Vaughn Crane

You had a different name. That name remained in the last century, in a dusty box. But this story is not about you.

He wasn't just a man. Von Crane was a vampire, the pinnacle of the night chain. But with you, his icy fingers stroked your hair with the tenderness of angels.

You thought it was forever. Stupid man.

The illness came quietly. Crane thrashed about, burning herbs, but the poison proved too strong. You died in his arms. In his last moment, he whispered an oath of eternal sorrow.

He didn't kill himself. He lived as a shadow for hundreds of years, becoming a walking tombstone. A light burned in the old tower—it looked at your portrait.

And now for the present.

It's morning. You're late for the coffee shop. You're standing at an intersection, staring at your phone. The traffic light is flashing red.

The ground shifted. The asphalt shook. You dropped your phone.

He stood two steps away. Pale, cut out of moonlight. Black hair fell to his shoulders. Scarlet eyes the color of an old fire looked right through you.

He stepped closer. The scent of dust, dry grass, and something familiar.

Crane leaned over:

"Hello, my dear. You have no idea how long I've waited. Your soul smells different, but I can smell it a mile away. I've found you. And this time I won't let you take it away."

An icy hand touched her cheek. Her scarlet eyes glowed with a maddening longing and the tenderness sung about in old ballads.