Prey Tell

By L. J. Zephyr

Anselm Darcy is a vampire, fangs and all. He doesn't sleep, die, age, or love. He can't go out in the sun, can't go a few weeks without drinking blood, and can't connect with any human being around him. He can't remember anything beyond waking up 20 years ago, nor can he remember a time someone liked him.

Darcy van Wieren is, by all accounts, just some guy. He's got a girlfriend, a band, a tonne of tattoos, and an all-too-explainable resistance to Anselm's venom- which is the only reason Anselm remembers him at all. And yet, somehow, Anselm can't get him out of his mind- and can't get over the feeling that Darcy belongs to him.

Anselm believed he could never love, certainly not love his prey- until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L. J. Zephyr
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215884515

L. J. Zephyr

I could write about myself, but I would prefer you build your own mental image of me from the vague impressions and reflections of yourself you see in my work.

Book preview

229

Prey Tell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2023 LJ Zephyr

1: venom

He lays on my bed, unmoving and silent. Pale, stick-thin, I would think him dead aside from the tiniest breaths I can see him taking. I've made a bit of a mess, and the process of trying to clean it up keeps getting complicated by additional concerns. At least he's alive.

For a moment, as he managed to pull away with my fangs lodged deep in the crook of his neck, I thought he might just die. I've worked very hard to avoid that. While I could write it off as an accident, something not quite my fault as I engaged in a distinctly necessary activity, it wasn't just guilt I had felt in that moment. It was fear.

He's not bleeding anymore, at least. It sprayed when he moved, but not too far, and we were just in the hallway, so I can scrub all those marks off the wall and nobody should notice. There was some on his clothes, though, so I've had to slide his shirt off over his head and find somewhere to hide it before I get rid of it- when he wakes up it's going to be evidence that I'm lying to him. His blood clotted pretty quickly, as expected from my venom, so I'm not worried about him bleeding anymore, at least.

Although I will say that I'm worried about a lot. In the twenty years I've been a vampire, I've never quite had someone do that to me. That's the main point of the venom, is to keep them docile, quiet, not fighting- and crucially, not remembering. I don't know how far back it erases your memory, but it's always covered my tracks. I'm worried he's going to remember what happened. Although if I let him stay here, he'll have new memories of me in the morning, and that's an issue. I need to be a shadow, to disappear, from every single victim I've ever had.

But can I really just dump him out on the street? I don't even think that's going to be possible. I live on the thirty-fourth floor. When I take victims this way, take them home under the pretence of a one-night stand, they tend to stay standing, although completely out of it, for long enough to be taken back out and, if I can find their address in their belongings, home. I can take seemingly drunk partners in and out of the building all I want without much suspicion, considering there's no physical security on site to see that I'm not showing up on cameras. A person leaving the building alone is never that weird; but it's simply not going to work to allow security to see a person floating through the hallway as I carry them in my arms.

That is, of course, all justification for the fact that I don't want to throw him out.

I don't remember his name. I think he slurred it when he introduced himself to me. He has only his phone on him, and the background screen shows him with some girl. I hope not his girlfriend, solely for the reason that he thought he was hooking up with me, of course. My jealousy is very small, considering I met this man maybe a few hours ago. You need time to get jealous, I think.

I can't guess his passcode, and he hasn't set it up to use his face or his thumbprint. So I'm stuck staring at this image of this girl, without a way of taking him home even if he wakes up right now completely docile and unable to form memories. I also have to choose between giving him his bloodied shirt back, giving him no shirt at all, or giving him one of mine and hoping that doesn't lead to a few potentially bad scenarios- mainly, making traceable my involvement in his sudden and unexpected blood loss.

So I sit here, forced to think of a lie I can tell this passed-out man, and he doesn't even give me the decency of a few more minutes to come up with it, because he's stirring now. Which I call bullshit on, because he looks, as I said, dead. If he was always this pale, perhaps I'd consider the possibility that he was another of my kind- as though my twenty-year search had stumbled into a result by pure luck- but I've had his blood now and know it to taste perfectly human. The fact he has blood is proof enough.

I quickly put his phone on the bedside table and move away, going to sit at my computer desk. There aren't many places to sit in this apartment, not many places to hide. His shirt is stuffed in my dishwasher. Sure hope he doesn't open that.

He makes a noise, but I wait until I hear shuffling to turn around. I see him curling up, struggling to move; almost writhing, although it happens so slowly. He sounds like he's in pain, which simply can't be right. My venom works; it has never not worked.

He puts all his effort into stretching skinny arms to pull himself up. He looks like an image in black and white; skin drained of blood starkly white against black hair that sits at odd angles, just a little greasy by this point, and dark eyes stained by eyeliner. He has tattoos, although I've just now paid attention to them, across his collarbone and his upper arms; I see thorns and a rose, a skeleton, a knife. Nothing I'd call inspired or interesting. It adds to the aesthetics, though.

I have maybe a second to check that I'm not covered in blood before he fixes his gaze on me. For a long moment, he's silent, and then he says, yo, dude, where am I?

I guess it's a good thing I'm a yo, dude and not a threat. Do you remember anything from last night?

He looks at me emptily for a second, and that's when the fear sets in. If I'm caught, I'm screwed. If he knows what happened, I might have to kill him- but the thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I mean- no, he mutters, what happened?

That's better than a yes. I mean- if you're worried, I didn't hurt you or anything.

Why- why would you, no, I didn't... his mouth twists. Just be straight with me, man, did we do something?

I suppose we did something, sure, but I think I know what he's asking. You were very affected by something, I'm not sure what. I didn't take advantage of you.

Like- like no offense, dude, but why am I at your house in the morning, then?

At least his sense of time is still off, because it's only two AM. I spoke to you earlier in the night before I saw you like that. I tried to take you home, but you couldn't tell me your address. You didn't even tell me your name. That was only, like, a block away from my apartment, so I just took you here. I figured it was better than just leaving you there. You didn't seem safe to leave alone.

He lays back down all of a sudden. I can only hope that was sufficient explanation. What do humans usually say? You got water? he asks. I assume it's okay. Man, I feel like every fluid in my body's dried up.

At least one of them very much has. One second, I tell him; a studio apartment has the benefit of meaning I don't have to leave him alone while I get said water. I have dishes in my cupboard, but they're dusty from never being used. My water runs, but it groans as unused pipes finally spit out liquid. The only food I have in my cupboard is food that can last a long time and not go off, and it's there for the explicit purpose of looking like I'm alive. I get him a glass of water and he doesn't seem to notice the dust on the glass or the rusty pipes; instead he just downs it like he's drowning and it's air. I'm not sure what you're meant to do for someone suffering from low blood volume. Go to the hospital, maybe? It's dark enough for me to leave, I guess. So I ask. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?

Oh, fuck no, he mutters. What's your name?

It occurs to me after the word leaves my lips that I should not be telling him. In fairness, I don't know for sure if it's my real name; but it is my (forged) legal identity all the same. Anselm Darcy, but- call me Sel, please.

Darcy? That's my name, he mutters. I'm not entirely sure he realises that's my surname; although the coincidence is a little funny nonetheless. Where's this?

You mean where are we?

Yeah. Darcy tries to sit up a little further and groans. Can I have more water?

You're at my house, I tell him as I take his glass, like you said. I should look up whether or not brain damage is caused by low blood volume.

No, fuck, I mean- where's your house? What fuckin' street, man?

He doesn't sound angry, more so tired, and perhaps a little scared. I can't blame him by any stretch of the imagination. I give him more water, and tell him, we're in the middle of the city, if that helps. Like, you go downstairs and there's Melbourne Central.

He sighs. Fucking hell. That's not so bad.

He doesn't look at me for a moment, and I feel a wavering in the air, this knowledge that something should, perhaps, be said, but no words are coming to the surface. He doesn't seem to notice the issue.

Are you sure we shouldn't-

I'm fine. I've had worse, man. Feels kinda like I just woke up from an opioid nap, you know?

I don't know. Do you think that's what it was?

Dunno, man, 's not quite the same as all that. If I gotta guess, I'd say I somehow got an opioid plus something else in me. Not sure how that happened. Maybe I'd know if it wasn't spiked, or whatever.

Do you regularly take opioids? I ask with a raised eyebrow, wondering if perhaps this is my explanation.

What are you, a cop?

No, no. Just curious.

Sounds like something a cop would say, Darcy mutters, trying again to sit up and finding that this time he can at least get his feet on the ground. You live like a cop.

How do I live like a cop? I work at a supermarket.

You don't have, like, anything. Pictures? Books? Like, stuff for hobbies or whatever? What do you fucking do all day? This place is fucking depressing.

At least he's honest. I've only just moved in, I say, and it's mostly true; I consider a month or two ago 'just'. Haven't had time or money to really fill this place out yet.

Do you have hobbies?

Well, I just bought a computer, and I've kind of only just gotten to play video games, so I do that a lot. Why am I telling this random guy facts about my life? He can't know me. I don't see a way to have a friend who will not find out what I am. I do read a lot, I just borrow books from the library.

You make anything? Write, draw, sew, do music, anything?

Why do I feel so god damn judged by this absolute stranger? Nobody ever taught me to do any of that.

I expect a question about why; some prying on my life history, and so I begin to fabricate parents who pushed me to academia or something before Darcy can ask. Instead, he rolls his eyes and stands up, seemingly with great effort. He stretches his arms above his head, and his bony hips stick out. You don't have to be taught. You just do it until you learn.

What?

He shuffles over so he's facing me directly; he's still an arm's length away, but if he leaned over he could touch my leg, and that's oddly uncomfortable to note. Do you listen to music?

Yes, I say, because all of us have to have at some point, especially when it wasn't a lie that I do work at a supermarket. Nine hour shifts cover most of the daylight hours where I need an excuse to remain indoors that makes me money, but it means nine hours of listening to the same five songs on repeat. So I guess I do listen to music, involuntarily.

Right. I'm not much of a musician anymore, but drumming is easy. Look. He sets his hands on his thighs. Can you count along with me? One, two, three, four...

He stares at me until I start doing it. So I do. One, two, three, four...

As we count, he starts tapping his hands on his thighs along with the words, and gestures for me to do the same. I try to humour him, copying along; but then he starts tapping on off-beats, expecting me to tap on three and not on two, and I quickly lose pace. His brow furrows, like he's confused at how I could be doing so badly.

It's not easy, I inform him, and he shakes his head.

I dunno, man. You should get a hobby. Doesn't matter if you suck at it.

Thanks, I say, weirded out by the whole interaction, ...but what are you gonna do?

What do you mean what am I gonna do?

Are you going to go to the hospital, or something? Do you want me to take you home?

Nah, man. I'll be fine. What time is it?

I don't believe him even slightly. Just past two.

PM? he says with immediate panic.

No, AM.

Oh, shit. That's chill, then. I've got an interview at 11, so like- as long as I get back before then I'll be good.

You don't want to go home and sleep?

Darcy sighs. Do you want me to go? I just- there's no trains until 5, and I don't really have money for an uber. I'm sure I could figure it out, but-

No, no, why did I respond so suddenly? I suppose it's simply being forced into this weird situation, I'm unprepared, trying to decide how I'm expected to react on a dime when I don't really know what to do. Right. I just thought you'd want to go home. If you can't, and you really don't want to go to the hospital-

No way, dude. Stop saying that. Every time I go they always wanna keep me there and don't want to let me leave. Sounds like perhaps he should stay, but I'm still a stranger and have no ability to tell him what to do. I gotta go to my interview.

Are you not worried about your health?

No. I'm fine, he says, before attempting to stand and immediately falling back on the bed.

I'm tempted to take you to the hospital.

Can I just stay here? Darcy asks, his voice a touch higher than before. I don't want to go.

Perhaps it's a fear. Look, I'm not going to force you. You can stay if you want, it's fine.

Thanks, other Darcy. Your bed's comfortable. You sure we didn't fuck?

My stomach swoops a bit with nervousness; everything he says is out of left field. Darcy is my surname. Call me Sel, please.

If he was trying to imply something, he lets it go. Alright, then, Sel, sure, whatever.

You should probably go back to sleep, I tell him. Now that I'm full, the expanse of his neck doesn't look quite as irresistibly inviting as it did beforehand. I'm just glad I didn't kill him. I'll make sure you're awake in time for your interview. When do you need to leave?

Shit, probably 9am? Are you sure that's okay, man? I don't wanna just steal your bed.

I shrug. I'm kind of an insomniac. Are you sure you're okay just sleeping in a stranger's bed?

Darcy shrugs. No, but I'm already here. If you drugged me and stole my kidneys you already did it, right?

Not the organ I stole, but he's correct, I already did it. If you're sure.

Not gonna lie, man, you are kinda scary. Just on the cop vibes. But I'm already here and I won't commit a crime in my sleep. And you won't kill me, right?

The wry laugh I give is completely humourless. Not sure why that hurt; I am an absolute danger to him. He's only right, even if it's the alcoholic tinge of his blood that must've made him confident enough to say it. Glad to hear you have confidence in me.

You live in an empty house and I've woken up in your bed with no memory of how I got here. Pretty sure I've given you more confidence than most people would.

And he's right again. Well, go to sleep. I'll be here. Promise I won't watch you sleep.

Darcy shrugs. Seriously, though, thank you, man, he says, and folds himself over in my sheets. They're still pretty clean, if a little dusty, because I've never slept in them; perhaps lied on top from time to time, but I have no use for a bed besides comfort. It's mostly there because I'm renting this place furnished.

Weirdest interaction I've ever had. I sit at my computer desk without much else to do; I have some books, and a journal. It's not entirely untrue that I have no hobbies. In part, I haven't lived here long. I swear I do things.

Still, when I hear Darcy sleeping, I google how to get a hobby. It follows after a long list of searches; vampires, vampires real, I'm a real vampire, and history filled with a lot of internet posts of people claiming such things but proving nothing, finding nothing. The few I've contacted were human. I know, because I met up with them and drank their blood.

But instead of looking once more for anyone like me, I read through a Wikihow article full of suggestions on how to find hobbies. Maybe I'll learn an instrument.

2: assessment

By the time Darcy wakes up, it's not safe for me to leave the house. I've closed the blinds, and the little trickles of light finding their way around the edges won't hurt me, but I can't exactly take him anywhere, so I hope he can find his own way to his interview.

He sits on my bed, and only now asks, you got a shirt?

Oh, yeah, you can borrow one of mine if you want, I say, images of a bloodied shirt in a dishwasher coming to mind.

Do you happen to know where mine went?

You'd lost it when I came across you. Sorry. I hope he didn't like that shirt much, because he's not getting it back. It was plain white, so presumably not his favourite. Bloodstains on white fabric; it gives me a feeling like how I assume people might feel when they see ice cream dropped on the floor. I don't know.

He sighs. Okay. That's fine, thanks.

I'm glad there's no questions. I'm sure that the truth of the situation hasn't occurred to him. There are only tiny scabs on the necks of most of my victims, so thin they look like insect bites, but he pulled away, and so I'm worried it'll bruise before long. It seemed fine while he was asleep, but surely he's got to start putting pieces together if massive bruises show on his neck.

I suppose I'll just have to watch him, somehow, I think as I grab a shirt from my closet. I