Beautiful Biters - an original vampire story (15+) WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2020

Vampire Twin Mythology

THE WEST COUNTRY

Emerging from the underpass after the attack, Justin found Freya waiting for him outside the doors of the old warehouse they called home. The signs around warned of radioactive waste; an effective way to scare off humans. She hopped from side to side, excitement burning her up.

"That was amazing! Arnaud says if we head out next Friday, we can join them again. And this time I'll be ready for any bitches coming for me. I'm going to hunt for myself. I want to feel what it's like when the life drains out of them and—"

Justin pushed past her. Home was an optimistic description of the warehouse. His last human habitation didn't qualify in the top ten of anyone's list of "Places Where I'd Love to Live", but the warehouse's only resemblance to a home was a fridge in the corner that until now had been stocked with bags of fake blood.

The bags had run out three days ago. Hence, his adventure outside. He'd only meant to look for other stocks, naively imagining the supplies were as easy to buy as a pint of milk.

Idiot.

Inside, he switched on the light, its bulb flickering. He and Freya had done their best since they'd been here. He built rough beds and chairs. She found insulation lagging in the roof they used as rough upholstery. Previous occupants had left behind a massive pile of books, comics and magazines. Otherwise, they might have died of boredom, too nervous to venture outside.

He sat on his improvised bed. "Come here."

Freya's face lit up, dismaying him. Sharing space with someone who worshipped the ground you walked on exhausted him. The old Justin might have found her attractive—glossy black hair, oval faced and light coffee-coloured skin. Well, coffee-ish. She shared his ashy greyness, though that was now less obvious thanks to their recent infusion of proper blood.

Justin discouraged her as gently (and sometimes not so) as he could. He had, however, assumed responsibility for her.

"Freya, I don't want to live like this," he said. "I'm going to hand myself in."

Snuggled against him, she stiffened.

"But they'll destroy us!"

"No, they won't," he said the words with more conviction than he believed. "There's an amnesty for vampires as long as you turn yourself in within a month."

Yes, even the authorities recognised how powerful the drive to kill was. And forgave it. He hoped.

"You've seen them!" Freya protested, referring to state-licensed vampires. "In chains. Curfewed. Despised."

He nodded. "I can't live with myself if I kill."

More squawks of protests, but half-hearted ones. Maybe the tedium got to her, too. Someone once described war to him as ninety percent boredom, ten percent terror. An apt summary of twenty-first century vampire life.

He let Freya curl up with him, the two of them sharing his makeshift bed that stank thanks to the lack of washing facilities. When she reached for his crotch tentatively, the opposite of Cordelia's confident action, he shoved her hand away. Half an hour of escape beckoned. Thrusts that might drown out fevered thoughts. But a one-off wouldn't satisfy Freya.

And weird as it was—he was one of the undead, too—a bloodsucking girlfriend crossed a bridge too far.

Freya drifted off, her head under his. He nestled his chin in her hair, wishing the sight of that woman—eyes wide open and accusatory—would banish itself from his mind. That, and the way he kept returning to the surge of power he had felt as his teeth ground through the boy's neck. Imagine doing that time and time again.