Page 2 of Love Bitten

I read through the gentleman’s details. It didn’t sound like he had spent so much as a single night with a monster before, only other humans. Other than that, the details were promising. I closed the book and turned to the librarian.

“Yes, this human sounds satisfactory,” I told them. “Shall I pen him a note right away? Or shall I wait a while before I make a move?”

“Now, of course,” The Librarian urged me. “It won’t do you any good to wait for the ‘right time,’ whenever that is. This human is interested in finding a match as soon as possible, so why don’t you go home, write your letter, and wait for a response?

“That sounds reasonable to me.”

I returned home with the slip of paper containing my mystery date’s contact information, holding it like a precious vile of blood, terrified that I would spill a drop of it on the earth below me. Only the paper had no blood to spill, but rather the potential to soil the pristine sheet to the point of unreadability. I finally had a chance at love. I wasn’t about to lose it now due to my own idiocy.

I arrived home quickly, choosing not to stop anywhere else this evening. It might have been wise to pick up some food for the human I would soon have staying in my house, but I still had a few shelf-stable left over from a rare party a year or so earlier.

I unlocked the wrought iron gate that protected my mansion from intruders – that was its intention, at least, though the mere sight of my property was enough to send any would-be criminal on their way.

The gargoyles on the stone fence were crumbling and dilapidated. The gravel pathway was overgrown with weeds and the lawn hadn’t been manicured in, well, ever, as far as I was aware. I would spend the entirety of my life at the Valchazar estate and had yet to see a single soul caring for the house and its grounds. I could have hired someone if I wished, but I preferred my solitude. And how much would it take to convince a groundskeeper to work on an ancient vampire estate?

The mansion itself had ivy vines traveling down every surface where the moss had yet to take over. Water dripped down from a hole in the roof over the porch, but I cared little about a touch of dampness. Dodging the puddle spreading on the steps, I entered the house and made my way toward my library.

The library was a dusty mess. Old letters, newspapers, and books lined the shelves, spilled over onto the chairs, and sat stockpiled on the ground, the stacks stretching nearly to the ceiling in some places.

I enjoyed reading as one of the few activities that always managed to eat up some of my endless time. I also enjoyed writing letters, a form of communication that was the only kind I had centuries ago when I first made friends.

After years of corresponding with various people, I kept only the ones that held sentimental value to me still – close friends, family, old lovers – the ones who were truly special in my eyes.

Outside of the library, the remainder of the house was just as neglected and unlived in. The dining room had never been used for anything more than to keep up appearances or the rare dinner party, and the kitchen was likewise a ghost of a room. I only used it when I had humans or other food-eating monsters over, which wasn’t often.

The only room I kept up was my bedroom, in the hopes that someday I might be able to bring someone home who would appreciate it. Those hopes had blossomed once again as I sat down to pen my note on yellowed parchment to one Luke Hammond, a human with a penchant for nighttime outings and an insatiable interest in monster folk of all kinds including, hopefully, vampires.

3

LUKE

Iyawned and stretched, the sun pouring in through the gaps in my bedroom window blinds.

“Ah, fuck,” I mumbled, “I forgot to close the curtains yesterday.”

I stumbled out of bed and yanked the curtains over the window, blocking out the obnoxious sun. I was too awake now to even consider the thought of another hour or two, though, so I threw the sheets back over my bed in a messy attempt to make it and grabbed my phone from the nightstand.

My friends told me to quit working a night shift and find a “normal” job, and out loud I agreed with them. I should get a different job. Wouldn’t it be great to work and live on the same schedule as everyone else?

But deep down, I secretly enjoyed my nocturnal life. There was something mysterious and intriguing about the dark and what might be lurking in the shadows just out of eyesight. Sometimes I wished I were a cat so I could see better in the dark. Other times I considered buying night vision goggles, which would be way easier than figuring out how to become a cat shifter.

Instead, I made do with my inferior vision and went about my nights working in the silence of a near-empty hotel, checking giggling couples and over-exhausted business people into their rooms.

I stifled another yawn and shuffled out of my bedroom in search of a cup of coffee, rubbing my eyelids with my fingers. I would have to make the coffee for myself if I wanted it, one of the many cons of being a single man with no intention of leaving the house until late afternoon at least. No one wanted to deal with me before I had my first cup of coffee, not even myself.

It was the weekend, which was a small consolation, but beyond that, I didn’t have much to look forward to over the rest of the day. The only thing that perked me up aside from a piping hot mug of coffee was the sound of the mail carrier leaving my porch.

“I wonder what that could be?” I mumbled, getting up from the dining room table to check, coffee still in hand. “I never get mail.”

It was true. No one I knew sent letters anymore and the few pieces of junk mail associated with my last address stayed at that place.

I plucked the letter from the floor beneath the door’s mail slot and turned it over in my hand, becoming more confused the longer I examined it. It looked like an artifact from Victorian times: the envelope was thick and yellowed, the lettering was more a filigreed typeface than real handwriting, and it was sealed shut with red wax with a bat embossed in the center.

For a moment, I thought it was an elaborate marketing scheme. Some businesses were resorting to some wacky campaigns and this one was clever enough to get me to open it, so I guess it worked. As soon as I set my coffee down and unfolded the letter, however, I realized just how wrong I’d been.

“The library!” I exclaimed, reading the tiny, cursive text carefully. “This is my first match from my application. I wasn’t expecting it to come in a letter, though.”

I’d waited for six long months since first putting in an application for matchmaking services at the library. The Librarian warned me at the time that it might take a while, but after the first couple of months, I began to lose hope altogether. I wanted a date, not the perfect fantasy that didn’t exist.

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