Chapter 1

Before Luna’s immortal descent, her name was Blake.

One thousand dollars in crisp uncirculated bills fanned alluringly across the otherwise bare surface of the oaken bedstand. The tatty motel room boasted relatively clean sheets, water-stained cracked walls, and a threadbare mottled carpet. The faucet dripped monotonously in the bathroom, like a clock fatefully ticking towards the dawn. A flickering street lamp across the deserted parking lot struggled to illuminate the depressing room, high oak branches shivering shadows across spartan, scarred furniture. A multi-coloured arboreal quilt surrounded a grinning jack-o’-lantern resting at the base of the door, the acrid smell of dying oak leaves dancing heavenward.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren warbled through the chill night air floating through the open window, carrying faint scents of woodsmoke and pumpkin spice. The excited laughter of costumed children had receded; tiny witches, tigers, and supermen long tucked into safe warm beds, their bellies brimming with sugary treats.

A hungry wolf hunted through the static of an ancient amplitude modulated radio.

It was the sort of room where horny teenagers might fuck by the hour.

It was the sort of room where passers-by might summarily ignore the guttural voice of a woman, even through an open window. Even if she screamed.

It was the sort of room where a heartbeat might expire.

Tendrils of stale cigarette smoke drifted towards the dimly lit stage, the clink of glasses harsh beyond the periphery. Scantily clad performers and waitresses meandered through thinning patrons, delivering watered drinks and personal dances, if cash appeared, between entertainment. Pervert’s row brimmed to capacity, men in suits eying the stage, impatiently anticipating the next performance.

Blake waited uncomfortably in the wings, shifting her weight from one high heel to the other. Shedding her clothes in front of anonymous men no longer unnerved her; however, the high heels tortured her toes, regardless of the visual effect upon her calves, and the welcome boost to her height. Sometimes, for respite, she would kick off the heels midway through the performance, even while recognising her tips suffered. She would never comprehend men’s fascination with stilettos.

The emcee announced her stage name: Sapphire.

Bonnie Tyler issued forth from substandard speakers. Turn around.

Blake drew in a deep breath, releasing it nervously before striding onto the runway to scattered applause.

It was the final dance of the evening; Blake wore dark makeup, prosthetic canines, a tight black corset, short ebony skirt, high collar, blood-red cape, black fishnets, and the torturous stilettos. Her fingernails and toenails shone with ebony polish. Abandoning herself to the music and the performance, she whirled across the stage, flashing a smile to every member of pervert’s row, regardless of their age or attractiveness.

Club rules and local statutes forbade her from exposing nipples or between her legs; the remainder of her costume was fair game. As each musical number in her set progressed, the cape, the corset, and finally the skirt melted to the surface of the stage. Her toned body writhed sensually, draping across strategic poles, crawling to each patron, accepting bills tossed appreciatively in her wake.

The heels jumbled haphazardly in the middle of the stage, the fishnet stockings in one lucky patron’s hands, tossed randomly over her left shoulder.

As the performance reached a crescendo, she smiled at the crowd. Regardless of the rules and laws, as everyone knew and expected, she stood barefoot at the very edge of the stage and tilted her head in silent query.

Take it off. Take it off.

With an accepting smile, her fake canines extended beyond her ruby painted lips. She deftly flicked the pasties from her nipples, and in one feral motion, pushed her lacy black panties to her ankles, kicking them into the room. Two men scuffled briefly, fighting for the thin fabric before security advanced towards them. She cupped her bared breasts for the audience, squeezing the girls provocatively. Smoky air caressed her bare skin. Stage mist swirled about her lower legs, descending into the dedicated crowd. The audience cheered in unrestrained celebration of her nudity.

The crowd absorbed her spectacle and dollar bills rained to the stage at her bare toes.

The final song faded, the last notes of Duran Duran lost in raucous applause.

Blake bowed, unhurriedly gathered up the remains of her costume, along with all the scattered bills, and strode off stage as the lights dimmed behind her.

“And that, gentlemen, was Sapphire, our resident sexy vampire for the evening. Please don’t drink and drive.” The warning seemed lost on most of the clientele.

At the rear of the room, shrouded amidst a haze of smoke and shadows, a tall, solid silhouette of a man watched broodingly as Blake padded naked from the stage. His eyes glowed with an unusual intensity born of unending centuries and longing. In his calloused palm, he held Sapphire’s fishnets, still warm from her toned legs, his lengthy, strong fingers idly stroking the wispy material.

Bron reposed contemplatively in the short grasses under shimmering stars, alone after the devil’s eve ritual; his tiny clan had prayed to ancient deities, each supplicant kneeling amongst blue-infused sarsen stones, chanting to repulse phantom dark creatures of the night. The circle of stones rose eerily from the flat plain of the moor, shimmering magically in the light of a full lunar disk, moonshadows kissing earthen banks. Bron held no memory of the architects of the circle, only that the monument was ancient, and possessed a power which resonated in his bones. Other than the ritualistic chanting of the men since sunset, this place demanded a sacred, respectful silence. Now, the others had returned to the village; only Bron remained, gazing upon billions of stars twinkling in the pristine sky above.

She arrived, her bare feet hushed on the ground. His ears, attuned for even the slightest whisper, warned Bron before her sudden appearance against the bright disk of the moon startled him. She swayed sensually, moonlight capturing her primal beauty as she shed the hide tunic she wore. Her firm breasts shimmered in the moonlight; her raven hair cascaded over her naked shoulders. She had travelled fifteen fewer circuits about the sun than he; her body remained in the peak of her sexuality.

“Luna, my love,” he whispered.

Without a pause, she knelt beside him, her fingers pushing his tunic above his waist, exposing him to the evening chill. Lithely, she swung one leg over him, impaling herself upon his erect manhood. Bron groaned as she bent to kiss him, her tongue hot against his, licking across his dry lips. Straightening, she cast her arms back to support herself upon his solid thighs, her head thrown back, raven hair tickling his upper legs, her porcelain features illuminated ethereally by the moonlight, her body languidly rocking, throat moaning, her fingernails digging into flesh. His hands rose to caress her naked breasts, squeezing at her nipples until her moans reached a feverish tempo. Her climax triggered his, both of their voices entwining and mingling into the night.

Afterward, they reclined together in the grass, she naked, her head resting on his muscular shoulder, petite hand splayed across his chest. The infinite sky watched above them; the mammoth blue stones vibrated melodically.

Somewhere, far away, the baleful call of a wolf drifted upon the crystal air.

Beyond providing sacred ground for protective rituals and harvest moons, the durable monument represented a lunisolar calendar, a rudimentary understanding of equinox, solstice and lunar phases. Bonfires burned to the south, hints of woodsmoke drifting on midnight breezes, celebrating the gathering of crops, acknowledging Samhain. Jesus Christ would walk the earth in nearly a thousand years, his followers eventually adopting this observance, this All Hallows’ Eve, this celebration of darkness before a resurrection of light. For now, on this night, ancient deities still lived and listened, as did darker creatures of the night.

It was the sort of night fated for ending heartbeats.

Despite Bron’s sensitive hearing, he startled awake to a nearly inaudible squeal. Luna’s comforting weight no longer rested upon his shoulder, her reassuring fingers retreated from his chest. Puzzled, Bron roused, pushing himself first to his knees, then to his feet.

Luna reposed supine upon the grass only five steps towards the vibrating circle of stone. Her raven hair haloed her head, tumbling across the grasses. Even in the wan moonlight, her naked skin appeared paler than what might be natural. Concerned, Bron stepped towards her.

Her head tilted at an odd angle, two puncture marks upon her exposed throat dripping a rivulet of blood.

He knelt beside her, uncomprehending. Touching her cheek, his fingers withdrew cold and clammy.

“Luna?” he whispered.

He sensed a dark presence behind him. He turned, but it was far too late.

Before he could rise, a startled cry escaped his throat, as cold strong fingers grasped his shoulder.

He sprawled upon his back, stars watching helplessly above. The woman, who was not a woman, possessed similar hair to Luna: ebony, straight and long. Her face was striking, yet unfamiliar. Hunger burned in her wide eyes. With an audible click, her canines descended. Fear clenched Bron’s still-beating heart, even while sexual arousal flooded his nerves.

He attempted to ward her off, chanting ritualistic prayers desperately to uncaring deities.

With a mild chuckle, the creature bent her head, flicking away Bron’s strong arms as if they were merely straw upon a breeze. Her canines unerringly found his jugular, extracting his blood with no further protest. Haltingly, his ineffectual words faded and darkness claimed his vision.

As if he weighed no more than a bird, the woman carried Bron’s inert body to the centre of the henge and lowered him tenderly amongst the stones. His heart continued to beat sluggishly and weakly, little fluid remaining within his veins. The woman regarded him pitilessly.

“Do you wish to rise again?” she whispered.

Bron, not understanding the implications of her question, merely nodded once and closed his eyes.

Death arrived, swift and peaceful, as oxygen failed to supply all of his brain, his lungs and his heart.

As death claimed him, the woman plunged her long canines to her own forearm, ripping at the flesh. Dark blood leaked from the wounds. She knelt and pressed the injured flesh to Bron’s lips. Her stolen blood dripped to stain his lips and trickle into his slack mouth, a single drop descending to the back of his throat and into his esophagus.

She gazed closely, even as the bite marks closed, only leaving a stain of crimson across the pale skin of her forearm. Idly, she licked at the stains as she waited.

After an hour, an ebony aura gathered about Bron’s body. His heart did not beat, his lungs did not draw air. Yet, his eyes opened and his lips parted. Gradually, his canine teeth descended.

The woman smiled and licked her blood-soaked lips.

Hunger dominated Bron’s thoughts as his eyes opened. Arousal flooded him.

The woman straddled him as Luna had done only hours previously. They fucked animalistically, banshee screeches filling the still night air. Even the distant wolves paused as they ran across the fields.

After she finished, the woman rose, gazing on her creation.

“You will exist forever, Bron,” she murmured.

And then, like a wolf, she disappeared into the night from which she had emerged.

Bron stumbled to Luna’s peaceful body, kneeling beside her, his cold fingers delicately tracing her distinct jawline. He ached for her, tears rising unbidden from the depths of his soul, crimson rivers flowing down his cheeks. Grief and loss consumed his thoughts; this woman, her gentle love, her musical laugh, her insistent movements in the night, meaninglessly silenced forever. His fingers sought hers, raising his face to the sky. His throat exuded pain and loss and grief into the night, echoing from distant moors.

The stars and the moon wept with him. For both of them.

He shifted to cradle her head in his lap, stroking her hair, whispering her name, over and over again. He would never again feel her lips, hear her laugh. She would never bear his children. His heart longed for her.

After a time, perhaps an hour, perhaps more, he extended his new canines and ripped at his wrist, surprised at the lack of pain there.

“I can’t live without you,” he whispered.

He was certain she wouldn’t want this transformation. His desolate, unbeating heart overrode his certainty. His wrist unwillingly descended to Luna’s lips, his blood dripping between her slack teeth.

He silently prayed for her soul, whispering the ritual words taught to him in childhood.

He remained with her, cradling her head, alternating weeping with stroking her hair, until he sensed the approach of dawn. Neither his blood nor his prayers revived Luna, his blood too young, his prayers only reaching deaf, divine ears.

Unable to stay with her, he gazed one last time upon her face. He bent and tenderly kissed her bloody lips. The wound at his wrist had long healed.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered. “I will find you again. Somehow.”

Reluctantly, he extracted himself from under her, tenderly lowering her head again to the grasses and arranging her hair. Heavily, he rose to his feet and turned from her, her pale features etched permanently into his memory. He could hear the footsteps of crickets, he could sense the direction of the wind changing, he could track the sun hovering dangerously below the eastern horizon, he could smell blood to the south.

He wanted to remain with her forever, but he needed to leave this place, find shelter before the impending dawn.

Before finding shelter, he needed to feed.

He turned south towards the distant village.

Fate screamed.

Blake pushed her organised bills into her purse. The late crowd had arrived larger and more generous than the earlier crowd; as the evening deepened, an influx of patrons had trickled in after the ghostly trick-or-treaters dispersed. After she paid her performance fee and a percentage to security and her DJ, she thought she’d have enough to eat, pay her rent, and set some aside for tuition. All in all, this life allowed her to continue studying towards her elusive law degree. Despite the late hours, the uncomfortable stilettos, and the overall physical demands on her body, this remained preferable to turning tricks or flipping burgers at McDonald’s for minimum wage. The owner of the strip club was honest, and the other performers friendly, most of them in a similar situation as she.

Her face now devoid of the garish makeup, she gazed at her tired eyes in the mirror. With a sigh, she bent and laced her Nikes and buttoned her peasant blouse across her braless breasts. Her fingernails gleamed black, not worth the effort to strip the stage polish. She’d pulled her long raven hair back into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her twin in the mirror stared back at her, anticipating her comfortable bed. The patrons of the club might no longer recognise her, and that was acceptable to Blake. She turned and waved to Saffron, who sat semi-clothed at her own mirror across the aisle. Saffron waved back, murmuring a cordial good night.

Blake pushed herself to her feet and picked her way through the ever-present clutter to the rear entrance of the club. In the dimly lit back alley, a black cat stalked across her path, meowing before jumping lithely onto the top of a shadowy green dumpster. Had Blake harboured any superstitions, the presence of the ebony creature might have disquieted her.