Fate's Vinculum

Part III, Chapter 1. The Vampire

"Oh, I know you hate it when I leave, don't you," the young man cooed to the orange cat currently in his arms. "Don't you? But I always come back, don't I? Yes, I do. Yes, I do!"

When the cat began to purr, the boy frowned and spoke in his regular voice. "Oh c'mon, that's just not fair. I'm hungry. I have to leave!"

Giving the cat a kiss on the head, the boy released it. It purred loudly, blinked once, and then darted from the room. Chuckling to himself, he grabbed everything he needed—his wallet, his grey trench coat that matched his grey fedora, sunglasses, and car keys.

"Bye, Ginger!"

Making sure the door to his apartment was locked, he began to whistle loudly as he made his way down three flights of stairs. At the bottom of the stairwell he flipped up the high collar of his trench coat, hit the unlock button to his car many more times than necessary, then bolted out the back door of the apartment complex.

Once situated in his car properly (sun visor down, slipping on the black leather gloves taken from his glove box), he relaxed a bit. Pressing the button that would start the engine, he quickly turned on some alt rock music. Smiling, the black BMW pulled out of its spot and whisked its driver away to his favorite diner.

~

The young man, who really wasn't more than a boy, abruptly stopped shoveling pancakes into his mouth and froze. His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, still stared at the food. For a moment he collected himself. Once he felt adequately prepared, he spoke to the man he knew without even looking up to see who it was; the man who had slipped into the seat across from him utterly silently.

"I don't remember asking for company," the boy commented nonchalantly, still refusing to look up at his uninvited guest.

"Ugh, I don't know how you do that," spoke the voice in French, sounding thoroughly repulsed.

The boy, once on the cusp of being a man, finally lifted his eyes over the rims of his sunglasses. They were green, oddly lacking pupils. "I speak American English now, seeing as I live here."

"Yes, about that. It's a pity, really," the man continued in French.

The boy slammed his fist down, glaring at the man over his dark shades. His eyes, while they didn't hold pupils, became a darker shade of green as the irises became closer to the middle of the eyeball. The man across from him held the same unusual eyes; they were grey though, the color of storms.

"Speak to me in English."

"Fine, Marcus," he replied in heavily accented English with a roll of his eyes. He crossed his arms impatiently. "Any other ridiculous requirements I need to further fulfill?"

Marcus paused long enough to eat more pancakes. "I go by Marc, thank you."

"Tsch."

"Loïc," Marc said, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a deadly whisper. "I didn't ask you to come. If you have a problem with me—leave."

Loïc outright laughed at him. "Oh, my dearest Marcus."

Marc clutched the butter knife in his hand so tightly it bent and nearly broke.

Loïc looked bemused. "Sorry—Marc."

"I'm not your dearest," Marc literally snarled.

Loïc suddenly grew serious. Most people wouldn't have noticed the look as one of being offended. Marcus, however, had known Loïc long enough to read the expression for what it was. Marc smirked triumphantly.

"Fine," Loïc snapped quietly. "I find it pathetic that you're sitting here, eating like one of them. It's insulting to my sensibilities that you'd find residency in America of all places—and what's with that ridiculous accent you're doing?"