(Elara's POV)
The silence of my apartment was a sanctuary, a tomb of my own making against the loud, bright, fleeting world outside. But tonight, the silence was marred by an absence. My glass was empty. The last ruby drop of the 1888 Sanguine Reserve was gone, its warmth fading from my system. A dull, irritating ache, the first hint of a thirst centuries old, began to thrum behind my eyes.
With a sigh, I pulled on my jacket. A simple errand, but a necessary one. My supplier, a nervous man who knew better than to ask questions, would be waiting.
I had barely stepped into the hallway when I felt it. A clumsy, thudding presence. A heartbeat like a panicked drum. A gaze that was trying so desperately to be subtle, it was practically screaming at me.
The idiot from 2B.
The one with the death wish. The one I had to pluck from the path of a truck. A flicker of amusement, a rare and fleeting thing, passed through me. What does he think he is? A ninja assassin? The thought was so absurd I felt the corner of my lip twitch. His attempts at stealth were like a bear trying to tiptoe through a field of dry leaves.
I could have confronted him. I could have terrified him into leaving me alone for the rest of his short, mortal life. But that would be messy. Explanations were tedious. Instead, I decided to play.
I turned a corner, and as his clumsy footsteps hurried to catch up, I simply… stepped aside. Not into a doorway, but into the space between seconds, a fold in the shadows that mortals blunder past. He ran by, frantic and wide-eyed, completely oblivious. I let the silence swallow me and continued on my way, the boy already a forgotten annoyance.
The transaction was swift. A heavy, dark-green bottle, unmarked and cool to the touch, was exchanged for a small, heavy pouch in a damp alley. My supplier scurried away, and I began the walk home, the promise of my wine a pleasant thought.
That's when I scented it.
It was a smell I had not encountered in decades, a smell I had hoped to never encounter again. The scent of rot, not of the flesh, but of the soul. A spiritual decay. It was the signature of the Carrion-feeders, the Ghouls. The cause of the recent deaths, I concluded. My jaw tightened. These things were not supposed to be here. They were echoes of a past tragedy, a failed creation I had spent centuries hunting to extinction. Vermin.
Curiosity, cold and sharp, overrode my desire to go home. I followed the stench.
And of course, at the center of the filth, was him. The idiot. Surrounded. He was frozen in a state of pathetic terror that was almost pitiable. Almost. The Ghouls, their emaciated forms twitching with mindless hunger, were closing in.
One of them lunged for his throat.
I did not think. I moved. The centuries had taught me that thought is a luxury, but instinct is survival. My hand plunged through the creature's chest, its corrupted heart turning to dust in my fist. A problem solved.
The others turned, their feeble minds registering a new threat. It was an insult to call it a fight. They were puppets with their strings cut, falling one by one in a whirlwind of precise, dismembering strikes. It was an extermination, a chore.
Then only one remained. It was whimpering, trying to crawl away. I held it in place with a glance. The thirst, which had been a dull ache, was now a sharp, demanding pang, heightened by the exertion. I do not consume humans. My palate is far more refined, my nature on a higher plane of existence than to need the crude, fleeting life force of mortals.
But this wasn't a human, was it?
This was an abomination. A blight. And I was starving.
I let the hunger take me. I felt the familiar, pleasant sharpness as my fangs descended. My eyes burned red with a fire as old as my curse. I sank my teeth into the creature, and the release was immediate, exquisite. I drew its foul energy into myself, not for sustenance, but for the sheer, brutal satisfaction of unmaking it, of erasing this disgusting echo of my past from the world. It turned to dust, and the hunger receded, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake.
I turned, my senses returning to their placid state. And the idiot was still there. Staring. His face was a mask of utter, mind-shattered horror. He was broken.
A wave of profound annoyance washed over me. Another mess to clean up. Leaving him here would invite questions. He would babble about monsters, and then the quiet life I had so carefully constructed would be ruined. He was my stray now, whether I liked it or not.
With a long-suffering sigh, I scooped him from the ground. He was light, fragile. A doll made of twigs. I carried him back to his den, ignoring the pathetic whimpers he made.
His two friends—more idiots, by the look of them—gaped at me from the doorway. Their minds jumped to the most ludicrous, romantic conclusions. Mortals. So predictable.
"See to him," I ordered, dropping their broken friend on the sofa.
I didn't wait for a reply. I walked back to my apartment, the sanctuary of 2A. The heavy bottle was on my kitchen counter, waiting. I slid the door to my balcony open, letting the cool night air wash over me.
I uncorked the bottle. The rich, metallic aroma filled the air. My favorite thing. I poured a glass, the liquid a deep, dark crimson. I took a sip, the complex, iron-laced flavor washing away the foul taste of the Ghoul and the lingering annoyance of the boy next door.
For a moment, there was peace. But as I stared out at the sleeping city, I knew it was fleeting. The idiot in 2B had seen me. He knew what I was. He was no longer just an inconvenience. He was a complication.