She's mine now.

“I don’t think I will,” you state, a calm befalling your expression. Atlee stares back, unprepared for the response.

Behind her are shapes in the blended maelstrom of inky blackness that very much mirror the turmoil you hold within. It creates a subtle, incongruous wind that gently nuzzles the drapes and flickers at the tips of Atlee’s hair.

“W-what do you mean--”

“You’re mine now.” You take several deliberate steps toward her, one threatening foot in front of the other. “All of your ****. All of your petty schemes. All of the various players and pieces you manipulate to such wasteful ends… those are all mine too.”

"Fuck yo-- ahh!" With a jerk, the tendrils jostle Atlee and push her towards you. Before you, suspended by the jet black tendrils that converge from the shadows, her feet helplessly dangling above the floor. She thrashes once more, but her ferocity was undercut by a growing panic. It brings a smile to your face.

But as much as you like watching a disgusting example of a human being struggle and pay for their crimes, you still weren’t cruel. 'But you could be. Imagine the freedoms that await you if you cross that one, little taboo…' Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.

Shaking your head free of the intrusive urges, you lock your eyes with Atlee’s and see them cloud white under your spell.

“Listen to me very carefully, Atlee. You’re going to meet me soon to start giving me all of the assets we just talked about. Here’s what I want you to do…”

***

After setting Atlee up to meet you with the dirt you had to get out of that house.

First Kurt, then Atlee. You couldn’t trust yourself around people at the moment. As gratifying as it is to take away all of the leverage Atlee’s built (and squandered), you needed a clearer head to contemplate how to put an end to sexual **** happening in KGB. Thinking about it again brings an almost teething sensation to your fangs, which has a very confusing, and very arousing, accompanying desire for ****.

“Gwahh!” You spazz out, and rub the goosebumps you expect to find on your arms, finding none. You look around the yard and start wandering toward the hedged-in gardens next door.

You pass by the jasmine, the juniper bushes, the various carnations, and a large section of white roses before you realize just how at ease you feel in the blackness of the night.

You shudder, creeped out by how un-creeped you’ve felt about all of these changes. All of it has felt so natural, and predatory, you haven’t thought about any of the other details. What about classes, you can’t go out during the day? And the organizations you volunteer for? Do we even have any meetings at night? 'No meetings' Oh, shit what about your family, your friends? How long before they realize you're not ever meeting for lunch? ‘Make them your lunch’ And what if there’s a problem at the bank? ‘Burn the bank, eat the bankers as they run from the flames’ And what if you don’t meet any other like you? ‘We don’t need them’ What, you’re still in my head? ‘I’m in your soul, baby’ Get out! ‘Bite me’ Fuck you! ‘Heh, that’s the spirit’ AAAaaaaahhhhhhh!

“You’re new here.”

"Aahh!" you scream.

You jump and quickly spin around. Next to one of the hedges was a stone bench, cherubs carved into the marble, and on that stone bench was a man.

The man wore suit pants of Spanish blue, which stood in stark contrast to the deep caramel of his wing-tipped shoes. Above an identically matching belt was a white dress shirt of mandarin collar with a charming, mocha-colored vest.

It’s silly, you fully realize, how much you take in the man’s clothing when you are too scared to look him in the face. Still doesn’t stop you from counting the buttons on the man’s vest before you realize you’ve been standing in silence.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t know you were there.” Your tongue moves slow in your mouth, trying to regain the composure you had held so well.

“Oh, quite the contrary,” the man responds, with an Irish lilt to the voice. “I did not know you were here. Imagine how surprised I am to see _you _in this part of town.”

You squeeze your eyes shut in confusion and shake your head.

“What? I’m a college student, I go--”

“Drink blood?”

This time, you do look him in the face. He has close-cut, brown hair and a thick, yet short beard, the kind of combo where they flowed into one another. Definitely an Irishman, the stranger certainly had the telltale Celtic facial structure. It gave him a classical, ageless quality to him, that made him both wise and virile.

You also notice that the man is smiling.

“Please, please, this is hardly unexpected,” the man laughed, his hand waving the tension away in a smooth gesticulation. “You aren’t the first lost Kindred I’ve come across, nor will you be the last.”

“I’m sorry, this is all coming very quickly at me.” Before you know it, you realize that you’ve sat down on the bench next to the stranger. When did you do that?

“We’ve all been there, and those that pretend they haven’t probably are ashamed at themselves.” Sitting next to the man, you can now see that he has a small sketchpad, no larger than what an old-time journalist would use. Very deftly, and without interruption to the conversation, the man was sketching a rose. Strong hands gripped the pencil between his fingers and exercised a tantalizing precision that exuded a sensual mastery.

The man sees you watching, stops drawing a moment, and extends his hand. “I’m Franklin, by the way. Franklin Macguire, and it’s a pleasure to have you on my campus.”

You shake his hand, and a gentle tickle runs up your spine. Something about Franklin just radiates… power. Or ambition. Probably both.

“I’m Jaq Lehrer.” A dubious, doubtful smirk teases at your lips. “You’re waaaay too young to be a college president, though. Right?”

Franklin chuckles. “You may find yourself surprised. But you are right, I am no college president. I’m more like a sentry but not for the college, per se. My people have our library here and it behooves me to find out why your people have left you here in my garden.”

His hand begins drawing again, but you don’t believe for a second that Franklin has turned his attention away from you. Flustered at where this is going, you rise and pace before Franklin.

“I don’t even know who my people are! I’m, like, super brand new to this and you’re the first person I’ve come across that’s… that’s…”

“Deceased?” Franklin offered.

“Like me,” you finish.

You stop pacing in front of the artistic stranger, and stare at a particular patch of brown in the grass. Franklin doesn’t make a sound, save for the occasional pencil rub. A light breeze runs though, and when you hear it you realize that you’ve never before been in someone’s presence without either of you breathing.

“Well, Ms. Lehrer,” Franklin resumed. He put his finished sketch away into his pocket and stood up. “I think I may be able to help you with that; there are some people you may wish to speak to, as they’ll definitely wish to speak with you.”

“There’s a whole group of us?” You gasp. “How many more?”

“Oodles. There are oodles more Kindred in this city. Want to meet them?”

“Oh, yes! I’m so excited I--”

Franklin held a hand out.

“Wait. It’s not going to be easy, and not everyone will be as friendly to you as I am.” Mr. Macguire’s wintry blue eyes, pierce straight through you. You feel naked under his gaze and, strangely, feel compelled toward this man. “I’m going to need something from you.”