"I never understood why you wear colored lenses."
A low beat pulsed through the car's cabin—one of those songs every radio station had been playing lately. For the third time that trip, the same melody filled the silence. It wasn't that I disliked it; the tune just grew stale too quickly, the kind that made you tap along with your finger against the leather steering wheel just to keep from going numb after hours behind it.
Especially now, after three uninterrupted hours of driving—trading the monotonous crawl of Leningrad Highway for the open stretch of a provincial road under a pale afternoon sky.
On weekday mornings, no one rushed to leave the city. It was always the other way around—people streamed toward the heart of the capital, chasing dreams, refusing to let go. Striving for comfort, for hope, for something better, as long as their hearts still beat and their blood still ran warm.
But I was running away—before the million-strong city, that vast and hungry creature, could swallow me whole. Or worse, chew slowly, savoring the taste, and only then decide whether to devour its prey or toy with it a little longer.
"I just like them," I said, giving a careless shrug—the same one I always used when I couldn't tell Mark the truth. The more nonchalant I seemed, the faster the conversation would die on its own. Or so I hoped.
Thinking too long before answering was dangerous: my body would tense, betray me. In six months together, Mark had learned to notice things—how I moved, how I reacted, how I showed emotion. And that was becoming a problem.
He was beginning to see through the layers—the real me beneath a lifetime of practiced lies that allowed me to live among humans.
"But why gray?" he asked. "With those, you look like a starving she-wolf."
My lip twitched in disgust at the mention of that furry creature, but I pulled myself together. What a precise, unfortunate metaphor. The kind guaranteed to make any vampire flinch.
Bullseye.
For a moment, I tore my gaze from the road and glanced at Mark. He was slouched in the passenger seat, staring absently at the forest rolling by beyond the window, his chin resting on his hand.
No. He couldn't possibly know.
A trace of stubble shadowed his sharp jawline, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He never complained, but I knew the nightmares weren't just mine. Try getting a full night's sleep when your girlfriend screams bloody murder every couple of hours instead of letting the alarm clock do its job.
I never remembered my dreams in the morning—but I didn't need to. I already knew what haunted me. Or rather, what haunted me.
The problem was, I couldn't tell whether it was the work of some crafty witch… or something far older, far stronger. Something I hadn't yet learned existed in my brief nineteen years on Earth.
"I thought you liked everything about me," I said quietly.
"I do."
Mark placed his hand over mine, resting on the gearshift. His long fingers wove through my own.
"Still cold," he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt frost. "Even in summer."
I could hear the smile in his tone. "You know, I can't even remember what color your real eyes are."
Red. Deep, saturated red.
"Every woman should keep a little mystery," I joked, forcing a light tone. "Now do me a favor—change the station, will you? If I hear that song one more time, I swear I'll steer this car straight into the nearest pole, like that guy."
I nodded toward the wreck we were passing. A police car was parked nearby, a paramedic van beside it.
No flashing lights.
No sirens.
There was no one left to save.
Mark froze when he caught sight of the wreck. We sped past it, but from the look on his face I could tell that the image had already branded itself into his mind—vivid and unshakable.
"Don't joke about things like that."
Here we go again. I took a slow breath and recited the line I always used in such moments:
"Cars crash, planes fall, trains derail. So what?"
"So what?" he echoed. "The driver might've died. Who knows how many passengers were inside?"
I shrugged. The conversation played out the same way every time, and it always bored me senseless.
"Why waste pity on strangers?"
"Empathy, Lisa," Mark said, with a faint smile. "It's called empathy—feeling compassion for others. Look it up sometime."
I snorted and tightened my grip on the wheel. Empathy, really.
Between the two of us, Mark was the warmer one. He treated people kindly—even complete strangers. To him, there was no line dividing us from them. If someone needed help, he'd throw himself into it without hesitation, giving all of himself away. Selfless. Noble. Foolish.
That trait had surprised me when I first got to know him. On the surface, Mark presented himself as the model of reason—a calm, analytical programmer, a creature of order and logic. But whenever the conversation drifted toward the intangible—feelings, dreams, loss—he transformed into someone else entirely: a man with a fragile, aching soul. His heart overflowed with boundless sympathy. And blood.
The scent of it stirred a hunger deep inside me.
I tried not to get attached to people, if only because any stranger could easily become my dinner tomorrow. No one caresses the goose before turning it into foie gras. That's the brutal truth of the food chain—and I held a proud place one tier above humanity's so-called pinnacle of evolution.
It was strange, really, that two such opposite beings could love each other. Stranger still that I could feel anything at all—could grow attached to a creature who would never belong to the old, shadowed order of a vampire clan.
Mark had become the single exception to my most sacred rule: never get close to a human. He had entered my life uninvited and made himself comfortable, gripping the armrests of my soul like a man refusing to let go. Six months. A fleeting moment for someone like me—yet for him, it hinted at something serious, something that might last.
I knew I was walking on thin ice, half-expecting to hear it crack beneath me at any moment. And yet, each time I looked around, there was another day. Another sunrise. Another small miracle—Mark still there, surprising me again and again with his unbearable… humanity.
"How much longer?" he asked at last.
I glanced at the phone mounted on the dashboard. The glowing screen showed our route on the navigation app.
"Just under an hour."
Mark sighed in defeat and tried to stretch in his seat—a difficult task for someone his height in a low-slung business sedan I'd borrowed from my father. At least, that's what I preferred to tell myself: that I had borrowed it, as if I'd ever planned to return it, or as if my father would somehow return to the world of the living.
The word inheritance still cut deep—like the edge of a knife I kept twisting in my own chest. Self-deception is a slippery road, but sometimes it's the only one you can balance on after life has carved its scars too deep to forget.
My family had always despised summer—too much daylight, too many hours to hide from. Every year, we retreated to our private estate in a small Siberian town. For ancient vampires, remaining unseen in the capital during this season was a true ordeal—one they saw no reason to endure. Laziness came with the centuries. Eternity and wealth corrupt alike.
As my father used to say, "If you're immortal and haven't figured out how to make a fortune after a couple of centuries, maybe you're just stupid—and it's time to die."
Hard to argue with logic like that.
I never tried.
"Maybe we could stop for coffee?" Mark asked, breaking the silence. "I'd sell my soul right now just to stretch a bit."
"Better hold on to that soul of yours," I smirked, nodding toward the phone on the dashboard. "Check the map. If there's a station on our way, we can stop."
"There—look!" Mark leaned forward, so eager to point it out that he tapped the windshield with his finger. "Five hundred meters till the exit."
I eased my foot off the gas and flicked on the blinker to merge into the right lane. Hopefully, I'd make it in time and not miss the turn. Fortunately, the driver behind me slowed down and let me in just before the divider. Nice to know not everyone on the road feels the need to prove something about the size of their manhood in traffic battles with imaginary rivals.
Out of habit, I double-tapped the hazard lights in thanks. If I was going to keep up the act of being human, I might as well play the part of a decent one.
Being a polite driver was easy enough. Pretending to sleep all night while Mark breathed softly beside me—that took far more effort.
Still, I had to admit, his presence in my apartment was the one thing that helped me break free from the clan's endless rules and discover the strange concept humans called rest.
The ancients would be far less insufferable if they tried sleeping once in a while. But it wasn't my place to choose how others preferred to suffer.
My version of sleep was only distantly related to what Mark experienced. While he could sleep through the night—and half the day on weekends—I needed only a few hours.
I saw no vivid dreams painted by the subconscious, no fatigue waiting to be restored by morning light. For me, sleep was more like an inner silence, a temporary death where my thoughts finally slowed, giving me respite from the voice in my head and the thirst for blood that never truly left me.
That was before the funeral.
The parking lot by the gas station was empty. I pulled up to the nearest spot by the small convenience kiosk. As soon as I pulled the handbrake and turned off the engine, Mark leapt out of the car and began pacing around, stretching his legs. Watching him made me smile.
Mark always looked so alive—so effortlessly human—that it was mesmerizing.
That kind of ease was forever beyond my reach. It required too much restraint, too much control.
Reluctantly, I unbuckled my seat belt and reached for the glove compartment to grab my wallet before stepping out into the warm air.
I could've sworn the coffee idea had come to Mark only because he'd seen the sign, and the thought irritated me a little. Another hour, and we'd have been at our destination, where the coffee was real—not this watery, burnt-tasting sludge that passed for it at roadside stations.
But I knew him too well. His small habits, his little rituals—they made him who he was. The kind of man who somehow coaxed my heart into feeling something that might have been love, if I believed those syrupy movies and TV shows.
That was why I didn't object—not for a second.
Besides, it would give me a perfect excuse to step aside and call my assistant, Karina.
"Well," I began, coming up beside Mark as he rolled his ankle in slow circles, "shall we?"
He smiled at me—that particular smile that carved two soft dimples into his cheeks. A light breeze caught a few strands of his wavy hair, and, out of habit, I held my breath. I'd done the same thing at the start of our relationship, afraid to breathe in his scent too deeply.
Not that it was necessary anymore. After we'd moved in together, the fragrance of Mark's skin had stopped burning my throat with hunger on those lean days when I'd forgotten to replenish my blood supply. His scent had become something I'd grown used to—almost absorbed into me. Notes of sharp anise and clean cologne had become a second skin I could slip into.
My family, of course, would have called this a waste of time. Summer months were reserved for clan councils, where they discussed business strategies and other tedious affairs I'd happily ignored for the past century—and planned to ignore for at least another. From May to September, the humans of Russia could live just a little more peacefully, if only they knew that most of the monsters had retreated far from their cities. Among mortals remained only minor underlings—sent to keep the reckless fledglings in check and remind those who disobeyed of the clan's laws.
And then there was me.
By vampire standards, I was still practically a child—the daughter of a slain clan leader who'd made the mistake of being seen online. My sudden burst of human-world notoriety had earned me the council's lasting disapproval.
Lacking peers and largely ignored by the elders, I'd turned to the only companions who never betrayed me: books.
During the summer gatherings, the ancient ones met in the family estate far from the city, where our private library sprawled like a sleeping beast. The collection held ancient tomes and the handwritten journals of our own clan members—though I quickly learned how much fiction pulsed beneath their supposed history.
For all their posturing, vampires had entangled themselves in human affairs centuries ago, feigning civility while manipulating from the shadows. They steered noble minds toward convenient decisions, provoked wars when it suited their ambitions, even spread rumors of new, mysterious plagues to mask the growing number of victims after a feeding went out of control.
Every family maintained its own army of thin-bloods—just in case. Some were turned for protection, swelling the ranks of their masters; others were unleashed to terrify nearby settlements and claim new territories. Newly turned vampires had become a common, reliable tool.
But every tool dulls in time. The thin-blooded could only last so long before they began to lose what was left of their humanity—and their reason—if too long deprived of their creator's blood. That was when the real problems began. Vampires are not known for their punctuality. What does time mean when eternity stretches before you? Nothing. Missing the moment when a fledgling slipped beyond saving was all too easy. Usually, we remembered their existence only when it was already too late—when it was time to erase the evidence.
I didn't have an army of my own. And yet, I'd managed to stumble just as spectacularly as my ancestors once had—by falling in love with a human.
That, sooner or later, was bound to become a problem. By bloodright, I was first in line to lead the clan after my father's death. They'd given me less than two years to "settle my affairs" and return.
Two years to disappear, to retreat into the shadows. Two years to find a believable reason to abandon my public life and take on the burden of ruling a clan where every single member was at least a century older than me.
You don't get to choose your fate.
I knew that better than anyone.
To spend eternity with a human, by our laws, meant only one thing: turning the one you loved. But the risk rarely justified the reward. Even after the transformation, a human could never be truly equal to us — the born vampires. They became bound to their creator, dependent on their maker's blood to keep their sanity intact, forever tethered, never wholly their own.
I couldn't wish such a fate on Mark.
The thought that something in him — or worse, in me — would change, that "Lisa, the woman he loved" might become "Lisa, his creator," frightened me more than I dared to admit.
But what truly terrified me was the possibility that he simply wouldn't survive the transformation.
Vampires had been created by witches, a deliberate act against the natural order of things. We were a mistake of nature — beings who were never meant to exist. Greedy for power and self-preservation, we could have conquered the world through sheer numbers. And the ancients had tried, hiding their ambitions behind the smoke of human wars. Yet soon enough they discovered a bitter truth: not every human could survive the turning. Many died in agony, their bodies consumed by the venom's strength, their very essence erased from existence.
For a while, I comforted myself with the thought that I'd find a way out later — after my two years of grace had passed. But even the idea of that choice terrified me.
Letting Mark go felt unthinkable. Risking his life felt worse.
And so, I began to prepare myself for another kind of love — distant, silent, one lived through memory rather than touch. I imagined leaving him behind, watching from afar as he lived a long, happy human life, far from the supernatural world, far from the clan that would surely intervene the moment they learned of us.
Humans were food, soldiers, or, in the darkest corners of our laws, incubators — but never partners. The old decrees forbade any form of interspecies union. Love like ours was not merely frowned upon; it was illegal.
Mark pushed open the glass door of the gas station shop, holding it for me with a small, gentlemanly smile, and I couldn't help but smile back. Inside was bright, busy, surprisingly full for a weekday afternoon. The air smelled of warm pastries, fried sausages, and coffee.
Coffee — deceptively pleasant from a distance, though I still remembered the bitter taste that made me wrinkle my nose every time I tried it at a gas station.
Mark headed straight for the counter, while I wandered between the aisles, scanning the shelves for snacks to go with our evening movie.
Human food fascinated me — so varied, so layered in flavor. Its only flaw was that it filled the mouth, not the hunger. No matter how much I ate, the craving within remained sharp and alive. Still, the empty calories and greasy chips dulled the thirst, at least a little — and that counted for something.
Even on my best, most sated days, the nearness of Mark stirred the hunger anew. I had never drunk his blood, and I intended to keep it that way.
Instead, I played the part of the indulgent girlfriend — the woman with an endless appetite, happily devouring one dish after another at dinner, much to her lover's amusement.
"If you want to make a woman happy, just feed her," the saying went.
In my case, it would be more accurate to say:
If you want to live to see the morning, don't forget to bring home the chips.
Once I was sure Mark wasn't watching me, I slipped my phone from my pocket and dialed my assistant. After two long rings, Karina picked up — as she always did.
"Please tell me you're finished," I whispered, glancing around the small shop to make sure no one was close enough to overhear.
"The refrigeration unit's installed in the bathroom, same as at your place. Nothing to worry about, mistress," she replied with her usual deliberate cheer. Karina had always tried to sound optimistic. Along with the car, I had inherited her — my father's devoted aide. She was the only one who knew about Mark's existence, and after a hundred and fifty years in our family's service, her loyalty had never once been questioned.
"Good. Has the area been checked?"
"Well, yes… about that," she began, her voice thoughtful. "It's an unusually quiet place. Suspiciously quiet, even."
I tensed. "Go on."
"For the entire morning, we counted only four couples on the property, though the website says every house is booked for the same dates as yours. I sent some of my people to have a discreet look around. Our conclusion is that most of the guests are elderly — they spend their mornings and afternoons on the group tours that leave daily from the main building. In the evenings, activities continue there, but the guests tend to go straight to bed after sunset. If necessary, you can… indulge a little, under cover of night, without any risk." She hesitated, then added, "Just note that in houses thirteen and thirty-two, both landlords have chronically low blood pressure, according to their medical records."
"I'll keep that in mind," I murmured, peering over the shelf to check on Mark. He was still at the counter, waiting for our order. "Doesn't sound too strange. Thank you, Karina."
"I wish I could agree, mistress." Her voice sounded strained — trying to sound bright but failing. After so many years, I could easily recognize the tension beneath her tone. And today, it was stronger than usual.
"How are things at home?"
"Most still wear the veil of mourning for your father," she said carefully. "But there are whispers. Troubling ones."
"For example?" I asked, keeping my eyes on Mark. He had begun glancing around, probably looking for me. I'd have to end the call quickly.
"Some doubt you're ready to lead. They think you're too young, too inexperienced. We're tracking the ringleaders, but…" She hesitated. "It doesn't smell good."
"Keep me informed."
"As always, mistress."
I hung up, grabbed a few bags of popcorn and nuts from the shelves, and joined Mark at the counter. He was waiting patiently, studying the coffee machines and shelves with the calm curiosity of someone who found wonder in the most ordinary places.
I paid for our order and asked for a bag, tucking the snacks inside.
"It's been a while since we went anywhere," Mark said dreamily, gazing through the glass at the parking lot. "I almost forgot how nice it feels to just drive — watching the scenery change. It's relaxing… except my back is killing me."
"Right," I said with a smirk. "Imagine how I feel after the last few hours behind the wheel."
"Oh, come on," he said, flashing that guilty-puppy look that always made forgiveness immediate. "Just a little longer, and we'll be there."
"Admit it," I teased, grabbing his belt buckle and pulling him close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin, "you just can't live without those mystery-meat hot dogs and awful coffee."
"Maybe," he whispered, his lips barely brushing mine. "Or maybe they just remind me of my childhood."
"The one where you'd spend weekends dying of boredom at some countryside museum with your parents?" I murmured, never breaking eye contact, sliding my fingers beneath his leather jacket and feeling the subtle tremor that ran through him at each touch.
"Exactly. When my parents got tired enough, they'd stop fighting. The best part of those trips was when they were finally over — those quick gas station stops for a snack. That's my comfort zone."
"You know…" I let my gaze drift down, then bit my lip as I looked up again. "I'm dying for a hot dog myself."
"Is that so?" His eyes darkened, his mouth curling into a sly smile.
"Mhm," I breathed, my voice dripping with mock sultriness.
"Your order!" a woman's sharp voice interrupted from behind the counter. Clearly unimpressed by our public closeness, she slammed two paper cups of mediocre coffee onto the counter. Beside them, a cardboard tray held four hot dogs — our road-trip feast.
Mark thanked the woman briefly, and under the spell of his smile, she blushed, averted her eyes, and hurried off to take the next order. One of Mark's many superpowers was how he affected people — the way a golden retriever puppy did. You just couldn't stay mad at him, not when you knew that, given a little time, he'd let you pet him afterward.
He shook the branded box in front of me, the bright colors of the gas station chain catching the light.
"How lucky for you that I ordered something for both of us," he said with a wink, shattering the fragile charm of the moment.
"Actually," I said dryly, "that's not quite what I had in mind."
"Oh, I'd never have guessed," he teased, pretending to sound offended while struggling to open the box. "You want yours with ketchup and mustard, right?"
I nodded, exhaling through my nose. It seemed tonight I'd have to settle for what I was given.
Ever since my last novel had become a bestseller, things at home had grown tense. Success, when it landed so suddenly, burned like an open flame. I'd been invited onto radio shows, asked to appear on television; my editor had even suggested a yearlong tour — book fairs, signings, meet-and-greets — a way to "bring me closer to the readers," to keep the buzz alive while the wave was still cresting.
No one in my family had imagined that what began as a harmless game — a novel written between classes, a way to play at being a normal mortal — would turn into something like this. People wanted to know everything about me: where I was born, what kind of family I came from, which school I'd gone to, what my parents did. Did I have a boyfriend? What did my house look like?
At first, I thought the noise would fade, that curiosity would die out within a few months. But it didn't. It only grew louder. And there was no stopping it now.
The internet remembers everything. That is its curse — and its power.
In the beginning, I believed I had about ten years to chase the moment, to taste the life I could never truly live. The clan wouldn't grant me more than that. But now that my father was gone and I was expected to take his place, that time had been cut down to two.
My appearance had frozen at seventeen. The fragile bloom of youth would follow me into eternity, and that alone complicated my future among humans. Born vampires usually stopped aging closer to thirty, but I hadn't been so lucky. You can fool people for a decade, maybe two, with excuses about "good genes" and miracle skincare — but eventually, the observant ones start to notice. The unchanging face. The stillness. Like a rose trapped in ice, untouched by time.
So I decided to make the most of what I had. I agreed to the tour for next year and signed a contract for another book. The marketing department said a new release would amplify the noise even further, so I began to write.
But the words refused to come.
Creativity gave way to heavier thoughts — about the inevitable end of our fairytale, about Mark and me — and our home turned from a haven of peace into a dark place. So dark that, day by day, we spoke less and less, both of us aware of the quiet terror lingering in the walls, refusing to leave.
That was why we'd gone to the glamping park Mark's colleague had recommended — to find even a moment of peace, so I could finish my work far from that cursed apartment. Far from the growing dread that soon our home would collapse under its own weight — and I would vanish from Mark's life without a trace.
Karina would make sure of that.
Neither of us knew, of course, that our little escape into the countryside would bring us straight to the point of no return. Straight to the doorstep of the creature that would shatter our lives — and change everything.