Page 1 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Simon

Simon’s stomach aches behind cold ribs. Hopefully centuries of experience hide his nervous yearning. Blood is easy these days. Everything else is harder.

Leaning against the bar, he surveys the eager crowd. Most are human, dressed up in unsubtle black and red. Their warm bodies gyrate beneath ragged death metal shirts, studded leather jackets, or dark Victorian cosplay. Some lace their collars up to their chins. Others leave their throats vulnerable and bare.

“The game has changed,” Kimiko says from behind the bar. She must be thinking about the passage of time, too. A common affliction of their kind. “No more lurking in forests or stalking down alleyways. Sometimes I miss a good, romantic alleyway.”

Rude of her to interrupt his brooding. Simon fixes her with a withering glare. “An alleyway? Some of us have always had standards. ”

Kimiko smirks, un-withered. “Some of us have always had fun.”

“How exhausting.” Simon twirls a finger in his light brown hair. “I’d rather just stand around looking pretty and let the prey approach me first.”

“Spoken like a tired old man,” Kimiko says, and Simon laughs, his melancholy lifting slightly. Maybe he should get out more often.

A stranger might think Simon was half Kimiko’s age. The perils of being gifted at twenty and dressing with the times. Slim and youthful, clad in black jeans and a ghost-gray t-shirt, Simon mostly looks like a college student who doesn’t get enough sun.

In reality, Kimiko is less than half his age. She’s an imposing figure in pastel goth, molded into voluptuous curves by her structured gown. Jet-black hair piles nearly high enough to brush the chandeliers.

Her dress is hardly practical for bartending, but her reflexes are perfect. Besides, two human employees are taking most of the orders. Kimiko is just dabbling—her true role here is as the owner of the Broken Cross. A nightclub, strict on the night part, for thirsty vampires and humans willing to slake that thirst.

Bottled blood is easy to acquire in the modern era, but it only staves off the thirst for so long. Eventually, the craving for living blood grows too powerful. Simon can survive on bottled blood, but he and his unique magic can’t thrive on it.

Not that Simon intends to light any fires tonight. His magic tends to make other vampires nervous.

Places like the Broken Cross have turned predation into recreation. Humans can’t walk through the door without a background check, because the wider human population still doesn’t know paranormals exist. No photos allowed .

Kimiko is one of the few fellow vampires Simon considers a friend. Sometimes, that friendship is inconvenient. “Speaking of old men, have you heard from—”

“No,” Simon snaps, and the tide of melancholy rises again.

Kimiko wisely changes the subject. “Are you drinking tonight?”

Simon shrugs, t-shirt slipping off his shoulder. It’s baggy enough to conceal anything underneath. “Do any of them fit my criteria?”

Kimiko knows every name that enters her club. “He’s looking at you right now.”

Plenty of people are looking at Simon, but spotting the human Kimiko means is easy. He stands alone across the room, and his gaze is steady. Almost friendly. Heavy shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard, probably early thirties. A leather jacket that doesn’t diminish the aura of affable accountant.

The human holds a glass of clear liquid, and his green wristband indicates his blood is clean. No drugs, no alcohol.

Simon’s criteria are simple. No first-timers—he refuses to be someone’s first bite. No repeats—he won’t feed from the same person twice, because familiarity breeds attachment. And no werewolves, because he isn’t fucking stupid.

Werewolves can bite back.

“His name is Lawrence Baird,” Kimiko says. “I drank from him three months ago. He’s very boring.”

“Perfect,” Simon says, and holds eye contact with Lawrence. One. Two. Three.

Lawrence sets aside his water glass and circles around the dance floor. Keeping a respectful distance, he asks, “Can I offer you a drink?”

Simple. Direct. Exactly what Simon wants tonight. He should still set expectations. “I’ll take a drink. But if you expect anything more, you should find someone else.”

Lawrence glances behind Simon’s bare shoulder. “That’s all I want tonight.”

Kimiko gives a theatrical giggle. “Did I wear you out last time, dear human?”

Lawrence remains placid. Friendly. “I’m not an exhibitionist, so I’d prefer not doing this on the dance floor. Your place or mine?”

“Neither.” Simon holds out his hand until Kimiko passes over a melodramatic iron key. An elaborate numeral 3 tag dangles on a chain. Before Kimiko can make some crack about playing safe or using protection, Simon heads for the staircase.

Lawrence follows at a distance, quiet beneath the pulsing music.

The Broken Cross has private rooms for just this purpose. Simon hates inviting strangers into his sanctuary—even Kimiko hasn’t visited his estate. He’s also wary of being vulnerable in someone else’s territory. Forget sunlight and wooden stakes. A vampire’s greatest weakness is carelessness.

That’s what really got his siblings killed.

The downstairs lounge is nearly empty, but the music, if anything, feels louder. The pounding bass isn’t muffled by the press of bodies. Hunger warring with hesitation, Simon leads the way to the third door, close to the emergency exit.

When the door shuts behind them, all sound cuts off.

Kimiko’s flair for the dramatic shrouds the private parlor. Ruby damask papers the walls, and the ornate sofas are pitch black. Even the chandeliers shine red, until Simon flips a switch and the light softens into gold.

The floor is white tile. Easy to ruin and easy to clean.

Simon sets the key on the coffee table without locking the door. Most humans get nervous when they feel trapped. Some humans like feeling nervousness, but Simon prefers his snacks calm. “A question before we start. Why are you doing this?”

Lawrence doesn’t appear nervous at all. He drapes his leather jacket over the sofa arm. “I always thought vampires were hot,” he says without embarrassment. “I might get hard while you drink. Will that be a problem?”

The plain honesty is refreshing. Most humans are either blushing or leering at this point, if they’re in this for sexual reasons.

“Just keep your hands to yourself.” Simon gestures to the sofa. “Sit down.”

Lawrence sits, lifting his chin. “I prefer the throat, if I have a choice. I use my hands for work.”

Simon hesitates. He always heals the wound after drinking, and the throat is an intimate place. But Lawrence has been so accommodating. This is a simple favor. “The throat is fine. Hold still.”

Lawrence spreads his hands flat on his thighs and waits obediently. The mild scent of leather and sweat fills Simon’s nose. Bracing one knee on the cushion, he tugs Lawrence’s collar aside. Closer to the shoulder is safer than the throat itself.

Biting is an instinct, passed through millennia from the makers to the made. As Simon leans in, his fangs lengthen to pierce Lawrence’s flesh. Lips and tongue seal to the punctures, and swallowing is a reflex. Simon can’t stop himself, even as shock cascades down his throat.

Something’s wrong with the blood.

Bitterness floods Simon’s mouth, and he violently disengages. His fangs wrench a gaping wound into Lawrence’s shoulder. Blood-drinking best practices aren’t important when Lawrence twists, grabbing something from his jacket.

Metal flashes, but Simon moves with the shadow-gift’s speed. He’s across the parlor before Lawrence stands up.

A long, serrated knife rests in the human’s hand. The sort of knife that could saw through someone’s neck. Apparently, the Broken Cross’s security measures need an upgrade. That knife shouldn’t have made it through the front door—and this hunter shouldn’t have passed the background check.

“How inconsiderate,” Simon says. “Kimiko will be furious about the paperwork.”

Twenty feet of white tile stretch between them. Heedless of the blood pulsing from his shoulder, Lawrence lifts the knife. A scowl twists his friendly features. His silence is unnerving, and he doesn’t move. As if he’s realized how useless this is.

Lawrence might have fifty pounds on Simon, but with just a knife, that advantage is useless. A gun would have been the smarter choice, with a silver bullet to slow Simon down. But a knife? Simon’s too old, too fast, too strong. He could dash across the room and finish ripping Lawrence’s throat out before Lawrence could blink. He could fling a blaze of magic without even moving.

As soon as his stomach stops churning.

Simon’s thoughts muddle together, and bitterness still recoils against his tongue. “Are you just going to stand there? ”

“Yeah, Simon,” Lawrence says, strangely calm. “I think I will.”

Simon’s slow pulse falters. “I never told you my name.”

His own words echo, and the room darkens at the edges. The limits of his own body become brutally clear. The flames won’t answer his call.

There’s something wrong with Lawrence’s blood, and as it seeps into Simon, that wrongness seeps in, too. The hunter won’t have to fight him. Soon, Simon will be weak as the day he was made.

Simon barely keeps his feet. He has only moments before he passes out. “Did you kill Tania?”

“I don’t know who the fuck that is,” Lawrence answers, his pulse unchanging.

The timeline doesn’t quite add up either. Lawrence would have been too young. He’s probably telling the truth.

“Pity.” Simon trembles with cold nausea. Maybe half a minute left. Make it count. “This would be much more satisfying if you had.”

From beneath his baggy t-shirt, Simon draws his pistol.

By the time Lawrence’s eyes widen, Simon’s finger is already tight on the trigger. The bullet has already punched through Lawrence’s chest.

Silver bullets might slow vampires and werewolves down, but plain lead is good enough for humans.

The shot saps the last of Simon’s strength. He sinks to his knees as Lawrence’s lifeless body topples. Fuck. Simon hasn’t felt this weak since the night Dima granted him the shadow-gift. Just like tonight, the strength had faded from his limbs, and darkness had swept through his slowing thoughts.

Unlike tonight, Simon hadn’t been alone.

Simon releases the gun with a shaking hand. Nobody has burst through the door yet, which means nobody heard the shot. Painfully, Simon pulls his phone from his back pocket.

Calling Kimiko would be the smart move. But Simon isn’t smart right now. He’s too weak and lonely to resist his own worst impulses, and he dials a number that hasn’t replied in years.

The line immediately connects to voicemail, where a cold recorded voice says, “Speak.”

Simon swallows down the bitter poison. “I need help,” he whispers.

Then he hangs up before consciousness leaves him.