw and various scars, both unable to hide his rugged good looks.

What’s with all the beautiful newcomers?

“Are ye lookin' for it lass? Saw the owner moving it towards the rear window this mornin’” The new man says, offering a large grin.

Not as warm as Mr Garrick’s, more… wolfish. Hungry. You can see your acquaintance giving his friend a look, something darkening his pretty brown eyes. But when they turn back to you, they regain their kindness.

“I beg your pardon, my lady.” He smiles, “This is my colleague, John MacTavish.”

“Colleague?” Mr MacTavish grumbles indignantly, earning a light elbow to the chest.

“Behave.” Mr Garrick bites.

You chuckle, “Well, thank you for the help, Mr MacTavish. My name is-”

“I know, lass.” MacTavish interrupts, before practically purring your name, “Gaz told us all about you.”

“Oh.” You say, blinking. A shiver runs through your body, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively. What a strange thing to say…

Mr Garrick clenches his jaw, side eyeing his friend with another deadly glare. Mr MacTavish seems unfazed, merely grinning and crossing his arms in a confident stance.

With a rough clearing of his throat, Me Garrick steps closer to you, “Here, miss, let me show you where the firewood is.”

You force a smile on your face, trying to internally wave off the anxiety you feel, “That would be very kind of you, thank you Mr Garrick.”

“Very kind of you, Mr Garrick.” MacTavish parots.

Garrick ignores him as he leads you out of the corridor, further into the warm light of the store until you see the firewood piled up.

Before you can say anything, Garrick begins grabbing a few, piling a hefty stack in his arms.

Lord, he’s strong.

You can feel your face burning as you fight the sordid images playing in your mind, all of which display Mr Garrick using that strength for other means.

He insists on carrying the logs for you, even after you’ve paid and left the shop, not allowing you to hold a single one. Your heart races at the prospect of him carrying them to your home.

As you linger at the shop's entrance, you catch the tail end of a nearby man talking to the butcher. “-wouldn’t believe such gruesome sightings near these parts.”

“Nasty business.” The butcher agrees, voice grim.

The two stare at a small group in the centre of town, and you find yourself studying them too.

You recognise one of them as Mayor Shepherd, and he’s animatedly talking to a stranger. A leering blonde man, with cold eyes and a smirking face.

Their conversation is hissed, but a word cuts through the air, unmistakable.

“...Vampires...”

Your blood goes cold.

Vampires. Creatures of the night. Monsters disguising as humans, slaughtering and drinking from their victims.

In larger cities, it is more common to see them. They hunt in groups, or gangs. Vicious killers lingering in the dark, luring the weak into their nests to feast.

The stories are whispered by drunks in dark pubs, or chattering old ladies fearful of their own frailty, or parents warning their children of what hides in their closets.

But you’ve never heard of them being in such a small town like yours.

The man mayor Shepherd talks to seems at ease. His dark clothes and crosses give him the appearance of a priest. But his gait, his daggers, and his shadowed lackeys grouped behind him like a pack of wolves, they all scream vampire hunter.

Are there vampires nearby? You’ve seen no such beasts, never heard of anyone you know having seen one in person.

God forbid they're lingering in your quaint town.

Garrick follows your line of sight, his eyebrows furrowing. His face seems to have darkened, and he looks around before spotting a teenaged boy with a horse and cart.

He whistles him over, handing him a few coins, “Take these logs to this ladies house, would you?”

The boy is quick to nod, looking down in shock at the shocking amount of money held in his hand.

“Mr Garrick?”

“I must leave you here, my lady.” He says, voice deadly serious, “I have urgent business I forgot about.”

“Oh… alright, well-”

“Good day, my lady.” He tips his hat, walking away swiftly.

You watch him leave, utterly confused and a little bit (only a little bit) disappointed. But you shake the feeling away, leading the young man with your pile of firewood towards your humble home.

Unbeknownst to you, a large, forboding figure watches you from a distance.

The winds are rageful tonight.

The gate outside bangs loudly, thunderous and repetitive. It’s driving you mad.

Escaping your cocoon of blankets, you wrap two shawls around yourself under your winter coat, braving the elements to shut your goddamned gate.

It’s even worse than you thought, your teeth chattering as you carefully walk down your garden pathway to the end of your lot. The stones are icy, shiny and black like a river below your feet.

The gate taunts you with its incessant banging, swinging back and forth and colliding with your fence in a heartbeat like melody.

You curse it internally as you grab it with shaking hands, pulling it closed and latching the hatch.

“And you stay shut.” You gripe, “Bloody useless hunk of wood-”

A yowl.

You startle, eyes wide as you look up. The woods behind your street stare back at you, dark and infinite. The snow topped trees sway with the howling wind.

The noise could be that of an animal, perhaps a wounded fox or a lost calf. Perhaps a wolf searching for food in the unending

But then it comes again. A pained, weeping noise, longer than the first yelp. It’s a wail, full of agony, full of desperation. And it sounds like the cry of a person.

You grit your teeth, concern swiftly overtaking your fear. It could be a traveller calling for help, or one of the neighbours children lost and cold and succumbing to the elements.

How could you live with yourself if you didn't look?

You curse yourself as you open your gate, closing it behind you as you take slow, tentative steps into the dark unknown.

The woods you know well, in the Summer days. You took strolls with your father when you were a child, you walked the neighbors dogs for a fee when you were sixteen.

But you don't recognise them now. In the dark, in the cold. The moonlight casts shadows through the trees, thin fingers from the branches, grabbing at your ankles.

The cry comes again, and you keep walking.

It’s not bravery that pushes you forward, nor is it curiosity. Perhaps stupidity, or even nativity, or maybe even the delusion of believing oneself is invincible.

Truly, though, it’s something else.

A pull. An invisible string drawing you close, grabbing you by the neck and dragging you forward, until you see the howler themself.

Leaning against a tree, heaving and whining like a wounded animal, clawing at the bark beneath it’s sharpened fingers. Skin clammy in the moonlight, eyes scrunched and head repeatedly slamming back against the tree trunk.

But even still, he’s unmistakable.

“Mr Garrick?” You call, “Mr Garrick, are you alright-?”

His eyes open, his head turns to you.

Your heart drops.

His eyes are glowing, golden yellow, pupils a mere dot in an ocean of colour. Full lips pulling back to reveal lines of sharp teeth. He snarls, pushing himself off of the tree, strong legs prowling towards you.

His gaze is hungry, inhuman, and dead set on you.

Vampire.

You stumble back, your foot catching on a root, your back colliding with the ground.

Garrick stalks forward, a deep, rumbling growl clawing through his throat. Fangs sharp like knives, saliva pooling from his mouth, rabid in his monstrous desire to kill.

Moving on your hands, pushing yourself backwards, you’re unable to look away from the man approaching you. You feel tears falling down your cheeks, warm against your cold skin.

All you feel is fear washing over you, as you look at the once handsome face of Mr Garrick, now the feral expression of a monster.

Your back collides with something solid, and you look up.

A skeletal face.

You scream, before the face lunges for you, and you brace for death to take you.

But strong hands grab you, pulling you up with inhuman strength. The ghastly figure pushes you behind him, catching Garrick as he rushes forward.

They clash, Garrick’s clawed hands slashing at the strange man, who pushes him back with inhuman strength. Garrick howls, fighting with ferocity, desperate to get to you, to devour his meal. The mysterious ghoul holds him back, snarling behind what you can now see is a mask.

His head snaps around, black eyes look directly at you.

“Run!” He shouts.

And you do.

December 31st, the sun has risen. You haven't slept a wink.

Once returning home, you locked and barred your door, pushing your kitchen table against it with shaking hands. You knocked over books and broke knickknacks climbing atop your bookshelf to grab your father's rifle, clasping it to your chest not unlike a child would its teddy bear.

You collapsed to the ground in a mess of sweat and tears, shaking and weeping, knuckles turned white against the iron of the gun.

It took hours before you could finally take a full breath, when your heart began to slow as the first rays of sunlight.

You moved in a daze as you prepared coffee. You dressed like a machine, completely automatic as you wrapped yourself in your coat and scarf and left your home.

Where were you going? You had no idea.

But you find yourself standing in the centre of town, looking at the spot of black ice that caused you to meet Mr Garrick in the first place. Traitorous spot of ice, sending you careening into a confusing nightmare.

Someone knocks into you, startling you from your reverie.

You jolt, looking up, expecting the worst. But instead, you meet the eyes of the same blonde man mayor Shepherd was speaking to yesterday.

“Excuse me.” He says, an American accent evident, “My fault.”

“Graves.” One of his men urge him on, and Graves gives you a lingering look as he continues on his way.

You shiver as you watch him leave. Could he know? About your dealings with Mr Garrick? About the vampires you now know linger in this town?

Uneasy, you allow your feet to carry you down the street, leaving the heavily populated areas and now traipsing down the narrow alleys.

Your mind is a mess, thoughts spiralling and imagination running wild. So much so, that when you see him at first, you think you may be imagining him.

Mr Garrick.

Standing at the other end of the street, dressed well and looking human again. He turns to face you, and you halt, realising that he is not a figment of your imagination.

All of a sudden, you’re terrified.

His eyes fall on you, his face dropping into a devastated expression, mouth opening to call out to you.

You turn, running away. Footfalls echo around you, heavier and faster than you. You flee down a smaller alleyways, trying to lose him.

Until you meet a dead end.

“My lady-” Garrick calls out, his figure joining you in the shadowed backstreet.

“Stay- stay away from me.” You beg, trying to push past him, panicking like a caged animal.

“Please, please, listen to me.” Garrick begs, reaching out for you.

“No!” You yell, turning and slamming right into a solid chest.

Craning your neck, you find yourself looking into black eyes. Pale eyelashes, a scar running down a pale temple, a black mask covering the lower half of a face.

Those eyes… the skull from last night…

You swallow as you step back, looking back at Garrick, as he’s joined MacTavish, appearing from the shadows.

A third man stands guard in front of the exit next to the masked man, his eyes equally harsh and his presence commanding.

The moustached friend of Garrick’s, with the strange hat and eery glare.

“Price, she means us no harm.” Garrick says, voice tight but stern, glaring at the hatted man.

“If that's the case, then we don't mean her no harm either.”

“Unlikely.” You bite, unable to stop yourself.

MacTavish whistles lowly, “Birdie’s got some bollocks on ‘er.”

“Johnny.” The skull warns.

“What you saw last night…” Price says, trailing off.

He needs not say more. He’s talking about Mr Garrick, his transformation, his monstrousness and your near death.

They’re all a part of it.

“I know what I saw.” You insist, “He’s a-”

“Mind your tongue, girl.” The masked man warns, voice deep and brutish.

You look at him, “You were there too. You stopped him, with your bare hands. There's no way you could have done that if you… you’re…”

Looking at all of them, you understand.

“You’re all…” vampires…

Price’s moustache twitches as his lips purse, a display of annoyance at having to have this conversation. The others look between you and him, seemingly awaiting his verdict.

He’s the leader. The 'captain', that Garrick mentioned in the shop. The reason they're here.

“We won’t deny what you saw.” Price finally says, “But I would advise you to keep it to yourself.”

You blanch, “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

Price stares down at you, his lips a thin line under his bushy facial hair. His expression is cold, unfeeling.

Your eyes fall, landing on his wide, unmoving chest. Swallowing, you clench and unclench your hands, finding comfort in the strain of your muscles, adrenaline fuelling your entire body.

But it’s not like you could fight them, it's not like you have any choice.

“I won't say a thing.” You say, “Just… leave me be.”

The group is silent for a moment, and though you dare not look up at them, you can sense their eyes on you, before they shuffle.

The large, foreboding figure moves, as does Price. The group splits in two to allow you to leave down the alleyway.

It almost surprises you, that these supposed monsters, allow you your freedom.

But who are you to question it?

You keep your head down as you take a tentative step forward, testing the waters. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to cackle and renounce their generosity.

But they do not. They simply watch as you make your exit.

You take another step, when a hand presses to your bicep, ever so gently. You look up slowly, to meet the eyes of Garrick.

His pretty brown eyes, so sad now. Remorseful, you would think, if you allowed your feeble heart to win over your brain.

“Please…” Garrick says softly, “Do not hate me.”

How could you not? Yet, how could you?

With traitorous hesitation, you pull your arm free, barely sparing the four men a final glance before turning on your heel, and swiftly walking away.

Two hours till midnight, the world around you is celebrating, but your mind is in shambles.

The turn of the new century, and it’s the last thing on your mind. All you can think about is the four vampires you've unwillingly become acquainted with.

Mr Kyle Garrick, with his good looks and manners, his kind eyes juxtaposing the sharp fangs he hides in his maw. His Scottish friend MacTavish, also known as “Soap”, for some unknown reason. His wild grin and sparkling eyes, an air of recklessness surrounding his firm form.

Then the leader, Price, the captain as Garrick called him. So commanding and dangerous. Strange hat and facial hair, with tall stature and strong body. Even when looking into his cold, callous eyes, your heart fluttered with strange desire.

And the most mysterious of them all. The unnamed one, the most frightening. Too tall, too broad, his eyes too dark and his voice too deep. But he had protected you, an innocent, a nobody, from his ravenous friend.

Why?

You want to know why. You want to know all about them.

Oh, I’m a fool, you think to yourself, as you stand in the shadows of your back garden, A fool for a pretty man.

A pretty vampire, you remind yourself as you open your gate, walking out towards the dark woods in search for the vampires.

Death has never had someone make it so easy for it.

The owls hoot and the neighbors dogs howl. There are distant echoes of laughter and chattering from your neighbors, that grow quieter with every hesitant step you take.

The woods seem tense, now. A thick, invisible fog lingers, a force pushing you back, warning you off. But you push through, ears straining for any indication of the men you search for.

You catch a voice. Hushed, muffled by the dense trees and flurry of snow.

Someone talks, and another responds, and you draw closer to the conversation, as if you were a sailor following the call of a siren.

The clouds open for a moment, and the moonlight illuminates the path ahead. Clearly now, you see a man, stalking through the shadows.

“Mr Garrick?” You call out, a mix of misguided hope and instinctual resistance.

Another silhouette moves across a tree, twigs snap underfoot as someone circles you.

You take another step, approaching the man you watch, “Mr Gar-”

Something collides with you.

Another man, his hands grabbing you, slamming you close to his own body.

The quick tear of fabric, and a sharp force pressing into your chest. Your blood has cooled, a gasp in caught in your throat. Your vision is hazy, blinking and swimming, and staring into unfamiliar eyes..

Blue, but stormy, dim with malice. And angry, until they’re not. Turning into surprise, roving over your face before looking down.

“Oh, God...” An American voice.

But you barely register his words, your chest feeling numb. Your eyes drift down, confused when you see his hand, bloodied skin pressed against the cloth of your bodice, his fingers wrapped around the base of a wooden dagger.

“What-?”

You choke, drool escaping your lips. No, not drool. Blood. Red dribbles down your chin, leaving you in spluttered coughs like cigarette smoke as you let out a cough.

The man pulls the dagger out, and you sob in agony, feeling red hot pain shoot through your torso.You stumble back, your legs feeling too light and your head feeling too heavy.

You’re falling. It draws out, as if you were swimming through tar. The winter leaves cushion your fall, but you barely feel it through the chill that is slowly enveloping your body.

More voices surround you. Shouting, panicked, confused. You look at the man above you, still holding the stake he had lodged in your chest. You recognise him now, though you seem to be seeing two of him, swaying back in forth.

It’s Graves, the vampire hunter.

But I’m not a vampire, you want to say, why would you do this to me?

Words cannot form, choking on your breath. You feel like your chest is too small, not allowing your lungs to work properly. You touch your chest, bringing your hand back to look at your shaking fingers.

Stained with blood now, it looks so dark in the shadows of the night. It doesn't feel real, so warm and so thick. Your blood, it belongs to you.

I want it back, you internally plead, it’s not supposed to be out here, falling onto the snow. It’s supposed to be keeping my body alive.

What will happen to me when it’s all gone?

“We leave her here.” Graves says, loud enough for you to hear, to cling to the sound of a voice that isn't your own, “We return in the morning, and tell Shepherd we found her. The vampires did this. Yes?"

An uneasy silence falls between his men, only interrupted by your chokes and whimpers and mumbled questions that no-one seems to hear. Are you talking inside or outside?

“Yes?!” Graves yells, and his men shout in agreement, stumbling over one another as they begin rushing away, shadows growing smaller and smaller until they’re gone.

I don’t want to be alone, your voice echoes inside your head, I don’t want to die like I lived. All alone.

Snow couches below feet, and Graves crouches beside you, grimacing at your appearance.

“Your death will aid the fight against the living dead.” He says, looking you up and down, “May God be with you.” before turning and disappearing into the darkness.

So this is how it all ends?

What was the point of all of this? Being born covered in blood only to die same? Alone, this time, with only the sound of your frenzied breath and racing heart to keep your company…

Your heart sounds like the galloping of a horse. It sounds like rushed feet running through the snow. It sounds like someone saying your name gently, as a hand cups your cheek.

A hand so cold it makes you cringe, gurgling out more blood instead of words. And when your eyes focus, a face is looking down at you.

Honey brown eyes, full lips turned down into a frown. A handsome face warped with concern.

“Oh, my lady.” Kyle Garrick says, “What have they done to you?

beautiful dividers by @uzmacchiato !

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