Chapter 4
1352words
A figure slowly rose from the coffin's shadow. His movements were initially stiff, like a statue relearning the use of its limbs after centuries of stillness. He wore intricately tailored black noble attire—dusty and somewhat decayed, yet still magnificent. Midnight-black hair cascaded over his shoulders, making his face appear pale as marble.
He was devastatingly handsome, with a classical, almost morbid beauty. High cheekbones, straight nose, thin lips, and a jawline that could cut glass—each feature too perfect to be human. This perfection radiated danger. He turned his head, adjusting to his surroundings, his red eyes scanning the dim cellar before returning to me with a flicker of confusion.
He seemed—or rather, it seemed—drawn to something about me.
He rose from the coffin and landed on the ground without a sound. Only then did I see his full form—tall and slender, like some dark plant that had grown in eternal night. He approached me step by step, making no sound, as if walking on air rather than rough stone.
The scent of cemetery soil and decaying flowers grew overwhelming. My body betrayed me, paralyzed by terror, unable even to form the thought of escape. My flashlight beam danced wildly across his pale face as my arm trembled uncontrollably.
"Alive..." A hoarse voice, unused for centuries, escaped his lips. It wasn't modern English but some ancient tongue where I recognized only a few root words. His voice was deep and magnetic—even speaking something terrifying, it resonated like a cello's lowest notes.
He stood before me now, his shadow swallowing me whole. He lowered his head, those ruby eyes examining me like a connoisseur appraising fine art. I could smell the cold aura emanating from him, see the worn silver threads at his cuffs, even feel his breath—a hollow chill against my skin.
"Your scent..." he spoke again, this time in recognizable English with a heavy accent, "is... special."
The next second, an ice-cold hand gripped my throat. His movement was too fast to see—I felt only a rush of air before my neck was caught in an iron vise. He didn't squeeze, just held me in place as he leaned down and buried his face in the crook of my neck.
I felt his cold nose and soft lips press against my carotid artery, which pulsed frantically with fear. He inhaled deeply, a gesture filled with undisguised hunger and intoxication. My brain finally rebooted, and a single word crystallized in my mind: vampire.
Every fictional trope had become reality. Those legends about fangs, blood, and immortality were now playing out in the most real and deadly way—with me as the unwilling costar.
He seemed weakened, his arms trembling slightly as he held me, yet his hunger was undeniably real. I could feel sharp canines resting against my skin, ready to pierce through for a feast centuries overdue. Time stretched endlessly, each second an eternity. Strangely, after my fear peaked, my mind began to clear with surprising speed.
*Eleanor Vince, you're done for.* That was my first thought.
*No, wait, he's still holding me, but he hasn't bitten down.* That was my second.
*Why? What's he waiting for? He seems... to want more than just my blood.*
The way he held me wasn't just predatory—it was like a drowning man clutching the last piece of driftwood. His posture spoke of desperation and intense possessiveness. Deadly, yet disturbingly... intimate.
My writer's instinct awakened in this life-or-death moment—twisted yet tenacious. Fear remained, but professional curiosity began taking precedence. This was firsthand research! A living vampire! A thousand times more hardcore than Julian's platonic haunting!
I forced my stiff muscles to relax and spoke with surprising steadiness: "Well, Mr. Vampire, I think our relationship has become somewhat ambiguous."
The figure at my neck visibly stiffened. He slowly raised his head, and those crimson eyes showed an emotion beyond hunger and confusion—pure, absolute astonishment. He seemed utterly unprepared for his "meal" to speak so calmly while in his grasp.
My hands still trembled, but with supreme determination, I raised the phone I'd been clutching. My thumb fumbled to unlock the screen and open my recording app. The red record button glowed, startlingly bright in the darkness.
"Don't worry, I'm not calling the police," I said, meeting his shocked gaze. "I just think we should have an... interview. May I ask what era you're from and what your noble rank was? It's important for my novel. In exchange, I won't press charges for trespassing or... attempted assault."
Silence. Deathly silence. Only the jumping sound wave on my recording app proved this wasn't a hallucination.
He stared at me, then at the glowing device in my hand, confusion evident in his eyes. His predatory instinct clashed violently with this modern behavior completely beyond his comprehension. The bloodthirsty glow in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by intense scrutiny. For the first time, he seemed to see me as a person rather than just prey.
"You..." he finally spoke, his voice still hoarse but tinged with intrigue, "aren't afraid of death?"
"Of course I'm afraid," I answered honestly, "but I'm more afraid of missing my deadline and dying broke. Compared to that, becoming dinner for a handsome aristocratic vampire seems like a more dignified and literary way to go. At least my obituary would make for good reading."
He stared at me for what felt like an eternity—so long I thought he might resume his "dining." Then, he smiled. Not warmly, but with a thin expression filled with sarcasm, resignation, and a hint of genuine curiosity. He released my throat, stepped back, and maintained a safer distance.
With my throat free, I gulped down the cold air but didn't flee. I knew escape was pointless, and strangely, I no longer wanted to run.
"You're interesting, mortal," he leaned against his coffin, his aristocratic arrogance returning. "Far more interesting than those women I recall who could only scream and pray."
"Times have changed, sir. Women now demand equal communication rights, even with the undead." I seized the opportunity to gain some control. "So, can we talk? You've just awakened and must be confused. For starters, it's the 21st century—no carriages outside, just metal boxes on wheels. And I'm the current owner of this manor."
I pointed upstairs. "I'm guessing you don't want to be turned to ash by sunlight or staked by some religious zealots, right? I can provide safe sanctuary, and regarding food... we can negotiate. In exchange," I waved my phone, "you answer all my questions. Your species, your history, everything. Exclusive interview for shelter—fair deal, wouldn't you say?"
Silas Delacour, an ancient vampire aristocrat who had lived for countless centuries, probably never imagined his first encounter upon awakening would be negotiating a "co-rental agreement" with a human woman holding a strange glowing device. His expression cycled through astonishment, disbelief, and barely suppressed amusement before settling into an aggressive, calculating stare.
He approached me again, step by step. This time, his posture wasn't purely predatory, but his gaze was somehow more dangerous, more... penetrating. He stood before me, closer than before, close enough that I could see my own feigned composure reflected in his crimson eyes.
He raised his hand and lightly traced his ice-cold fingertips across my throat where he'd gripped me. That touch sent shivers down my spine.
"A safe haven... and everything about me?" He repeated my words in an almost lover's whisper, his eyes flickering with an indescribable light—a complex emotion mixing predation, curiosity and possession, far more terrifying than mere hunger.
"Very well," he finally said, his thin lips curving into a dangerous smile, "I agree to your... 'co-tenancy agreement.'"
He leaned down to my ear and, with that velvet-smooth yet ice-cold voice, sealed our bizarre contract.
"Well then, my... landlady," his breath brushed against my ear, "our game begins now."
