London, 1852.
Morning in London crept in reluctantly, a dim, smudged light seeping through fog and soot. The city roused itself with a reluctant groan, iron-shod wheels clattered on cobblestones, street hawkers began their coarse singing, and thin chimney smoke coiled into the heavy air.
William Taylor stepped out of his modest brick house in Bloomsbury, pulling his greatcoat tighter against the damp chill. A quick glance back showed Margaret at the doorway, hair pinned up in the simple style she favoured, offering him a tender smile. Little Anne clutched the hem of her skirt, waving a sleepy hand. Henry was nowhere to be seen, likely still tangled in his bed.
As he turned away, the faint scent of lavender, Margaret's favourite oil, lingering from the morning, clung to him, a small domestic comfort that would later feel like a cruel joke.
He tipped his hat to them, savouring the ordinary sweetness of it, before setting off down the street.
The walk to the Strand was brisk and purposeful. His polished boots struck stray bits of gravel. At every corner, the press of London life jostled him, errand boys dodging between carriages, well-dressed ladies stepping from drays with gloved hands lifted against the grime, beggars huddled in shawls whispering pleas to God and passerby alike. A newspaper boy cried out headlines of war in Crimea and another typhus outbreak along the docks.
By the time he reached the warehouse, William was already immersed in the rhythm of the day. He climbed the narrow stairs to his office, nodding to apprentices who bobbed respectful heads. Behind his door, neat rows of ledgers awaited, an inkwell glinting darkly, and stacks of bills of lading.
The hours passed in quiet diligence. William's pen scratched steadily, tallying bales of Scottish wool, bright bolts of Indian silk, barrels of coarse cotton from across the sea. At times, he paused, letting his eyes drift over the busy floor below, where young men with rolled-up shirtsleeves hauled crates and guided carts in an ordered chaos.
It was dull work to most, but to William, the predictability was a comfort. Each invoice stamped and sealed was a small bulwark against the formless dread that sometimes woke him at night, dreams of shadowed forests, whispers that curled around his mind like cold breath.
When the clock struck half past six, William pulled on his gloves and descended the narrow staircase, nodding to the apprentices still hauling crates under the watchful eye of lanterns.
Stepping outside, he drew a deep breath of damp evening air. Home beckoned, a small brick townhouse in Bloomsbury, where lamplight spilt warm and golden through lace-curtained windows. There, his wife Margaret would be tending supper, and his son Henry might be reading by the hearth while little Anne played with her rag doll.
Fog coiled through narrow alleys and over soot-streaked cobblestones, lanterns sputtering dimly, barely keeping the night at bay. Carriages rattled over the streets, their wheels clattering like skeletal fingers. This was the London that William Taylor knew, industrious, grim, and always hungry.
Somewhere in the gloom, a church bell tolled the hour, its sonorous peal swallowed by the mist. The acrid reek of coal fires mingled with the tang of damp stone, a scent uniquely London, half living, half grave.
William moved steadily through the bustling Strand district, shoulders squared, black hair neatly combed, though a single lock perpetually defied him. His green eyes, thoughtful and alert, scanned the fog-choked thoroughfare. At thirty-four, he wore the mantle of responsibility with practised ease. A fine wool coat draped over his broad shoulders, the collar turned up against the chill. A grey streak cut through his beard, giving him a prematurely aged, distinguished look.
Halfway across the empty square near St. Giles, he heard it: the scrape of a boot behind him. He turned, hand going to the small knife he kept in his coat. Nothing, only fog curling around the street lamps, swallowing shapes.
He shook his head, heart thumping, and pressed on. Then came a laugh. Soft, musical. Feminine. It danced just beyond the edge of the fog.
"Who's there?" William called. His voice sounded strangely hollow.
No reply. Just a rustle. Then, impossibly quickly, a figure was in front of him.
A woman, or the exquisite mockery of one. She was tall and slender, clad in a deep crimson cloak that spilt around her like liquid velvet. The hood was thrown back to reveal a cascade of jet-black hair that seemed almost to drink in the weak lamplight, coiling down her back in loose, perfect waves. Her skin was marble-pale, so flawless it scarcely seemed real, with veins faintly visible like delicate blue etchings beneath a fragile surface.
Her face was striking in the way of cold statuary: high cheekbones, a sharp, elegant jaw, lips the dark red of crushed berries. But it was her eyes that snared him utterly, glowing red that seemed to pulse and dance, full of hunger and a gleeful malice.
Around her throat gleamed a curious pendant of black stone, strung on a chain so fine it was almost invisible, the gem seeming to swallow the light just as her hair did. Tiny specks of red dotted her lower lip, a cruel hint of her last meal.
William stumbled back. "Good God, madam, are you unwell? Shall I summon a constable?"
She smiled, revealing teeth too white, too perfect. And then, fangs.
Before he could draw breath to shout, she was on him. Her hand, cool as river stone, clamped over his mouth. Her other arm coiled around his torso with monstrous strength, pinning him.
He struggled, but she was unyielding as iron. Then came her bite, searing, savage. Her teeth sank into his throat. Blinding agony burst through his body. He tried to scream but only gurgled as liquid fire flooded his veins, hotter and more vicious than anything he could imagine.
It was as if the world cracked open. The fog brightened unnaturally, glowing red at the edges, and he heard a chorus of voices chanting in some guttural, ancient tongue. His pulse thundered, then faltered, then surged wildly, a drumbeat of agony.
It was endless. A burning that seemed to strip flesh from bone, melt marrow, turn blood to molten lead. His vision swam. Somewhere, distantly, he felt himself fall.
The world returned by cruel degrees. First was pain, a deep, gnawing thirst that scraped along every nerve. Then the scent of old wood, and hearth smoke. His eyelids fluttered open.
He heard the ticking of a clock, painfully loud, like hammer blows against his skull. Each tick seemed to strike a spark in his veins, rekindling the hunger inside him.
He was home. His own sitting room, though it looked…wrong. The heavy walnut chairs had been dragged into a tight semicircle in the centre of the rug. Three of them. A fire burned low, casting restless shadows.
And there she was. The woman in crimson. Standing by the mantle, idly toying with a figurine.
"Awake, my dark darling," she purred, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, the agony was worth it, wasn't it? To be reborn."
William sat up with a start. His body felt strange, lithe, coiled with power. But also wrong. His chest was hollow where a heartbeat should have been.
"What…what have you done to me?" His voice was hoarse, but richer somehow, more resonant.
Her smile widened. "I have given you eternity. Strength. And perhaps…companionship, should you prove worthy."
He tried to stand, then staggered. His throat burned, an unholy thirst clawing at him. The scent of something sweet, achingly sweet, filled his nostrils.
Only then did he see who occupied the chairs. Margaret sat straight-backed in her best blue gown, hands twisted in a white handkerchief that was already stained from where she'd wrung it so tightly her knuckles had cracked. Her face was ghost-pale, eyes wide and shining with tears that did not dare fall. When their eyes met, her lips trembled, shaping his name in silence, "William," as though even the slightest sound might shatter what fragile hope she still clutched.
Beside her, Henry gripped Anne's hand so hard their knuckles blanched. His son's brown eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for a door, a window, any escape. Little Anne sat perched on the edge of her chair, clutching her battered cloth doll so tightly the seams strained. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
William swayed, struck by a wave of scent so rich it nearly drove him to his knees. Their blood called to him, sweet and warm, thrumming under delicate skin, each heartbeat a beckoning drum. His new senses laid it all bare: the frantic flutter of Margaret's pulse at her throat, the salt tang of Henry's sweat, the fragile rush of Anne's tiny heart.
"No…" William rasped. He clutched at his throat as if he could strangle the hunger out of himself. "No, God, please…"
The woman in crimson stepped behind him, her icy hands curling over his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into the skin, a threat masked as a caress. Her cool breath ghosted across his ear.
"Husband, you starve. I don't want you to fade on me. Drink."
She moved with a cat's laziness, trailing a single sharp fingernail across Margaret's throat. A thin, precise cut opened, and blood welled up, dark and vibrant. It trickled down her neck in rivulets, soaking into the collar of her dress.
The scent punched through him, savage and unstoppable. His body spasmed, muscles locking, mouth flooding so fiercely he tasted copper. A growl clawed up from deep in his chest.
"Fight it!" he snarled to himself, eyes squeezed shut, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to crack. "You will not, you will not."
But she laughed, a bright, delighted sound, and with sudden strength shoved him forward.
He collided with Margaret, hands seizing her shoulders. Her terrified gaze met his, love, horror, and final fragile trust all warring there.
"William… please…"
His name, breathed so softly, was like a blade twisting in his gut. He tried to pull back, but the scent struck again, an iron hand driving thought from his mind. Hunger howled through him. His vision tunnelled. With a monstrous snarl, he struck.
His fangs pierced her skin, and hot blood surged into his mouth. It was ecstasy and damnation all at once. Each swallow banished the inferno in his throat, replacing it with a terrible, electric bliss. Margaret gasped, a tiny broken sound, her hands pushing weakly at his chest.
Her fingers found the lapel of his coat and clutched at it desperately, as if she might pull him back from the abyss. He could feel her tears soaking into the fabric even as her pulse shuddered under his mouth.
He felt her heartbeat flutter against his lips, faster, faster, then stuttering.
When it slowed, he clutched her tighter, desperate to draw out every drop. Finally, her body sagged in his arms, weightless. He drew back, mouth slick with her blood, and stared in horror at her slack face, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a soundless plea.
He laid her gently on the carpet, trembling, choking on a sob. "Forgive me…my love…"
A sudden noise, chair legs scraping. Henry bolted upright, dragging Anne with him.
"Run, Annie! Run to the door."
But the vampire woman was already there, a blur of crimson and laughter, her hand catching Henry by the scruff and spinning him back toward William. She didn't even need to speak; the hunger did all the commanding.
"No, not him, he's just a boy," William rasped. But already he was moving, hands seizing Henry's shoulders, breath ragged.
Henry looked up at him, tears streaming down his face. "Papa… don't…"
Something in William screamed, 'STOP, STOP!', but the thirst roared louder. He sank his teeth into his son's throat. The taste was different, sharper, with a hint of salt and youthful energy. Henry gave one high, choked cry, his small hands beating weakly at William's arms, then fell still.
William's mind splintered. Flashes of memory struck him: Henry chasing hoops down the street, laughing with Anne under summer trees, proudly showing his first neat rows of handwriting. All of it drowned in red.
William staggered back, blood staining his lips, his hands, dripping onto the rug. He clutched Henry's limp body against his chest for a moment, rocking him gently as if to soothe him from a nightmare. Then he laid his son beside Margaret.
Anne had crumpled on the carpet, doll still clutched in white-knuckled hands, sobbing into its stained muslin face. William crawled toward her on hands and knees, shaking so violently he could barely keep upright.
"Forgive me…my little dove…" he whispered.
She looked up at him with wide blue eyes, trusting even now.
"Papa?"
His fangs plunged into the delicate curve of her neck. Her blood was heartbreakingly sweet, so light it seemed to dance on his tongue. Her tiny body twitched once, then fell limp in his arms.
The doll slipped from her slack grip, landing face-down on the rug with a muffled thump, one glass button eye peering up at William as if in silent accusation.
When it was done, he sank to the floor, cradling Anne against his chest, blood running in rivulets down his chin to soak into his shirt. The room spun around him. Somewhere upstairs, the clock struck seven, each chime crashing through the silence like a funeral knell.
With every toll, the house seemed to shrink around him, the walls leaning closer, the air thick with the copper stench of blood.
He laid Anne beside her mother and brother, then collapsed among them, clutching Margaret's cooling hand, rocking back and forth, a strangled sound rising from his throat, neither sob nor snarl, but some ruined thing in between.
The woman in crimson stepped lightly around the bodies, delight bright in her terrible eyes. She crouched beside William, tilting his chin up with a cold finger.
"Such a splendid beginning. Now, my dear William, you are bound to me. We shall stalk this world together, husband and wife, gods amid mortals."
He bared bloodied fangs at her, voice hoarse and broken.
"I will never be yours."
She only smiled, pressing a chilling kiss to his temple that felt more like a brand.
"Oh, you will. Time is long, and grief fades. Hunger remains. One night soon, you will come to me, seeking solace only I can give."
Then she vanished, leaving only the scent of roses and the copper tang of death behind.
William was left alone in his ruin, surrounded by the still bodies of the family he once loved more than life itself. And already, deep inside, the thirst was stirring again.
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Hey, dear reader! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a power stone to show your support; it helps keep the story going strong! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment or write a review.
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I'm writing this purely to determine the tone and style I want my main fic to have. Though again, like my Game of Thrones fic, this could become a more regular thing if people like it. These were just ideas I had for fics.