“YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL,” I BLURT OUT, MY voice dripping with admiration. Her eyes crinkle with amusement, like she's trying not to laugh. “You clean up pretty well yourself,” she shoots back, giving my outfit a once-over. “And you're late, mister.” She added. I fought the urge to run my fingers through my hair because, let's be honest, nobody wants to rock the electrified bird's nest look. Instead, I opted for a chin-stroking maneuver to buy some time while I whipped up a good ol' fashioned fib. No way could I tell her that I had been off gallivanting in the cave, checking up on Vivaldi and determining his fate? “Car trouble, Fiona!” I blurted out, mustering my best innocent expression. “Oh, really? What kind of car trouble?” I scrambled for a believable response while trying to keep my cool. “Uh—I don't have a car. So I did spring for a cab to get us to the party,” I explain, gesturing toward the taxi in the driveway like I'm some kind of game show host revealing t
SO, HERE I AM, sprawled out on the cold, damp floor of a dark cave, naked as the day I was born. My tiny hands are cuffed with these gigantic chains that look like they could hold down a whole friggin' ship! I let out a groan that'd make a wounded bear sound like a whimpering puppy. Every bone in my body screams in agony; it's like a sledgehammer-wielding madman has gone to town on me. As I try to move, the pain just won't quit. I reach for the keys to freedom, lying oh-so-close on the cave floor. But my hands are shaking like leaves in a hurricane, weighed down by the chains and that ceaseless, pounding pain. I have to wait it out, waiting for my secret superpowers to swoop in and patch me up. I know they'll stitch my broken bones, mend my torn flesh, and silence that shrieking pain. So, I lay there, wincing and writhing on the ground, my eyes tracing over the bloody remnants of my, shall we say, “transformations.” The cave walls are splattered with dried blood, like some abstract p
I'LL BE HONEST, FOLKS—my blood runs colder than an Arctic river at that moment. This isn't going to end well. I cock my head to the side, my lips forming a thoughtful 'O.' Now, what have I called him again? Oh, right—Mr. Bean Head and his glorious bald dome. I've really gone and stirred the pot now, haven't I? “I say I want a mug of beer!” I chuckle nervously, trying to backpedal faster than a clown on a unicycle. But my new friend isn't buying it. Not one bit. “No, no,” he growls, his chest heaving like a stormy sea. “What did you call me?” I clear my throat, scrambling for a way to defuse the situation. “Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!” I lie, hoping he'll buy it. “But... I'm not a blonde,” he says, his brow furrowed in confusion. Well, if he wants the truth, I'll give it to him. My lips curl into a mischievous smirk. Oh, this is going to be good. “If you're not a blonde,” I say, drawing out the moment, “then that means you're a...” I pause, letting the tension build like
SO HERE I AM, FEELING like the cat that got the cream as I lap up the rich, honey-like blood. My serpentine tongue savors every sweet drop, like it's the nectar of the gods. I can't get enough, but eventually, the poor guy's body goes limp in my grasp, so I let him drop. His glassy eyes stare up at me, so I gently close them. I'm not a complete monster, you know? I let out a long, satisfied breath, then hop up onto the bar counter, my gaze sweeping over the rows of glittering bottles. So many choices! I can't decide which one to go for, so I do a little “eeny meeny miny moe” until my fingers land on a fancy-looking bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Aha!” I exclaim. The thick, curvaceous glass and the swirly pattern on the label catch my eye, so I figure, Why the heck not? I grab the bottle, jump back down to the ground, and crack it open. As I take a long, deep swig, the sweet, bubbly liquid dances on my tongue. I can't help but let out a contented sigh. “Next time, you won't argue with m
THE GIRLS STOOD THERE, WIDE-EYED, looking around like a pair of deer that had accidentally wandered into a royal banquet. Their eyeballs practically danced a jig as they took in the swanky surroundings. I could practically hear the cogs turning in their noggins; a heady blend of wonder and unease seemed to waft off them like steam from a kettle. Who could blame them? The place felt about as welcoming as the Tower of London on a stormy night. Before they could catch their breath, the sound of my footfalls echoed through the hall as I scurried down the staircase like a rat on a sinking ship. Heart pounding, lungs heaving, and with sweat beads the size of sovereigns on my forehead, I must've been quite a sight. The girls fixed me with the kind of bewildered expressions that a jester might wear if he stumbled into the Queen's bedchambers unannounced. Summoning every ounce of composure, I muster a hearty “I Thank thee,” hoping to strike a balance between sounding gracious and not like
AS SCARLETT, WINTER AND I SWAP TALES, it's like we're old pals catching up over a pint at the local tavern. Their voices dance through the air, filled with amazement and a touch of confusion. Winter leans in closer to Scarlett, her voice dropping low like a cat burglar trying not to wake the guard dogs. Her words spin a tale that paints the air around them with a sense of mystery. “Sweet jeez, Casper, our girl Scarlett couldn't catch a glimpse of this house from the outside. It's like the bloody thing was playing hide-and-seek. But once she steps inside, bam! It's all there, grand as the day is long, like some fantastic magic trick.” I feel like a kid at Christmas, eyes wide as saucers, marvelling at the spectacle as Winter weaves her story. “I know, right?,” Scarlett says, her voice tinted with a hefty dose of bafflement. “It's super weird. I just can't make sense of it.” Her fingers graze the silky cushions, as if seeking comfort in the familiarity of the soft fabric amidst th
THERE I WAS, SPLAYED OUT ON THE FLOOR like a discarded rag doll, all gangly limbs and bewilderment. It hit me like a sack of potatoes to the noggin: my good old body, usually up for a spot of mischief, had finally thrown in the towel. Turns out, when you're a centuries-old vampire, even your vampiric superpowers can't keep you young forever without a decent slurp of the red stuff (Blood). My once-flawless arms and legs now drooped like wilted flowers, the very life essence seeping out of me faster than a barkeep pulling pints on a Friday night. It was clear as day: I needed a good ol' nibble on some poor unsuspecting neck. As I pondered my predicament, the sun glared down at me through the window, its scorching rays tickling my skin like a fiery tease from an old flame. Time stretched out like a lazy cat, each agonizing second extending into eternity as the golden orb sauntered across the sky with all the urgency of a snail on holiday. My thoughts started buzzing like a swarm of
THE DUDE'S FOREHEAD CRINKLED LIKE AN accordion as he locked eyes with me and quizzed, “Pray tell, when didst thou arrive, and by what manner?” The twinkle in his peepers revealed a captivated mind, and a smirk frolicked across my lips. A boisterous chortle rumbled in my chest like a thunderstorm, “Ha! You'll have to work harder than that to crack my secrets. I'm not that easy!” The sight of his face scrunching up like a discarded candy wrapper sent me into a giddy fit of laughter. Looking around, I soaked up the ambiance, “Oh, hey! I'm Vivaldi Monteverdi, by the way. Swanky digs you've got here – it's cosy and chic, perfect for I*******m envy! And, since you seem to be flying solo, maybe we could cohabitate?” I offered, flashing a blinding smile. His face tensed up like he'd bitten into a lemon. “Alright, what's your game?” he probed, “What are you doing here?” I couldn't resist yanking his chain, parroting his words with a sprinkle of sass, “you mean, what brings your dazzling sel