2. Vincent

CHAPTER 2

Vincent

W e all have our vices.

Mine is the stubborn, unending loneliness of nearly three hundred years of heartbreak. Guided by this pang, I find the entire attendance of my own masquerade narrowed down to one singular visage.

One impossible face amongst the throng of revelers. One I haven't seen since she was taken from me.

Octavia .

Her face is red, her breath shallow. She stares into a mirror before lifting the Jack-o-lantern over her head, shielding me from that face I've only held in memory. I watch her idle amongst the outskirts, shying away from any who dare to engage her. Within my sordid angst, I cannot help but beat with rising hope at every declination given to each potential suitor.

She is not the woman I once knew, that much is obvious. Only those like me may outlast the greedy clutch of death, and time stole that opportunity from me before I could share it with her. Even still, whatever is left of my heart longs to see her face, to hold it near.

When she rushes down a hallway, I cover the panic simmering beneath—she cannot already seek a way out. I fly overhead, unnoticed by the woman, to the end of the hall.

There, I transform into my more human form, shaking out the cape so it doesn't retain the tell-tale signs of my batwings.

"Oh!" the woman's voice squeaks out.

In an instant, I calm my actions, swooping the cape behind me as I bow before her.

"My lady," I say.

She lets out a giggle, one that curls around my ears, still sensitive from my bat form, and dives into my heart. Even if she is not Octavia, the sound of her laughter still brings the same sort of joy.

"Nice vampire costume," she says.

I cannot help but grin. It is the one time of year I may reveal myself to the human world without worry. Her pulse is quick—naturally anxious. I can nearly taste it on my tongue. My throat works as I see the blood move through the vein in her neck. I run my tongue along my teeth, still extended from my flight and the rush from having such exquisite prey before me.

"Yours is a delight, as well. A true devotee of the holiday, I assume," I say, reaching out my hand. "My name is Vincent."

No compulsion is needed, she reaches for it mindlessly. It isn't until our hands connect that she seems to realize my intention as I bend down to kiss between her knuckles. Through the mouth of her mask, I watch her eyes grow wide. There is more behind them than fear—curiosity and lust as well. They are not unusual to come by, but certainly strange coming from inside a carved pumpkin. Such emotions are doubly enticing coming from the face of the woman I once loved.

Her skin is soft against my lips, and I cannot stop my bottom lip from dragging slowly across the valley of her knuckles. It is sick of me to think of her as Octavia, but I cannot help it. My body longs for her in ways my mind has tried to shake of for too long.

"Um… I'm Autumn," the woman says breathily. "Wow, ah, I've never had someone kiss my hand before. Phew!"

Autumn . The name strikes a chord somewhere in the back of my mind, but I cannot place it. The sound resonates through the expanse of my mind, threatening to wipe out the memory of Octavia.

My thumb brushes over the valley I kissed before our fingers slide apart. I do not want to let go, but it is unfair to this human to treat her as my dead wife.

"Pity. I would press my lips to the valley of your… knuckles many times over if you would allow. To make up for the grievous crimes of all other men before me."

"Smooth. Direct. I'm not sure how to take that," she says with a laugh.

I wish I could see the emotions play out better, but at full height, I can only peek at her lips through the eyes of her costume.

"Do I frighten you? Offend you?" I ask.

She shakes her head, the pumpkin sliding back and forth out of sync with the motion of her neck.

Beneath her neck lies that red necklace, nestled between the plump breasts pushed up by her lacy black corset. Unlike centuries past, corsets nowadays are not made for the body. I can see her struggling to breathe—it's laced too tightly. Undeniably, it makes for an alluring spectacle to see her breasts move so quickly up and down with each breath.

She buries her hands in the vast quantity of tulle gathered around her hips—so much that it could be mistaken for a ballgown were it made of thicker fabric.

"I mean, you're not really a vampire. You're really good at the act, though," she says, looking me up and down. "Accent's all wrong though."

In an instant, I'm overly aware of my height—am I too tall? My skin—too pale? My costume—too much? I swallow, suddenly nervous before her gaze.

She is not Octavia . Neither by her actions nor mere fact could it be the case. But I find myself anxious to know her, to please her all the same.

"And what accent should that be?" I ask, stepping closer.

She doesn't shy away, only fists her hands within the tulle.

"Vamp-uires hev theek Transylvanian ah-ccents and say how much they vant to suck your blood." She holds up her fingers like claws and hisses through her teeth for good measure.

Something within my heart twists at her impression, as if watching a cat nip and play at my fingers, thinking it was a wildcat when it was only a housecat.

"All vampires are from Transylvania, are they?" I ask. "I've heard some are from Washington, now."

Those lips of hers twist into a smile she fights to hold back.

"You forgot the body glitter, then," she says.

I hiss, pulling up my cape dramatically. "A true vampire's worst nightmare."

Autumn laughs, adjusting her pumpkin. My heart nearly beats to life in hopes that she takes it off.

"Where are you from, then? England or something?" she asks. "What's your vampire lore? Did you make up some sad and horny backstory?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "I'm Irish, so I'll thank you not to accuse me of being English ever again, though I've lived here for quite some time now. As for my ‘vampire lore,' I was turned just before my wife's death, and I could not save her."

"Oh," Autumn lets out, her demeanor shifting drastically. "My sad pumpkin lore is that my ex died, too."

It's twisted, the way the heart finds shelter in such morbid things. Just as I am not lying about my history, I can tell by her affect that hers is truth as well.

"My condolences," I tell her. "It is not a grief I would wish on anyone."

She lets out a loud breath before pulling off the pumpkin head. My blood races through my veins at the sight of her. Her skin is slightly damp from sweat, her dark brown hair slightly mussed and clinging to her forehead.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring down the mood," she says. "I'm just not good at flirting or anything. Spend too much time cooped up at home."

She laughs nervously, so I take her hand in mine once more.

"Flirting," I repeat. "If that's what you would like, I could give you a few pointers."

"Oh," she huffs, her face tinging red once more. "You really are good."