The conversation with the boys had left a strange residue in Elara's ancient mind. It had dredged up memories she'd kept buried for centuries and, in doing so, had cracked open a window in her self-imposed tomb. Through it, a sliver of the mundane, mortal world was beginning to seep in.
Tonight, that seepage manifested as a craving. It was a bizarre, novel sensation. For the first time in perhaps five hundred years, she wanted to eat something not for sustenance or to quell a supernatural thirst, but for the simple, ridiculous pleasure of it.
She needed some garlic bread.
The thought was so absurd it was almost funny. Another consequence of the idiots next door. Deciding to indulge the whim, she did something else she hadn't done in centuries. She went to her closet and pushed past the endless sea of black leather, black denim, and black silk. Tucked in the very back was a simple, plain white dress she'd bought on an impulse and never worn. It was an experiment. An attempt to see what it felt like to not be in mourning for a world that no longer existed.
Wearing it felt… strange. Light. Terribly exposed.
The night air was cool as she stood at the bus stop, the white dress a ghostly beacon under the orange hum of the streetlight. She didn't need the bus, of course. She could have been at the 24-hour bakery and back in the space between heartbeats. But she was trying to blend in. To learn the rhythms of this new, quiet life.
A patrol car slowed as it passed her, its headlights washing over her before it pulled to a smooth stop at the curb. An officer got out. He looked like a decent guy—young, lean, with the kind of reassuringly muscular build that was meant to project safety. His smile was clean and practiced.
"Everything alright here, miss?" he asked, his voice calm and professional. "It's a late night to be out all alone."
Elara offered a small, neutral smile in return. The act of playing a normal human was still a strange-fitting garment. "I'm fine, Officer. Just waiting for the bus."
"The bus?" He chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Doesn't run this late out here. Where you headed?" He took a step closer, his eyes raking over her white dress.
"To the bakery on Main," she replied, her internal alarms beginning to hum softly.
"A pretty thing like you, dressed like that... you're just asking for trouble, sweetheart," he said, the term of endearment landing like a lead weight. "Shouldn't be wandering around by yourself."
My name is not sweetheart, she thought, her mind dispassionately cataloging the weak points in his neck. And the only trouble here is you.
Outwardly, she remained placid. "I can take care of myself."
The cop's smile tightened. It was the condescending look of a man who believed he knew best. "That's what they all say. Look, a woman has no business being out alone at this hour. It's not safe. It's not right. You meeting a boyfriend? He should be taking better care of you than to let you wander the streets."
Every word was a small, infuriating needle prick against her millennia-old pride. He wasn't seeing a person; he was seeing a problem to be managed, a piece of property that was currently unattended. She was trying to blend in, so she couldn't use her powers. She had to stand here and take this. The feeling of helplessness was so foreign it was almost nauseating.
"I don't have a boyfriend, Officer. I was just hungry," she said, her tone becoming clipped.
"Getting a little feisty, are we?" He took another step, invading her personal space. His scent was of cheap cologne and a sense of absolute self-righteousness. "You got some ID on you? We've had some issues... with girls who don't know their place getting into trouble. I'm just trying to keep order."
Order. The word resonated with the king who had slaughtered her people for the sake of his ambition. It was the word men used to justify their cruelty. Her hand twitched, the impulse to snap his arm at the elbow a roaring fire she had to actively suppress. She was a predator forced to play the part of prey, and it was galling.
She reached into the small purse she'd brought—another prop for her performance—and handed him her fake driver's license. He studied it, then looked back at her, his gaze lingering.
"Elara," he read, tasting the name. "Pretty. See, Elara, my job is to protect people. And that includes protecting women from their own bad decisions. Like being out here, dressed to invite attention. It disrupts the natural order of things. Causes chaos."
He handed her ID back, his fingers brushing against hers. His touch was clammy.
"Go on home," he said, his voice now a low, commanding purr. "It's where you belong. I'll be keeping an eye on this neighbourhood. Keeping it clean."
He gave her one last, lingering look before turning, getting back in his car, and driving off into the night.
Elara stood frozen at the bus stop, the officer's words slithering in the air around her. Her craving for garlic bread was gone, replaced by an ice-cold rage that was achingly familiar.
She had spent a thousand years hunting the mindless, ravenous ghouls born from the death of her world. But this was a different kind of monster. One that wore a badge, spoke of protection, and hid its venom behind a smile. This one didn't want to drain her life force. It wanted to own her soul.