July 18, 1971

A quiet evening in. That was all Donovan hoped for. A little time to rest with a glass of bloodwine and a good book beside the fire. It seemed as though such simple things were unattainable these days. Rather like chasing a dream. Very little peace had been had of late in his city. The other resident creatures, ghoul and vampire alike, had gorged themselves so frequently and viciously in the last few years that there was a noticeable dent in the local population.

 Skyrocketing murder rates were forcing humans to lock their doors earlier and earlier. Sooner or later, encroaching hunters could very well make Donovan’s life (or undeath) far more difficult. He had decided there was no other choice but to deal with the problem now, and time would eventually work its magic on human memories as it always did. Not everyone was pleased with the new arrangements but it was necessary for their continued existence. A vampire’s greatest weapon was the boundless ability of human minds to deny they could be real. Even in the face of an empty mirror or burning cross. The dark ages were far worse for his own kind than the living. More humans knew how to defend themselves from the undead back then, and he’d prefer not to experience an existence like that again.

“Ruben, how is the painting coming along?” Donovan called out to his human servant. He had recently acquired an old portrait his sire had commissioned many years ago and Ruben was in the process of hanging it in the entry room.

The human was a young man far too nervous for his profession. If it weren’t for his staunch loyalty to his master, he would have been disposed of by now. Ruben climbed down from the stepladder to properly address him, “it is almost perfectly straight, master.” 

Ruben adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, squinting watery blue eyes and smoothing back what little brown hair he had. He was only twenty-four and yet old before his time. A far cry from his vampire master. 

A few hundred years had passed since the painting was made and yet standing before it, he felt like he was looking in a mirror. Donovan was tall and lean from spending his days hunting when he was human, but well muscled, and his strawberry blonde hair was pulled back at the base of his neck. Recently he had cut it short, but was thinking of allowing it to grow again. The change would be refreshing. So few things about him could change.

Ruben shifted on his feet nervously, hands fussing at a slightly-too-stuffy dress shirt. “Is there anything else you wish of me this evening? I--” he paused, licking his bottom lip before he continued to speak, “I had hoped to pick up that China doll from last weekend’s auction tonight.” He was always spending his earnings on frivolous trinkets, bits of junk, and anything even remotely related to the occult. At this point, the man could hardly take a step into his room for all of his hoarding.

The clock on the mantle in the sitting room struck twelve. Quite late to be picking up an auction piece, but the people who ran that particular house in question weren’t really human. Gargoyles. They kept odd hours.

Donovan dismissed his servant with a wave of his hand. Let the human waste the last of his earnings on an empty trinket. His company for the evening would not be missed. There was a freshly warmed bottle of bloodwine in the parlor, calling Donovan’s name. Ruben had long since departed the house by the time the vampire was ready to pour a glass and truly relax.

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The sound of someone knocking on the door destroyed any hopes he might have had for a quiet evening alone. Due to his most recent edicts, Donovan had been getting more visitors. Mostly complainants. Each in turn had been put in their proper place. Perhaps Donovan had gotten lucky, and Ruben had simply forgotten something in his hasty departure. No such luck. The vampire could hear the rats on his doorstep, hissing and spitting at each other. It would be best to deal with them quickly.

“Braedon,” Donovan greeted them at the door, eyes lazily roving over the group, though he only spoke the name of their leader. They didn’t even deserve that small courtesy. Each and every one of them had been explicitly told to leave the city tonight. Perhaps he would harvest their fangs for his trophy room.

“Donovan,” Braedon exclaimed, interrupting Donovan’s thoughts. He stood at the head of the group, bedecked in his usual ridiculous attire. Lugosi himself would covet that stupid cape. Not even real silk.

“We wished to apologize, to say our goodbyes,” Braedon explained, smoothing a handkerchief over his forehead, before he tucked it into his breast pocket beside a comically large ruby pin.

Donovan raised an eyebrow, “After I expressly told you I had no desire to see you in my city, let alone on my doorstep, ever again.”

“Y--yes,” Braedon nodded, quivering in justified terror. “You see, you see--we wanted you to know that we wish you no ill will.” His lips pinched tight as if to prevent himself from squealing, Bradeon pressed on desperately, “a gift!” He blurted out, then he nodded behind him towards another member of the group, who held some sort of neatly-wrapped package. The scent of roses wafted into the air.

Donovan crossed his arms over his chest, “I do not desire any gift you might have. Leave.” The last word was cold. Menacing.

“Don’t you at least want to see what it is?” Franklin, the one holding the gift asked, almost whined.

This really was pathetic. That they thought a paltry piece of trash could ever amount to the satisfaction of staking each and every one of them. The formalities of proper exiles were so very tedious.

Donovan sighed heavily, “very well,” he held out his hand, “give it to me and leave my city. There will not be another warning.”

“Yes, of course,” Braedon agreed as he bowed, the others following suit.

Quickly, Franklin pressed the gift into Donovan’s hands. It was wet. Then he noted, rather oddly, Franklin was wearing gloves. In eighty degree weather.

Their looks of regret and eager submission disappeared in less than an instant, and the world around Donovan seemed to melt while they laughed. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move to brace himself as he collapsed to the ground.

“Donovan,” Braedon said his name, and it sounded like he was shouting from very far away, “I think it’s time you have a nice, long, rest. Don’t worry. You won’t die. I promise.”

He tried. Oh how Donovan tried to scream. Then he slept. For a very long time.