The Vampire Always Bites Twice | Wattys 2022 Grand Prize Winner

49

Greg, Ravenous Pervert

I woke gasping. You know, same old routine. Minute the sun set under the horizon my body lurched into the waking world. At first it felt like getting tossed out a castle window. Or being thrown through a car windshield. But the initial shock of this wakeup call had long since dulled and been replaced with aggravation at being unable to sleep in. Ever.

Yet tonight felt different.

My bed was empty, but her presence lingered. A damp dent in the pillow from her wet hair. Platinum strands left behind. Mascara stains. Scents of mint and orange and cigarettes clung to my sheets. Soft and subtle and mingling with the plain freshness of soap and other, deeper notes of her. Without the shampoo or perfume or cigarettes. She was freshly turned earth, sweet flowers, rich wine, and incense snoke. Traces of her imprinted on my skin, my fangs, pores, in every vein. Her blood pulsed so warmly under my skin. I pressed my face into her pillow, breathing her in deep, aching to take her into my lungs as well.

Which wasn't good. Or good enough. Nothing would be good enough, not till I could taste her lips with my own mouth again. Press her hot body against mine. Bury myself six feet under her. There could be no substitute for this new addiction I found myself welcoming with an open casket.

You're in trouble, old boy.

It's fine. It was fine. I'm fine. It was good she'd decided to go home while the sun was up. Great. I needed time to think. To regroup. Formulate a plan. Itch in my veins soothed, thirst sated, I could finally think clear about this whole mess with the wolves and Dmitri and his barista. Even if the idea of her wandering home alone, weak from blood loss, with an angry pack of werewolves roaming the city streets made me nauseous.

...Oh fangs.

I'd taken so much blood from her it shocked me she could even stand last night. What was I doing just lying-in bed, I needed to check on—

Coffee. I smelled coffee.

Isla had made coffee. Before she left? No. There was music too. Cat Stevens. One of my records. An original Tea for Tillerman. A favorite. And beneath the notes of soothing folk, her voice. Low and husky and chuckling softly. She stayed.

The cocktail of caffeine and music and her roused me from my bed and tempered the anxious beast in my gut. I needed to make a note to do laundry. Give myself fresh bedding. Too many pieces of her lingered there. It made me dizzy.

But first, the coffee.

Pulling on the sweats I'd left for Isla over myself (was she still naked?) I made my way downstairs. There, Isla lounged across my sofa, cradling a mug. The curtains had been pulled open. She was gazing out the window at the homes across the way and the small peaks of the skyscrapers in Center City poking out above them. I swallowed back a surprising knot of disappointment at noticing she wore my bathrobe and was not, in fact, still completely bare.

"Isla?"

She turned to me. Smiling. Twirling a lock of hair. "Evening, sleepy. You feeling okay?"

My throat tightened. Oh gosh, Isla was lovely. Her hair had dried in wild waves framing her chin. Even better, her lips were still swollen from our kissing (a puff of pride welled in my chest). The exposed skin of her legs was smooth and lush and felt so good wrapped around my hips. No amount of soap and water seemed capable of removing the stains of makeup from around her dark eyes, nor the purple circles beneath them. Found myself growing to like the look. It suited her in some incomprehensible way.

Stop that.

"I'll unlive. You stayed the day?" I poured myself a coffee. The rich, earthy aroma managed to clear her from my senses. Hard reset. "You didn't have to do that," though I'm relieved you did.