Alec Meets the Wolf

The new moon is out and the Vampyra has emerged. Alec takes notices of a boy after a particularly gruesome killing spree. Like all of Alec's pieces, the first few lines are written by her, reflecting on the moment she is remembering.

 

How do I describe him? There are no words.

Stubborn? Arrogant? Irritating? Possessing an insatiable desire to prove me wrong?

A friend.

 

 

I can see him, straining his eyes against the darkness, unsuccessfully trying to make out the shapes beyond him. I laugh to myself. What are you doing, boy? On this night, with the new moon free, only the Vampyra can roam the streets! Standing where I am, it is a minute before I can smell him. When I do, I do not know what to think. He cannot be human, with a scent like that. But he is no vampire, either. His heart is beating.

He is short, at least compared to me. Freckles on his face, short and rather unruly black hair, streaked with silver. Not grey. Bright eyes, honey-brown. Well-built. Very attractive, for a human.

Very attractive meal, for me.

It surprises me when he advances, slowly, and then calls for me. His voice fits the rest of him, dark and soft and slightly foreboding. His words shock me. Am I the vampire? He knows me. He knows.

No witnesses. He must die.

And then it comes. He is not here to turn me in, or fight. He needs my help.

My help? The help of a murderer? It must be a lie. There has never been anyone, that I know of, who has ever willingly sought the help of a vampire. To seek one out is to die. Or to kill. I knew which one I preferred.

It is not until I am beside him, my long nails pressed tight against his throat and my fangs bared in a menacing growl that I figure out what I am smelling. Wolf.

He is a Werewolf.

I give him ten seconds to tell me what he wants. My hand does not leave his neck. He knows what I am, or close enough, and with his own nature at its weakest on this night, he has no real chance to escape me.

He can give me what I want.

How can you know what I want?

Don’t kill him. He came to me at his weakest to show me he is telling the truth. Help him kill this tracker, and he will owe me his life.

I intend to take that now.

He speaks so softly I am sure I am not meant to hear his comment. But I do anyway. Have I no humanity left?

No. There is no mercy in me.

Then let him appeal to the villain. He promises a good fight. He promises blood.

At the mention of blood, heat comes to my eyes. It has been a long time since I have had a good fight. Since I have tasted sweet victory. But how does he know me?

He has been tracking my scent. It is distinct even from other vampires, and he has met a few. He sees that I still am unconvinced, and his time is run out. But he gives one more comment, and it is that which stays my hand. He is a werewolf, who follows the call of the moon when it rises. He is Wolf, loyal and true. He will hold to his bargain, once made. And if he cannot appeal to my mercy, then he will appeal to my vampire: bring death to this tracker and he will be my servant, as the werewolves of old once were.

What need have I of a servant? But I accept regardless – not because of his offer, but because of his nature. In this one simple, crucial way, he is as I am, and it is because of this that he lives.

He follows the call of the moon.