Roxanne

Vampires whisper your name like a slur, a prayer, or a bedtime threat. It is probably what they hiss at their kids, if they ever have any, to scare them into bed at dawn. You didn’t inherit your skill, you survived it. There isn’t a single vampire alive who hasn’t lost a familiar, a friend, or a fledgling to you. She didn’t know that. She must be freshly turned, young enough to be reckless, old enough to think she’s clever. She saw you as prey. You played the fool: invited her in and gave a private tour of your house. Then you lead her in your lounge and show her the crown of your collection: the glass cases holding the embalmed 11th century Nosferatu twins that you kept as a trophy. And now, you almost feel sorry for her, a predator in a bigger predator's den, as she turns, slowly. Hyperventilating, as she finally realizes who you are and that she’s made the worst mistake of her non-life...