Downtown Las Vegas, Nevada
North Paradise Luxury Studio Apartments — Nyx
3:35 A.M.
Emerson rose to his feet, a touch of confusion on his face as he clutched the soiled towel in both hands. "Where...?" His gaze wandered around, looking for anywhere that looked convenient and proper to set it down.
“Just… Over there!” the woman said curtly, her scowl deepening as she vaguely gestured with a tilt of her head towards the kitchen.
Emerson craned his neck and blankly surveyed the clean kitchen, his eyes jumping from cabinets and drawers to the polished granite counter. But, for the sake of common decency and in the name of preserving what little dignity he felt he still possessed, none of those places were ideal places to offload his cargo.
‘Maybe there’s one of those garbage bins that slide out with a bottom cabinet?’ He thought, having caught himself in a terrible position: too afraid to ask for clarification and too muddle-headed to articulate his indecisiveness. His grip on the sopping towel had unknowingly tightened; warm liquid seeped between his fingers and dripped to the floor.
The sound of dripping broke him from his personal hell of acute anxiety and embarrassment that had rooted him in place. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he gingerly raised the towel higher and adjusted his fingers to control any further dripping as he waddled/moved into the kitchen. With his head on a swivel, he paused a moment in the middle of the kitchen as he tried to locate the tell-tale shape of a garbage bin tucked away in one of the few corners. He found nothing and could already feel his tenuous hold on the towel slipping as more and more liquid pooled in the palms of his hands. A tightly churning warmth in his stomach told him not to think too hard about it being a sickening mixture of his own blood and vomit. “Umm…” he threw one last look of uncertainty toward the woman before miming placing the towel onto the countertop.
He watched as, together, the woman's beautiful eyes widened in bewilderment and her forehead cutely creased in exasperation. "For the love of... in the sink!" she gestured sharply.
Emerson froze, his hand holding the towel hovering inches above the countertop. He felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, realizing how obvious it was and how absent-minded he must've been to overlook something so simple. But he had little time to dwell on the mistake.
Drip.
"Shit!" he hissed, swiftly moving his hands over the sink and lowering the towel inside. Then, he urgently pulled his hands out from underneath, only for his lips to curl in a mixture of disgust and disbelief at the obscene amount of bright, glistening blood coating his palms and fingers. The sight did something to him.
He blinked, his lips pressing together into a fine line, and a dark, distant look appeared in his eyes.
He slowly lifted his gaze from his hands, his expression now vacant and detached. "May I?" He asked softly, his voice barely audible, as he gestured toward the sink with a bloody hand.
The woman's brow furrowed, noticing the sudden shift in the stranger's demeanor. It was as if she was now dealing with a completely different person. She nodded.
"Thanks," he said, using his forearm to push up the faucet handle and cupping his hands under the steady stream of cold water.
The water quickly turned red as he rinsed off the blood, letting it flow through his fingers and down the drain. It was a mixture of dark and vivid red intertwined with hints of pink that carried away everything in its wake. Once he thoroughly cleansed his hands, he shut off the faucet and gazed absently at the water droplets clinging to his fingers, slowly regaining his composure.
He rapidly blinked, then looked around the kitchen with empty eyes for something to dry his hands.
“Dish rag.” Emerson heard the woman call out from the living room.
He paused, then stepped away from the edge of the sink and patted his hands on the plain dish rag hanging from the dishwasher handlebar. Hands dry, he walked out from the kitchen and back into the living room, slowly stopping short as he looked at her and waited for her to tell him where to go.
"Sit," she tipped the gun at the couch. "There."
He shifted his gaze to the couch, then obediently made his way over and took a seat.
Taking her place in a solitary chair opposite him, the woman matched his seated position. Her next words were direct and to the point. "Tell me your name," she demanded, the Desert Eagle's butt resting firmly on her thigh, its barrel unwaveringly aimed at his chest.
"Emerson," he responded, his voice weighed and weary.
“Okay, Emerson,” she said. "Start talking.”
Emerson lowered his gaze to his pale palms, an emptiness and ache behind his eyes. "I... I don't even know where to start," he confessed softly.
The woman tsked impatiently, cocking her head slightly. "Then let me help: Start at the beginning.” Her voice carried the hard edge of someone who didn’t care.
Emerson's hands moved in a slow rhythm of clenching and unclenching before he slumped back into the couch and released a heavy sigh. The dark bags under his eyes deepened, and his gaze turned distant as if locked onto something beyond the room's confines. "Okay," he nodded with resignation. "The beginning, then."
And so, Emerson slowly recounted everything he could remember, starting with his night shift at the hospital and his encounter with the mysterious woman. He didn't hold back any details, recollecting the ensuing chaos with a detached and distant tone, as if he were describing a scene from a movie or TV show rather than his own lived experiences. The events were incredibly strange, especially his fragmented dreams, making it all feel almost unreal as he spoke about them. It wasn't a clear recounting of the events. Nor was it pretty or eloquent or even remotely easy for him, and it showed with how often the woman would interupt him for clarification. He did his best describing the dreams and utterly wild and complicated flashes of vivid memories that felt unfamiliar to him. He recounted his unsettling intuition, the sudden attack on Saga, and the startling revelation that he was, in fact, a vampire- something that he still didn't really truly feel was real. He ended on the note of his bewildering experience of inexplicably finding himself in an unfamiliar living room, located in a different country altogether. His jaw was tightly set as his tired voice faded on the air, and a weighty silence descended over the living room.
But despite that, he felt... good? Hollow- but good. Sharing his thoughts and feelings was surprisingly more helpful than even he'd realized. It was cathartic almost. LIke taking a long-awaited exhale after holding his breath for so long that he couldn't even remember when he'd started holding the damned thing. It was like that swirling mix of anger, frustration, confusion, and fear that had been sitting in his chest had been removed and let his breathe come smoothly and unrestricted, leaving him feeling both emotionally exhausted and yet profoundly relieved. It was as if he'd unburdened himself, letting go of the heavy load that'd been weighing him down.
And in the wake of his emotional release, a deep sense of emptiness settled in his heart. He chewed on the feeling- mulling over the cool, clear-headed numbness he found caressing his thoughts like a lidocaine injection to his gray matter. It was different, he realized. It wasn't so much a poisonous wound that would slowly morph into regret and resentment, but a loss of some other kind. One that made him feel like a completely different person was now living inside his own body.
The best way he could describe the feeling was something like... Like... He was full of emptiness. And it felt strangely liberating. He liked it.
The woman finally broke the silence, her voice laced with disbelief. "You must be joking," she muttered
A bittersweet, wistful smile curved across Emerson's lips. "I wish I could say I was," he responded with a gentle shake of his head.
A prolonged silence lingered between them. Eventually, the woman pushed back the Desert Eagle's hammer with an audible click and rested it on her thigh with one finger still on the trigger. She let out a sigh and spoke; her tone tinged with exasperation. "So, if I'm getting this right..." She trailed off, then scoffed with a smirk and a disbelieving shake of her head before focusing back on Emerson. "Let me just make sure I'm understanding you, guy," she said, her tone drippng with edged sarcasm.
She carefully went through the events, step by step, reconstructing the story with great attention to detail. Her goal was to organize and rearrange the narrative into a coherent and chronological order- making sense of the disjointed and sometimes all together missing puzzle pieces in order create a more appropriate detailing of the events.
Emerson nodded or responded with brief one-word comments, succinctly correcting or answering her questions without any attitude- too tired to address her clear disbelief and disdain for his story. Eventually, she'd seemingly asked everything she could think of and tapped her knee before asking: "Do I have that right?" fixing him with narrowed eyes.
Taking note of her expression, Emerson decided that the most direct approach would be best in this scenario. Not meeting her gaze, he honestly replied, "More or less," accompanied by a "so-so" gesture.
"More or less?" she repeated, her eyebrows rising synonymously with her incredulity.
Emerson's brow furrowed at the reaction. "I'm... I'm not certain if my memories are... real," he admitted, lips pursed and voice tinged with weariness. He concluded with a tired shrug, his gaze dropping to the floor. It was a shrug whose weight and silence spoke louder than words. A shrug that conveyed an untold story, something that could never truly be captured with words alone. It would have to be enough. It had to be. Because it was all he had left in him at that moment.
The woman's face pulled down into a frown. "How... You know what? Forget it," she interrupted herself, holding up a hand and closing her eyes. Leaning back in her seat, she reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, all-the-while studying Emerson through heavy-lidded eyes. Her hand dropped to her lap. “Fine,” she sighed. “Let’s assume, for the moment, that I believe you.”
Emerson lifted his head to meet her eyes.
The woman blinked- taken aback by the depth and severity of his gaze, she paused, her intended response dying on her lips; another silence decending between the pair. She'd forgotten what she'd been about to say when she saw that look in his gray, unfeeling eyes. It wasn't the coldness of his gaze, but rather the beginning flicker of surprise hidden somewhere beneath. That, and what she was fleetingly felt was... gratitude? But why would?...
“Can you prove any of it?” She finally asked softly, her eyes betraying the barest beginnings of empathy.
Emerson pressed his lips together and directed his gaze downward, wearing a dull yet pensive expression. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to meet hers and cleared his throat. "I'm going to lower my collar. Is that alright?" He asked for permission because he didn't want her to suspect him of going for a concealed weapon or attempting to deceive her in some manner. In truth, he couldn't fathom why anyone would keep a gun on their upper chest in the first place. What an uncomfortable place for it, and plus he wasn't even sure how such a holster would function or appear. Nevertheless, his intention was to be courteous and thorough, hoping that by going the extra mile to be polite, he could address some possible misunderstandings or rash judgments ahead of time.
Little did he know that this small act of good faith subconsciously played a significant role in establishing a fragile rapport with this particular person. There were many reasons for this, but perhaps the most significant of them included the actusl existence of upper torso holsters. In fact, such holsters were very much a real and practical accessory in certain contexts. Especially in the world he was now mixed up with.
The woman squinted in response to the unusual request- taking a few seconds to mull it over before relenting with a slight nod.
He'd pulled his collar down a centimeter when she said: "Try anything funny and I'll redecorate my kitchen cabinets with your brain."
Emerson froze, blinked, then cleared his throat with a lopsided smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am," he said wryly. Then, he pulled down his collar the rest of the way to beneath his clavicle.
The woman's eyes subtly widened, barely noticeable- but the surprise was there.
The low light of the living room traced faint lines across Emerson's upper body, revealing a smooth and silver scar across the top of his chest. It was a cruel scar. Forever immortalized on his skin, a constant, gentle remembrance that would follow him for the rest of days.
He released his shirt, lowering his hand to his lap and patiently waiting for her response. He preferred if she took her time- it wouldn't make him feel awkward at this point. He could use the silence.
The woman's eyes stayed fixed to the spot on his chest where the scar had been before her eyes finally flicked to meet his. For a second, she saw past the thin layer of glittering anger in his eyes. For a moment, she saw the pain underneath, raw and hurting like an unhealing wound. Then, he broke their stare, and only the anger remained.
“You really don’t know anything, do you?” She asked.
The situation seemed almost unbearable, intertwined with implausibilities that led her to suspect a grand setup as if there was a punchline waiting to knock her off her feet just around the corner. Yet, the punchline never came. Instead, she found herself faced with a gentle and weary man sitting in her living room, his life hanging in the balance with the barrel of her gun pointed at his head. The joke, it seemed, was a man recently Embraced, his memories fragmented, and wearing an unhealing scar that curiously connected him to her Sire.
With a sigh, she reluctantly placed the gun on the table next to her chair. "I apologize," she uttered softly, her voice carrying a mix of resignation and remorse.
Emerson's eyes softened, the anger within them subsiding to a degree. He found himself taken aback by her genuine display of emotion, aside from the usual scorn or derision he expected.
"Frankly, if everything you've said is true..." She hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't know how you're still alive," she confessed.
Emerson forcefully exhaled through his nose, his shoulders lifting and dropping in a shrug. He closed his eyes. “I don’t know either.” He said, his voice tired and gray.
An uncomfortable silence lingered between them until the woman broke it with a soft clearing of her throat. "Are you hungry?" she asked tentatively. Her eyes widened. "What am I saying?" she muttered, rising from her seat. "Of course you are. Wait here," she added before stepping away.
Emerson's eyes flickered open, fixating on the glass coffee table at the center of the room. He made no attempt to hide his lack of interest as the woman made her way to the kitchen; he genuinely didn't care. There was no subtle shifting or scanning for escape routes or weapons of defense; such self-serving impulses had faded away. In truth, he simply wished to avoid any further thinking for the night, if at all possible.
He was doomed to be disappointed.
“Here.”
Emerson heard a swift sound in the air, and without warning, something plopped onto his lap, making a squishy noise. His expression remained unchanged, devoid of any feelings like fear or surprise. But the moment his eyes landed on the thing in his lap, lines appeared on his paling face. He slowly closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The once indifferent countenance he wore now reflected a wearied acceptance; Suppressing the intense hunger gnawing at his core demanded far more willpower than he cared to acknowledge.
His expression changed as a war between hunger and fatigue raged inside of him. Surprisingly, exhaustion won out.
The woman noticed. "What's the matter?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine confusion and something approxinating concern.
Emerson's eyes gradually opened, revealing a keen gleam as he regained his composure and recollected his surroundings. His gaze shifted towards hers, and held it in place. "It's nothing."
A frown creased the woman's pretty face, and her lips parted as if she intended to express something. However, she quickly changed her mind and settled back into her seat. "Fine," she said, gesturing towards the blood bag in Emerson's lap. "Let me know if you need more. I've got a fridge full of them," she added, readjusting herself in her seat.
Emerson's eyes darted briefly toward the kitchen before returning to the woman in front of him. He nodded once. "...Thanks," he mumbled, discreetly placing the blood bag out of sight on a nearby side table. Then, he sighed heavily, sinking back into the couch and running a hand across his face. "What am I?" he whispered softly, his eyes shut and with sleepiness tugging at the corners of his eyes.
"Hm?" The woman hummed.
“I need to hear it again,” he mumbled through his hands covering his face.
Her expression creased into a pensive expression. “You mean that you're a vampire?” She pointedly clarified.
Emerson took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Can you tell me more?” He asked.
“More about… vampires?” She wondered.
“Yes.” His reply was short and dark.
“Well…” She drawled, stretching an arm along with the word. “I can do that. Considering your story, I was beginning to plan it in any case. It would seem that my Sire has apparently asked me to look out for you. Strange as that may be. So, let's start with our bodies.”
Emerson unconsciously flashed a hollow smirk that didn't reach his eyes- devoid of any genuine mirth. It was like a phantom reaction to how his past humor. A lame, reflexive attempt at levity that fell as short as his mood felt.
“That is not what I meant,” she replied flatly, her narrowed eyes radiating a dangerous coldness.
Emerson's unconscious smirk vanished as he reverted to a blank expression and sank deeper into the couch, wordlessly prepared to listen.
She let out a sniff and continued, "As I was saying, our bodies—vampire bodies—are quite complex. There's much to consider..." She trailed off, then let out a humorless chuckle. "You see? Now I'm not even sure where to begin."
Emerson remained silent, but a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a hint of his thoughts.
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"Right then," she said, draping an arm over the back of the seat and crossing one leg over the other. "Vampires... Vampires. We... Oh, here we go: We're stronger, faster, and, generally speaking, are smarter when compared to your average human. Specifics can get really complicated really quickly, so I'll be sticking to broad strokes for the sake of my time and your fragile sanity. Sound good?"
Emerson dumbly nodded- already entranced with the sound of her commanding tone.
The woman amusedly cocked an eyebrow and lightly snorted. "Humph. Good. Aside from a general increase in all our physical attirbutes, we're also immune to aging- immortal, so to speak. And you seem like a smart guy, so I don't have to spell out that that also means we can't die due to any natural causes. Diseases, viruses, bacteria—you name it, they have no impact on us. It was at this point that she raised a finger. "But don't go getting too excited just yet because it doesn't mean we're entirely immune."
Emerson's expression shifted through a range of emotions as he grappled with processing her words. The concept of immortality seemed incomprehensible to him, yet she spoke of it so casually.
"For instance," she continued, bowling right over his million-and-a-half questions bouncing around in his head. "You familiar with blood-borne pathogens? Yeah." Her expression soured. "Not only do they taste like soiled milk fermenting in a child's full diaper, they also significantly weaken us," she explained. "Here, you're still young enough and newly-embraced for this one to sink in: You remember those nights growing up when you got the flu or whatever and you were just trapped in your bed all day everyday with aching muscles, difficulty breathing, and getting absolutely no sleep from how much discomfort you were in?"
Emerson blinked. "Uh... Wow, um, yeah." He allowed. He'd had plenty of those days growing up in the Canadian winter wonderlands.
"It's like that, but twice as bad. Think worst hangover of your life combined with sleep deprivation and the latest flavor of stomach flu."
"Jesus Christ."
The woman nodded solemnly, then gestured toward the blood bag. "That blood. If it had come from an unreliable source, there would have been a risk of it carrying HIV, HBV, or HCV." She rattled off, and, as the conversation delved into the familiar territory of medical matters, Emerson's interest was piqued even further. He opened his eyes and straightened his posture, noticeably becoming more attentive.
"Those are just a few of the most common examples," she remarked with a shrug. "And trust me, it is far from enjoyable to suffer the effects of infected blood." Her lips curled, almost like she wanted to spit. "That is why, and you will come to learn this with time, most vampires rely on pre-packaged blood from blood banks or hospitals. Those establishments perform the necessary blood screenings and provide us with non-infected blood samples. This allows us to bypass any potential risks or complications, so to speak."
Instinctively, Emerson nodded in agreement, as he was already familiar with such practices from his time in the phlebotomist's lab. The information resonated with his existing knowledge and experiences. It was nice to feel like he stood on some common ground with the supernatural, even in the barest sense.
"This is precisely why most newly turned vampires struggle to survive without guidance," she explained, her gaze fixed on Emerson. "Many of them are unable to control their hunger and end up feeding on the homeless out of desperation. In doing so, they unknowingly consume tainted blood. Often, they cannot even discern the taste of good blood from the bad." She shook her head in disappointment. "As a result, they become extremely weakened, barely able to stay awake even during the night, and often meet their demise when discovered by another vampire." Her eyes hardened. "It's a harsh and unforgiving world out there in the darkness. We live on the edge. Always."
"But believe me," she said, tapping her temple with a finger, "when you're not starving, you'll know if there's something wrong with the tainted blood from the very first sip. I cannot explain it exactly.” She shrugged. “We simply know. Instincts, if I were to guess.”
"Which brings us back to the topic of feeding," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Have you fed on fresh blood yet?"
The lines on Emerson’s face became more pronounced as he fell into thought. Eventually, he shook his head. "I don't know," he replied uncertainly. “Maybe.”
She arched an eyebrow, struggling to conceal the frustration creeping into her voice. "Please explain," she requested, finding it difficult to comprehend this stranger's puzzling demeanor. He appeared to lack knowledge or understanding of their way of life, despite having a connection to one of the older generations. It strongly corroborated his earlier story and suggested that he'd indeed been recently Embraced, but the absence of his Sire raised questions. And why was her own Sire involved with a fledgling like him?
"I... I feel..." Emerson frowned, struggling to find the right words. "I know I've... drunk blood," he quietly admitted. A part of him hoped that the woman would burst into laughter at the absurdity of his statement. He glanced at her, searching for any reaction.
She returned his gaze with a solemn expression.
He averted his gaze and pushed forward. "But I only recall the blood Saga gave me-" he admitted.
Startled, she leaned forward, her voice betraying a hint of agitation. "Sire gave you his blood?"
Her reaction caused Emerson's brow to rise. With a slight stiffness in his posture, he nodded, unsure of the direction the conversation was about to take.
In fact, the last time he'd seen her this agitated was after he'd accidentally ruined her carpet. And despite her abrasive and straightforward demeanor, he also noticed that she seemed to be purposefully avoiding saying Saga's name. There was even an odd quality to her tone when speaking of her 'Sire,' to an almost... deferential degree? Emerson found himself grappling with the puzzle of Catherine's deference toward her Sire.
Given the context he had gathered from his conversation with Saga, a Sire was a vampire who turned a human, and Catherine clearly held great respect for hers. However, he couldn't comprehend the reason behind it. If it was some kind of compulsion, why didn't he feel the same way about the random woman? In fact, the mere thought of her face provoked a surge of anger within him.
He felt an ache at his temples. 'I've had enough for tonight. I just want to go to bed and be done with it all.' He grumbled to himself.
"I see,” she replied, leaning back in her seat. “From where?” she asked, her expression blank.
This time, it was Emerson’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean?” He slowly asked.
The woman raised her arm and pointed towards her wrist and neck. "Did you feed from here, or the neck?" she asked expectantly. However, her question only served to confuse Emerson further. Then, suddenly, realization struck him, and his eyes widened as he placed a hand on the blood bag. "No, no, it was like this," he quickly clarified.
"Ah," she visibly relaxed. "That makes sense," she nodded. Then she posed another question, "Do you know why he gave you blood?"
Emerson cocked his head.
"In general," she clarified, gesturing between them. "Do you understand why vampires need blood? Why both you and I require it?"
Emerson's eyes brightened with a glimmer of understanding at her clarification, but he still shook his head.
"It's quite simple, really," she explained, rolling her neck until it emitted a satisfying crack. She let out a contented sigh that made Emerson's imagination flare. He quickly got rid of those thoughts and focused on what she was trying to tell him.
"Blood sustains us, more so than it does for humans. Did you hear that?" She asked, eyeing him.
"Hm? Oh, um, hear what?" he hastily asked, caught off guard by her question as he reassembled his train of thought.
"My neck," she replied, touching a finger to her throat.
Emerson cleared his throat and nodded. "Right, yeah, yes," he affirmed. He had heard, of course. But now that he was back on track, he couldn't understand why she'd drawn his attention to something as trivial as the sound of her neck cracking. It seemed completely unrelated to their discussion.
"If Sire tried something like that, you wouldn't hear a thing," she said smugly as if it were a point of pride. The smugness grew into a small smile that was as beautiful as it was condescending when she saw the growing confusion in Emerson’s eyes.
'Damnit, even her smile is perfect.' Emerson wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. How was it that his first time meeting a gorgeous woman like this had gone so horribly wrong? 'Fuck me. Whatever.' He cursed himself, then again, reminded himself that he needed to listen and not daydream.
“The older a vampire gets, the stronger they become. Maybe you've heard something similar before?” she asked.
Emerson nodded quickly in response.
Seeing that, she continued, "But it's not merely the passing of time that makes us stronger." She cocked her head to the side; her lips pursed in thought. "Consider this: what do vampires engage in almost every day?" her gaze fell back on him, her eyes expectant.
Emerson found the question to be quite straightforward, yet he couldn't help but feel a heightened sense of anxiety when speaking in her presence. "...Drink blood?" he hesitantly said, feeling as if he was both asking and answering at the same time.
To Emerson's complete surprise, the woman's entire demeanor underwent a sudden transformation at his answer. Her posture relaxed, her facial expressions became more animated, and her eyes seemed to radiate with boundless social energy.
Pointing directly at him, she exclaimed, "Winner, winner! Someone fetch this man a prize." She wore a large smirk on her lips, amusement written clear as day across her face.
She actually smirked. And in a playful manner! Emerson nearly fell over. Where was his ice queen?!
"So, the longer a vampire lives, the more blood they have consumed. And with each drink, our bodies adapt and undergo gradual changes," she explained.
Although he was shocked at her sudden change, Emerson's expression remained neutrally blank as he listened, trying to digest everything being explained to him.
She pursed her lips and put a small finger to her lips as she made a cute ‘thinking’ face.
Emerson rapidly blinked and reminded himself to focus.
“Think of it this way," she began. "The blood we consume acts as a catalyst, gradually transforming our bodies into their 'true' forms. Sire, for instance, no longer has any internal organs. Instead, it’s all blood and bone.”
Emerson couldn't help but voice his skepticism. "Really?" The idea seemed far-fetched, to say the least, and hard to believe. Having spent a significant part of his adult life working in a hospital and learning anatomy, it was difficult to accept the notion that his organs would one day deteriorate and liquefy into blood. Could it really be that simple? Did vampires have no other essential needs for survival?
She pointed her finger and gave him a knowing look. "I can tell what you're thinking," she said. "You're probably wondering, 'Is it really that simple?' Am I right?"
Emerson numbly nodded; He was taken aback by how accurately she'd captured his thoughts.
“Well, you're partially right, but there's more to it," she responded. "However, that's a discussion for another time..." She paused and looked over the back of her seat.
Emerson tried following the direction of her head to see what she could be looking for in the kitchen.
“Maybe even in a few hours.” She finished, turning back around.
“What do you mean?” He asked.
"I'll tell you then, and no," she interrupted. "It's not something to be concerned about. Like feeding on someone, it will come naturally. You'll understand what I mean in due time."
Emerson sighed and rested his face in his hands.
"What?" She asked dryly. "You're not satisfied?"
Emerson silently held his hands up in mock surrender and motioned for her to go on.
"Anyway," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I think that about covers it—actually, wait, a couple more things, generally speaking. The blood we consume becomes Vitae, which replaces most of our bodily fluids." She glanced at him. "So don't freak out when you cry or sweat blood."
Emerson recalled that he’d already experienced something like that earlier, so the admission didn’t jar him too much.
"What else?" She looked up at the ceiling in thought before remembering. "Ah, right." She turned her attention to Emerson. "We are constantly using our Vitae, whether it's when we awaken each night or throughout the day as we move and engage in various activities. Walking, talking, jumping- it's a constant expenditure. So, after this conversation, you'll probably feel quite hungry."
Emerson's gaze briefly flickered towards the blood bag on the side table, but he quickly averted his eyes, trying to distract himself with something else.
She waved a hand dismissively. "That's why newly turned vampires are always hungry or can lose control if they don't feed. They burn ‘calories’ faster than they can ‘eat,’ so to speak.” She shrugged. "The rate at which it burns and how much they can sustain varies for each individual. But ideally, you want a low burn-to-conserve ratio. Otherwise... Things can get messy." She grimaced. "But that's what sets the older generation vampires apart. After consuming blood for centuries, they have refined their bodies into efficient vessels for storing and utilizing Vitae. They can accomplish tasks and exert themselves with a fraction of the Vitae required by younger vampires. A marathon would be a challenge for a younger vampire with just a cup of blood, while the older ones can go much further with much less." She paused, noticing Emerson's expression. "Yes?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“So…” Emerson cleared his throat, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before asking the question that had instantly popped into his head.
It was a fascinating situation for him. It almost didn’t feel real. Sitting there, getting ready to ask a question about supernatural creatures, he felt like he was gathering with his friends for game night and a couple of drinks to discuss their favorite videogame characters and abilities. A profound sense of déjà vu existed in his posture and the curiosity growing in his chest. This was interesting. He liked talking about this sort of thing. Yet it was also horrible, terrible, and awful… and enjoyable. It was the damnedest thing.
"Um, so does that mean new vampires don't all have equal strength or...?" He hesitated, feeling as though the question was a bit silly.
Catherine nailed home how right he was with what he was beginning to understand was her classic “seriously” look. She scoffed and shook her head. "No, absolutely not," she retorted. However, she quickly raised her hand to signal a pause. "But," she continued, "we can discuss that tomorrow night. Today, let's focus on giving you a basic understanding of our kind."
Emerson instinctively took a deep breath and settled back on the couch. However, recalling Saga's advice on breathing, he impulsively chose to hold his breath for the remainder of the night to see if he'd been lying. But he also made sure to listen to whatever the woman was saying because not only did he find it exciting and essential, but her voice was quite literally the most pleasant thing he’d ever heard.
"Aside from that," she proceeded, "to restore yourself to your original state, you'll need to consume Vitae, or blood. It's how vampires regenerate themselves." Observing the lack of comprehension in Emerson's eyes, she decided to provide a more explicit example. "Let's say I were to shoot you right now..." She hummed, her finger idly tracing a path across her gun resting on the table.
Emerson’s eyes followed her finger, a creeping sense of cold danger tracing up his spine.
A grin graced her lips as she leaned back and casually rested her arm on the seat. Then, she lifted her other hand and formed a pistol shape with her fingers, pointing it towards his chest while playfully squinting one eye as if taking aim. "Bang," she whispered, exhaling with a smirk before lowering her arm to her lap. “Naturally, the bullet would break your skin- you aren’t strong enough to be bulletproof.” She winked. “Yet.”
Emerson couldn’t help but shiver at that look and tactfully kept silent.
She continued as though she hadn’t noticed. "Once the bullet penetrates your skin, it can either pass through entirely or gets stuck," she elaborated. "In the first scenario, your body would naturally absorb the required Vitae, replenishing your skin and internal organs to their initial condition. You follow?" she inquired.
Emerson nodded.
"In the second scenario, there's an extra step, but it's essentially the same process," she clarified, gesturing with her finger. "Your body would treat the bullet as a foreign object and immediately work to remove it. So, if you ever find yourself filled with bullets, there's no need to visit a hospital," she said with a smirk. "Our bodies naturally perform a sort of 'surgery,' you could say. The bullet will be pushed out along the path of least resistance, which is usually the entry wound. Oh, and don't freak out if you get shot in the stomach and the bullet finds its way out through your shoulder. You'll get used to it," she explained. Observing Emerson's expression, she couldn't help but emit a chilling chuckle. The sound was as profoundly disturbing as it was sexy.
“The real danger is getting shot in the head.” She ran a hand through her soft hair, the dark curls falling over her shoulders. “We don’t regenerate well from that, if at all. But never mind that,” she waved a hand. “I’m giving you the wrong impression." She met his gaze. "Avoid getting shot as much as possible. It doesn’t feel good.”
“Um, okay…” Emerson softly said, somewhat dazed with everything he was hearing. When was someone going to shoot him? She made it sound so ordinary.
“So, you’ll feed on blood bags most of the time, by the way. But of course, you can feed from humans with the proper permissions. We’ll get to that later.” She waved away his concerned look.
Emerson was utterly engrossed in her explanation but was also incredibly overwhelmed with everything. Another wave of fatigue suddenly went through him, making him rapidly blink away the bleariness in his vision.
“You can also feed on animals, but you’ll probably hate it. I know I do. Oh, and don’t even get me started with Sire; he wouldn’t gain any Vitae from draining an entire zoo!” She exclaimed. “What else, what else,” she tapped a finger to her chin. “Ah, right, we’ll get to it tomorrow night, but I suggest not looking in a mirror until you’ve rested.”
"That-" He started.
“Calm down.” She unconvincingly placated him. “You won’t look that different from what you remember, but it’s probably still enough to rattle you. So let’s avoid it for now.”
“Wow…” Emerson couldn’t help but ruefully shake his head. “How am I supposed to sleep with that on my mind?” He asked. Then, he saw something that he would never forget. A genuine smile, carrying notes of pity and understanding. Not just a smirk, or a grin. But an actual smile. He momentarily lost himself in that smile and was only pulled back to reality through her silky voice.
“Don’t worry about that. You’ll be out of commission before you know what’s happening.”
“Huh?” Emerson made a weird face.
“The dawn is like anesthesia for us. Well-“ She cocked her head. “Older vampires can learn to remain awake during the daytime in safe locations, but they are extremely weakened no matter what.” She knowingly sighed at Emerson’s expression. “It’s our curse.” She shrugged. “We’re creatures of the night. Even out of sunlight, our curse is affected by the sun’s presence. So we take the bad with the good. And there’s a whole lot of good.” She smirked, then waved a hand as though dismissing the words and moving on. “It’s how it’s always been. You won’t notice it after a while. You may even grow to like it. Especially in the cities; the mortal nightlife can be… interesting.”
“Speaking of the sun.” Her voice changed back to someone who’d caught themselves straying from teaching about the proper subject. “We’re very vulnerable to sunlight and fire. Especially sunlight. Like-“ She made a "boom" gesture with both hands and made a ‘fwoosh’ sound. “-barbecue.” Her eyes turned frigid. “Ashes and dust. Deader than dead.”
“Fire is only slightly better.” She continued. “It’s one of our few natural weaknesses, that and an individual’s faith. But that’s a…” Her lips formed a subtle pout, a cute look that said she was struggling to find the right word. “-a complicated subject that I won’t bother you with. For now.” She finished with a gesture. “What else? Mm.” She nodded as she remembered something important. “So, stakes in the heart don’t kill us. But it will paralyze us.”
“You can also forget about all those stories you’ve heard about garlic- it doesn’t do anything. Smells bad, though, in my opinion.” She placed a hand on her chest.
“There’s also the whole running water myth, but personally, I’ve never had an issue crossing a bridge or washing my hands." She poked a thumb back at the kitchen. "Like you did earlier. So I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Oh, and speaking of looking into a mirror tomorrow night, you’ll have a reflection, but it’ll be more of an… indistinct shape? Yeah, that’s about right.” She nodded, then further explained. “You’ll have to want to be seen. Otherwise, your reflection won’t show up clearly. Oh, that’ll also happen if someone tries snapping a picture of you too. So you won’t show up clearly. Which is helpful against modern hunters.”
“Hunters?” Emerson mumbled, eyes wide.
“Hm?” She suddenly remembered whom she was talking to and quickly backtracked. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about that- you’re safe here. Plus, I’ll fill you in more tomorrow night. As for now…” She looked back over the seat and checked the time.
“It’s getting around that time, and I don’t want to drag your body through my apartment, so it’s off to an early bedtime for you until you figure out how you react to the dawn.” She said, patting the armrests of her seat as she stood. "Come on." She motioned him to follow as she left the living room and moved deeper into the apartment.
----------------------------------------
“Here you are.” She opened the door to the guest bedroom and stepped aside, letting the door slowly swing open on silent hinges- like an opening maw of a wild beast lying in wait. Emerson paused at the threshold, glanced at her, then walked past her into the dark room. His eyes quickly adjusted to the bleak shadows and dark corners. His footsteps froze in place, as despite having prepared himself, he still found it difficult to accept what he saw.
“You’re kidding.” He deadpanned. He was staring at the thing ominously lying on the floor where one usually would expect a bed. Or anything besides what was there.
“What?” She innocently asked, coming to stand beside him inside the room. “Not your style?”
“This is someone’s style?” He asked, a weird expression on his face as he tiredly stared at the coffin.
It was made of some heavy wood, dark as the murky shadows inhabiting the guest room and yet also appearing as smooth as polished glass. It was simplistically gothic and incredibly droll.
She sniffed in displeasure, placing a hand on her hip. “I’ll have you know, this is as good as it gets. And expensive as all hell.”
“Seriously?” He asked, disbelief evident in his voice.
She sighed. “Get in.”
Even though he expected the conversation would get there, he was startled at how fast she ordered him to get on with it. “What- now?” He asked, taking a step back.
“Did nothing we just talk about stick in that pretty head of yours?” She disparagingly asked. Then, she pointed to the coffin. “Get in yourself, or I’ll shove you in, then bolt down the cover.” She demanded.
Emerson’s eyes trembled as he stood frozen in place. Then, his shoulders slumped as he resigned himself. His face grew weary, and the lines of someone who’d seen and experienced too much creased his youthful features. With a sigh, he walked beside the coffin and leaned over to grasp the coffin’s lid. He glanced back at the woman with a questioning gaze.
She met his gaze and motioned with a hand. “Go on.” She said. “I’m right here in case you get scared.”
Emerson frowned and subconsciously straightened his back. Then, offering her a parting glower, he sullenly raised the dense coffin lid with two hands and stepped inside. He was surprised at how easily he held the heavy wooden cover. Sighing to himself, he avoided the thought as a particularly strong pang of exhaustion swept through him. He swayed in place, and his vision blurred momentarily. The woman noticed.
“See? What did I say?” She hummed under her breath. “Hang on.” He held the lid cover at an angle that he couldn’t see the door to the room, but he thought he heard a whoosh of air. Then, he almost jumped when she suddenly stood beside him outside the coffin. She held the blood bag he'd left behind in her hands.
She tipped her chin at him. “C’mon, lay down; I’ll hold it.” She said, reaching out with one hand and keeping the lid up.
Emerson gave her a tired look through drooping eyelids before releasing his grip on the cover and lowering himself using the sides of the coffin until he sat.
“Here.” She said, and suddenly the blood bag was sitting in his hands. He looked up at her through squinted eyes. He felt like he needed to yawn.
“Breakfast.” She stated, then placed a small hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. He let her push him down and adjusted himself until he lay on his back, holding a blood bag on his stomach with both hands. He blearily looked up at her.
Her figure was growing blurry and indistinct through a deep sense of fatigue clouding his vision and slowing his thoughts.
“Sleep well.” Her voice sounded distant and discordant, coming from somewhere down a long tunnel. His eyes narrowed to slits as darkness steadily seeped into his vision. There was motion above him, and suddenly, the darkness became all-encompassing, like a tomb.
Emerson felt warm and comfortable, the darkness welcoming him like a soft bed despite the rigid wood of the coffin.
Before succumbing to the indescribably appealing pull of sleep, his last thought was that he’d never asked for her name.