"Love the one who will save him? Or kill her to save his mortal soul?"
Vampires aren’t real. Tristan is just a man with an eternal disease—a man who’s searched centuries for the cure. All he has to do to win back his humanity is find the woman from a rare bloodline and drain her essence. Morals set aside. Love be damned. Life shouldn’t be this difficult.
He had all the traits. Dark-haired, pale-skinned Tristan was a vampire. At least that’s what Anna believed as a child. She’d loved him. He’d craved her blood so desperately that he’d left her to keep her safe. Now an adult, Anna’s ready to find Tristan and prove once and for all that vampires aren’t real…and neither is the love she still carries in her heart.
As Immortal he will always be alive
As Vampire he shall forever be dead
Among the night, he will be in an everlasting embrace
Twenty-nine years ago
Tristan Ashfield stepped up onto the railing of the balcony. The black frayed leather tail of his worn jacket whipped in the wind as he crouched to peer out into the darkness. Pieces of crumbled stone crunched beneath his boots as this morning’s radio weathercast skated through his mind.
Storms brewed on the coast tonight. Rough seas and high winds were expected. Broadcast signals went out across the radio waves, warning fishermen to secure their vessels to the docks. A mix of snow and rain would create hazards on land. Another annoying screech followed with an advisory for travelers to stay off the slick roads.
Tristan could care less if the sky cleared or if this mix of snow and rain drenched him. Neither hot nor cold affected him. To walk barefoot in plush green grass, cool dew between his toes and the sun on his skin was nothing but a dream, a memory of his past and a future he’d never feel again. Darkness was all he’d known since the night the demon possessed him. Daylight was a death sentence. But there were other ways to experience light. A starry night and full moon somewhat satisfied the yearning for natural light, but it wouldn’t happen tonight.
Tristan clenched his jaw. The desire for blood was strong on nights like these. A drop on his tongue and a flood of its warmth in his belly called like the waves crashing on the rocks below. The cravings chained him to the night like a vicious dog, undisciplined without a master to settle the monster inside. Four hundred years of lives lost by his hand taunted him. He deserved an eternity of suffering for what he’d done, for what he was.
Guilt tore at his insides like the approaching storm. Faces of the dead rolled with the rising tide. Ghosts of his victims cried out, begging him to show mercy on their souls. Thousands shrieked, pleading for the release from a hell they did not deserve. But he was too high for them to reach, and too indignant to listen.
Tristan closed his eyes. Strands of midnight hair whipped at his shoulders and face. His jacket snapped at his heels then waved behind him like a black flag in the wind. The ocean’s deep growl relaxed his weary mind. The voices of his past dissipated leaving only the call of the angry sea.
He peered into the sky. Loneliness embraced this world—a world he didn’t belong in. The cure he’d longed for would never come and end this eternal shadow. God would never take his soul into heaven to reunite him with his mother. His brother would never welcome him home with open arms. This curse would remain with him forever.
Tristan focused on the lights to the south. Manzanita was an ideal place to hide from the world. People infected small towns like this, spreading gossip like a disease, taking strife out on others. Here nobody seemed to care. Nobody took notice of his existence. Maybe that’s why he’d decided to stay.
Dense fog stalked the town like an ominous being. It cried for him to join in on its infiltration, to blind wandering eyes and make them unwary of his presence. How easy it’d be to feed on the lost.
Centered on top of a two-story building, gray paint chipped and darkened from the years beside the sea, a light called to him. Its whispers continued through the haunting tone of the foghorn and reassured him. There was one hand that soothed the monster inside, one savior who cared enough to keep him from walking into the sunlight.
Tristan stepped off the balcony. He plunged through the wind and rain down the side of the cliff. The demon sprouted lucid wings, evading the jagged rocks below. Ocean spray on his skin, he flew out over the hazardous waters, eager to reach the lights of town.
The scent of Oregon’s pungent coastal air rejuvenated his will to live. Lightning streaked across the clouded sky. The storm sang his sad tale of spite and betrayal. Soprano and thunderous bass joined in unison, as did his human soul with the night. Sometimes love and loathing walked hand-in-hand.
He landed on the edge of the building and peered down in the alley. A small group of people stumbled through the rain toward the entrance of the bar. They reeked of booze, miscreants in an unfamiliar town, tourists who didn’t belong here on such a cold winter’s night. They were a livelier crowd, younger than the locals who frequented this place.
An ache crept through his stomach. He envied their enthusiasm, their altruism, their humanity. A pint of sour blood would settle better than the wrenching in his gut. If this unrelenting envy and hunger would just go away, he might enjoy immortality a little more. He would ask to join them.
“Let’s get drunk tonight,” the blond male dressed in jeans and red hoodie said. He elbowed the girl next to him. “Margaritas?”
“I’m not too sure I’m in the mood for margaritas.” The young woman, dark hair wet from the walk in the downpour laughed. Her long sleeve shirt was soaked and clung to her curvaceous upper body. “I would love a glass of wine though.”
“Red wine sounds good.” The other woman’s sultry voice matched her dark complexion. Native American with olive skinned legs under a short white skirt. Her long black hair and dark eyes earned the attention of the man beside her. By the way he slid his arm around her waist, they were intimate.
He ran his hand over his wet red hair. “After driving all day in this awful weather, I don’t care what they have as long as it’s some form of alcohol.”
“Wine, Barry.” The olive-skinned woman said as she followed the first couple inside the bar. “I want a glass of wine.”
Tristan sneered. To drown his sorrow would be nice. A bottle of wine, aged over five hundred years, would be an appropriate crutch—King of Wines from his father’s collection. The bottle had sat in a box in the wine cellar for years. After father’s death, he’d forgotten about it. Maybe it was still there.
Strange to think of the wine cellar now when he hadn’t thought about it in years. Next time he went home, he’d search for it.
Wine was a luxury he missed. To taste its perfection and explore inebriated mischief would make him feel alive once more. This body he inhabited could not feel drunk any longer. Though taste came back with certain things, wine was not one of them. Maybe he’d be daring and order a crutch tonight. Then again, his stomach growled for something more suitable.
Tristan stepped off the building’s ledge. He landed on his feet in the alley. Hands in his jacket pockets, he stalked through the pouring rain to the bar’s entrance. Another night stuck with riff-raff. He’d sit at his table until morning then go home before the sun rose over the mountains. After a day of rest and darkness settled once again on the world, the routine would begin again. This was his way of life now. He’d accepted it.
The neon open sign blinked its welcome in the window. Tristan lowered his head and strode through the door. From beneath long wet strands of hair, he scanned the room for his one and only friend.
Mac Holden, the owner of the bar, the tender who knew Tristan’s poison every night, stood behind the counter. Rosy cheeks marked pale, wrinkled skin. Eyes of blue glistened beneath the hot lamplight above the bar. Salt-and-pepper hair, flattened on top from the wear of his beret, was tucked behind his ears and careened down the length of his neck where his pulse beat strong.
Tristan arrived at the counter. With a growling undertone, he parted his lips and spoke his first words of the night. “Good evening.” He flashed a short, rare grin. Maybe the young tourists’ laughter infected him more than he’d thought.
“It’s good to see you, son.” The wrinkles in Mac’s face extended with his smile as he reached under the counter for that special bottle. He popped the cork and poured the dark liquid into a glass. “Bloody Mary as usual.”
So rich in the color red and it smelled heavenly. It was a younger blood, a female in her mid-twenties, the perfect age to drink from. This was a fine wine indeed, warmed, and not chilled like the bottles he stashed in his home.
Mac always had a bottle of blood stashed behind the counter. Tristan had never asked why, but often wondered where it came from. The thought lingered for a moment as he strode toward his table in the dark corner of the room.
Tristan’s smile faded. Death met him long ago in the courtyard of his castle. Fear had spread over his skin that burned like paper in a fire. Though the pain was undeserving, it was a memory worth keeping—a frequent reminder of why his grin stayed concealed.
The tourists at the bar laughed—music to the place. Not the kind he longed to hear, but it was better than the quiet mumbles from the usual drunken crowd.
He sat on the wobbly chair near the back wall. He drew in a long swallow of his drink, and then set the glass on the table. Shaded in dark, he hid from the few glances he received from the tourists. It was a typical reaction from passing visitors; they’re curious for a moment then go about their business. Most ignored his presence. This time someone’s stare would not leave. Not a tourist, but a local this time.
“That freak comes in here every night.” Slate’s old raspy voice carried to Tristan’s ears.
“Mind your business, Slate.” Mac flashed the ratty, gray-headed man a warning glance. “You’ll get yourself in trouble if you don’t.”
Slate, the drunken fool, sat at the bar, beer in one hand, cigarette burning in the other. He often gloated about the wars he’d fought in. On the front lines he’d killed many men, even his own. He rarely knew who he spoke to and was too drunk to care. Tonight the old man was wide awake.
Slate sniffled in between puffs of his cigarette. It would be wise for him to keep his distance. Tristan’s true form would bring unwanted attention. The townspeople would try to drive him away.
He wouldn’t go. There was nothing in the world for him now. There was nobody to turn to. He’d rather just cease to exist than abandon this pathetic life he’d made here.
Slate curled his fingers around the handle of his mug. He swiveled his stool. With his back against the counter, he drew a puff on his cigarette then inhaled deeply. He grumbled as he exhaled stale smoke through clenched, rotting teeth.
“He looks like a ghost. Pale enough to be one,” Slate muttered to the tourists beside him. “Or maybe he’s from one of those satanic cults I’ve heard about. They sacrifice animals and have orgies to please their devil god.” He put out his cigarette in the ashtray and gave a short laugh through his fat, porous nose. “Faggots. I’d stick ’em all in the ground if I could, but I couldn’t dig a hole deep enough.”
Mac pursed his lips. “That’s enough. Turn around and drink your beer.”
Slate’s scaly lips rose in a grin. He pulled a cigarette pack out of the ragged front pocket of his shirt. He limped to the back of the room where Tristan sat, and then sat with a grunt on the chair across from him.
Tristan lowered his head to hide his eyes. He hated games, the kind he so desperately wanted to play. He wouldn’t pursue a fight. Not with Mac in the room ogling, heart drumming in worry that Tristan would lose control.
For two long years, Tristan had lived off wildlife and a few unfortunate livestock along the coastal highway. It’d become a game to see how long he could go without taking human victims. With Mac providing sustenance every night, and the few bottles Tristan stored in his cellar, it’d been easy. Slate lured out his dark side. Like in a game of Russian roulette, Tristan’s adrenaline spiked.
He concentrated on controlling his thirst as he waited for the inevitable cock of the chamber.
Slate stretched his legs out under the table. “I got arthritis in my legs from walking the front lines. I killed people. So I’ll take it as fair trade.”
He lit up another cigarette. The reflection of flame from the man’s silver lighter danced on the table. Smoke permeated the air with the putrid scent of rotten breath. Most of Tristan’s taste buds had been taken away on his turning. Why did the other senses need to remain so keen?
“Smoke bothering you?” Slate puffed a cloud of smoke in Tristan’s face. “They say cigarettes are bad for you. Maybe so, but I’ll happily go to the grave with a pack in my pocket. Hell, bury me with a damn carton, and I’ll never leave the grave.”
Slate guzzled his beer. Liquid dripped from the corner of his mouth to his dirty shirt, leaving a round, wet stain in the filth. His clothes reeked of pine and body odor. He’d most likely taken refuge in the state park, living with forest creatures, fending off the cold with a newspaper cover or a wool blanket donated by some ignorant passerby.
“What will it take to get you out of my bar?” Slate inhaled a long draw from his cigarette. Smoke caught in his throat. He coughed and hacked until his bluish skin turned beet-colored. The rings under his hazy gray eyes darkened. No wonder he antagonized. Such a pity to see a man others could praise as a hero look so fragile.
Slate had cancer, no doubt. By the sound of his cough, emphysema had taken its toll. By the looks of him, he had a few months left of his life. Maybe less if he didn’t find shelter from the cold.
Slate leaned back. The front legs of the chair lifted off the floor. Ankles crossed under the table, thick gray brows lowered, and nostrils flaring, he glared.
“Man of a few words, huh?” He cleared the remaining phlegm from his throat and laid his cigarette in the ashtray. He flexed his old muscles, and then pulled his shirt over his head. His lips tucked against his teeth. “Don’t get turned on now, sissy boy. I’m going to show you what a real man looks like.” He pointed at the tattoo above his left breast. “Got this in Afghanistan. The snake through the skull’s eye means I’m a bad motherfucker. You don’t want to mess with me.”
Tristan lowered his brows. “I did not seek your table.”
“So sissy boy knows how to speak.” Slate lifted his half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray. He stuck the burning stick between his lips then rested his arm on the table. A series of small round scars extended from his wrist to his elbow. “Every man I’ve killed is marked here, burned into my flesh because I like to remember. Not because I gave a shit. I enjoyed watching them squirm as they bled on the ground at my feet. They begged for their life right before I pulled the trigger. Bang.”
“Why do you think I care?”
“I don’t. You just remind me of the pussies I’ve killed.” Slate let the smoke whirl around in his lungs for a moment then exhaled. “You don’t quite fit in here. So, why do you stay?”
The urge to reach across the table and rip out Slate’s throat was strong. He longed for the man’s death. To see him suffer would fulfill the demon’s desire.
“Hello, sissy boy.” Slate’s crooked, decayed teeth showed with his grin. His right eye sagged. “You ignoring me? Are you asleep under all that girly hair? Maybe I should add a mark here for you.”
“You wish to murder me?”
Slate belted out a laugh. “It wouldn’t be right to confess such a thing, would it? If I said yes, you might go to the cops. Not that they’d do anything, the worthless piece of shits. But seriously, what kind of fun would it be for me if you didn’t fight back? Or at least run?”
Run? Tristan inwardly laughed. This man was undeniably arrogant. Ignorant. “I do not wish to fight you.”
Slate scoffed. “I didn’t take you for a coward.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “Come on, boy. Dance with me. Show me what you got.”
Tristan fought his demon. A few years before and he would have killed the man before he sat at the table.
“It is best you leave.”
Slate inhaled another puff then stood. “Pussy.” He dropped his burning cigarette in Tristan’s wineglass. The fire hissed.
Tristan growled. It was one thing to taunt a man to start a fight, but another to soil one’s drink. One glance would send the old man running like a frightened child. Chasing him down would be exhilarating. Killing the bastard would please the demon he fought to control.
Tristan drew in a deep breath. The white flag of reason waved robustly in his mind. It’d been several years since anyone provoked him enough to make his cold, dark blood boil with rage.
Tristan rose from the table. His midnight strands fell back from his face. His jaw tightened then relaxed. The corners of his lips rose from the usual stoop as darkness won over the man he fought to be.
Fire burned in his black abyss. His human counterpart shrank away to make room for the devil he loved and despised. A million globes of fire shot through his veins that became passageways for the demon to take over his brain. Once he took over his mind, nothing could stop him.
Pain shot through the skin in his mouth as his canines bent and shaped into sharp daggers. They were his weapon against the innocent and undignified. He’d won so many battles with just a mere flash of them.
Making a person run in fear was part of the game, and he loved the chase. No doubt in his demonic mind, he’d become the bullet in the chamber of the gun, and it was about to shoot.
Slate drew a step back. His ankle brushed the leg of the chair. Arms flailing, eyes widened, he fell on his backside on the concrete floor. A shaky breath passed his agape mouth as he stared up at a nightmare he never prepared to face.
Tristan flashed his fangs. There it was—pure terror in the old man’s tear-filled eyes. Slate now realized he’d started a fight with the wrong man tonight. If this monster attacked, there would be no escape.
Slate scrambled to his feet. Eyes wide, he staggered toward the exit, looking back to make sure Tristan didn’t follow. Tristan held his ground. If he pursued, Slate wouldn’t make it out with his head attached to his body.
Slate pushed the door open and ran out into the night. He escaped from the eyes of a true killer. Funny how quickly he’d changed his tune. Ironic he’d run away when he’d spent so much effort to instill fear.
Tristan lowered his burning gaze. Hell was easy to release, but difficult to bottle. A demon left unsatisfied could present an unpredictable outcome. If he let this phenomenal sensation ride, if he didn’t fight it with every ounce of strength and will, he’d kill everyone in the room.
Two choices, one difficult decision, but his discipline was strong—a focal point. He lowered his gaze to the narrow silver lighter Slate left on the table. The dragon etched into steel was too perfect for someone unworthy. The intricate design called to Tristan’s human side.
Air filled Tristan’s lungs. He fisted the lighter then slipped it into the pocket of his coat. His fangs crackled from the pressure of the bend. Intense pain shot through his mouth as they returned to their place.
A hand touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, son.” Mac picked up the ash-soiled wineglass. He set a fresh glass of blood on the table. “Just let it go.”
“My apologies.” The burning in Tristan’s veins cooled, but the ache in the pit of his stomach lingered. He yearned to kill—human, animal, it wouldn’t make a difference now.
“Sit and drink. It’ll make you feel better.”
Mac calmed him with his pleasant voice and amusing words. Without him, the entire town would have already stormed his front door, pitchforks and stakes in hand to kill the monster inside, just like in vampire movies. They were such foolish stories. Inaccurate. This time, Tristan couldn’t find the will to sit. Anxiety barreling through him was too strong to fight.
He longed to be alone with his struggle. The beach helped him through nights when desperation peaked. The sound of the waves calmed him when the fire would not go away. To stand in the ocean and let salt water cleanse the blood of thousands from his body would somewhat cool his cravings. It’d be enough that he could return home and drink from the bottles he stored in his house, aged to bitterness—Jester of Wines.
Tristan stepped back from Mac’s touch. “I must go.”
Mac gave a short nod. “I’m here if you need me.”
Tristan strode toward the exit. His once lone haven was now contaminated with the old man’s stench. No way could he rejoin the serenity of this place, at least not tonight.
Too riled up, Tristan threw the drunken tourists a quick glare, and then stalked outside into a wintry mix.