CRAVED (SHE TOUCHED THE MONSTER)

Brooklyn, Halloween Night – 8th October 1853.

The night smelled like sugar and smoke.

Children laughed behind painted masks, plastic swords clashed, candy spilled like treasure onto sidewalks cracked with old city wear. Jack-o'-lanterns flickered in the windows. Music thumped from porches. Brooklyn breathed like one giant heart, beating louder with every step.

He was only seven.

His name was still his own back then - small, shouted by his mother when he strayed too far from the crowd. His hands were sticky with caramel. His father had hoisted him onto his shoulders just an hour ago to see the fireworks crackle above the skyline. His life was full. Loud. Mortal.

And then the screams began.

At first, they blended in with the music. A haunted house? A prank?

But no. These screams were real. They split the air.

Creatures poured from the trees behind the party - wrong things. Not wolves. Not men. Things with eyes that didn't blink, claws that dripped, skin too tight or too loose or not at all. They tore through the crowd like it was paper. Teeth. Blood. Smoke. The music didn't stop, but the lights went out.

He ran.

He didn't remember letting go of his mother's hand. He didn't remember the moment his father stopped calling his name. He only remembered running - tiny sneakers slapping against the wet earth, sobs choking him with every breath.

Into the woods. Away from the screaming. Away from the blood.

He didn't know how far he ran. He only knew when it stopped.

The cold hit first. Not wind - something colder. Older.

Then the silence. Heavy. Watching.

And then... him.

The figure emerged like a shadow torn from the trees - tall, pale, dressed in black that didn't reflect the moonlight. His eyes were bottomless, ancient. The boy froze. He was too tired to scream. Too scared to move.

The thing crouched before him.

"You're far from home, little one," it whispered. Its voice was velvet over steel. "And there's so little blood left in the world."

Then it struck.

Pain exploded through his neck. Fire. Darkness. Silence.

He felt himself slipping - not dying, not exactly - just... fading.

But death never came.

Instead, the creature pulled back, lips stained red, and stared at the boy's small, lifeless body. A flicker of something - rage? pity? recognition? - crossed his face.

"No," it murmured. "Not you. Not like this."

The vampire pressed his wrist to the boy's mouth and whispered words older than language.

And in the stillness of the cursed woods, the boy drank.

His heart stopped. Then started again.

But slower. Colder.

Something ancient had awakened inside him.

When he opened his eyes, the man was still there - no longer a stranger.

"My son," the creature said. "You are mine now. Heir to a darker throne."

The boy blinked. His memories were gone.

No mother. No father. No name.

Only hunger....

24 April 1870.

The city pulsed beneath his feet like a living thing. Neon signs blinked across cracked sidewalks, painting sinners in red and blue. The air reeked of rain, sweat, cheap perfume, and lies.

Liam moved through it all unnoticed.

He wore human skin like a tailored suit - precise, polished, perfect. His coat was dark. His eyes darker. No heartbeat, no breath, but his presence stirred something primal in the air around him. People didn't see him, not really - they just turned their heads after he passed, shivering for reasons they couldn't name.

He was hungry.

Not the trembling desperation of a fledgling. Liam had long since mastered the ache, the whispers beneath his ribs. But hunger, even restrained, always led him here - to the edge of the city's throat, waiting for it to bare itself.

Tonight, it did.

She was standing under a flickering streetlamp, heels crooked on the sidewalk, scrolling through her phone with shaking fingers. Alone. Unaware. Her blood called to him - young, clean, laced with the faint bitterness of heartbreak.

He watched her. Not with malice. With purpose.

Three steps forward.

"Rough night?" he asked, his voice low, intimate - like he'd known her for years. Her head snapped up. Eyes wide. The kind of beauty that made people trust too easily.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

"Boyfriend," she muttered.

"Ex, I assume," he said with a small smile. She blinked, surprised. Laughed, just a little.

He stepped closer, close enough to smell the vanilla on her skin. Her pulse jumped. He could feel it from here - the rhythm of life begging to be stolen.

"I know a place," Liam whispered. "Quiet. Warm. Better than crying on a sidewalk."

He didn't lie. Not really.

She followed him.

---

They walked in silence.

She kept glancing at him from the corner of her eye - unsure if she should trust him, drawn anyway. That's how they always were. They knew something was wrong, but the part of them that wanted danger - wanted to be seen - always won.

The alley was narrow, quiet, hidden between an old jazz bar and a shuttered bakery. The scent of rain mixed with rust and something older. Liam stopped beneath the fire escape. She hesitated.

"This... doesn't look like a bar," she said.

"It's not," he murmured.

Before she could turn, his hand was on her throat - not choking, not yet - just holding. Firm. Cold.

Her eyes widened.

"Please-" she gasped.

"Shhh."

He leaned in. Not rushed. Not messy. His lips brushed her neck like a lover's kiss. Her heartbeat thundered - delicious, terrified. He closed his eyes and sniffed her neck. The smell of blood flowing through her vein.

She chuckled from the tingling sensation his breathe caused. He pulled away from her and stood further away from her, not trusting himself.

Liam leaned against the damp alley wall, shadows curling at his feet. Irene stood only a few steps away, framed by the dim streetlamp, her coat too thin for the chill and her smile too soft for a world like his.

He should have fed already. Her pulse throbbed like music beneath her skin - sweet, naïve, perfect.

But he didn't move.

Instead, he looked at her.

Really looked.

The curve of her smile. The way her lashes caught the light. The soft tremble of her fingers as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was speaking - something about the bar, about how she was tired of being alone, how the night felt like something out of a dream.

He heard every word. But what echoed was the way she said his name.

"Liam."

He hadn't told her his real name. Not in decades.

He should've bitten her by now. Just one swift motion. She'd never feel it. Never remember.

But instead... he spoke.

"You don't belong out here," he said softly.

She shrugged, smiling again. "Neither do you."

That made him pause.

She didn't know how right she was.

They stood like that for a moment - two strangers who weren't strangers anymore. Her eyes searched his like she was trying to memorize him. Her heart stuttered once. Not from fear.

From feeling.

Liam took a slow breath. Habit. Lie.

"Irene," he said, and her name tasted wrong in his mouth - too human, too warm. "You should go."

"But-"

He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded bill, handed it to her. "Cab fare. Take it."

Her brows furrowed. "I thought you wanted to-"

"I don't," he said too quickly.

She hesitated. Hurt flickered behind her smile. But she took the money, turned, and walked toward the street. A cab slowed, tires hissing on wet pavement.

She slid in. Before the door closed, she leaned out and waved.

He lifted his hand. A silent gesture. A goodbye he shouldn't feel.

The cab vanished into the night.

And Liam was alone again.

Or so he thought.

The shadows behind him rippled.

A familiar voice followed like frostbite:

> "You're getting soft, boy."

Liam didn't flinch. "Drac."

The name tasted like ash and iron.

His sire stepped into view, boots silent on the slick concrete. He looked exactly the same. He always did. The years touched everyone but him.

Drac's gaze swept the alley, then landed on Liam like a blade.

> "You let her go."

"She was innocent."

> "They all are. Until they scream."

Liam said nothing.

Drac stepped closer, circling him like a wolf sniffing weakness.

> "You're weak," he hissed. "Human. You've forgotten what you are."

"I haven't forgotten," Liam muttered. "I'm trying to remember."

That stopped Drac - just for a heartbeat.

Then the old vampire laughed. Cold. Cruel.

> "You're not a boy anymore. You're a monster. Don't insult what I made you into."

He turned to go, voice trailing over his shoulder:

> "If you let softness in... it'll be the death of you."

Then he vanished, shadows swallowing him whole.

And Liam stood alone in the alley once more - bloodless, breathless, and, for the first time in centuries...

...afraid he wasn't.