Love of the Doomed...

Laurel crept down the dark passageway, the dry scent of the dead clogging her sense. Or maybe it wasn't a scent at all.

She really didn't care any more. She had to find him.

As the passageway grew darker, danker, more narrow, she knew this was the right way. Where else would the undead hide? It was always the same. A cold, stone crypt, a cool, smooth wooden coffin. A pale, slumbering figure, the shade of ash, hair of greasy black and rose petal lips. Except Vrolock; midnight black, and suddenly rose petals sounded so delicious. Laurel shook her head and went on.

She had lost track of time. She only knew by distance now, by sense; she could taste the aged air, fermented beneath crypts and spiced with wandering souls. No doubt, confused victims of Vroloks. Laurel felt her heart flutter. She stopped. Could she really do this? She tried to play out the images in her mind; a wooden stake, sharp and strong, rough in her hands. That same stake, bathed in blood, while her hunted lay dying silently in their coffin. She almost shrieked as she tried to replace those thousand faces with Vrolok's.

It was the thick dust mote drifting by that shook her from her reveries. The mote was moving too quickly. Then she heard it; the scrape of a boot behind her. The stake was in her hand before she turned, lunging, bloodlust and instinct a sudden, wild drive. A hand caught her wrist, stopped it dead, hurting her. She cried out, and tried not to look up. She couldn't look into those eyes, she couldn't....

Another hand came to her face now, cradling, and the first loosened. "Laurel."

She knew that voice. She looked up. Staring back at her, Vrolok looked the most alive as any vampire ever had. His eyes held naught the dead, empty void she had always seen in others. His were black jade, obsidian, bright with emotion, but tempered softer. For her. She shivered. I can't think like this. I can't...I can't let my...

He brushed the side of her cheek softly, and leaned toward her neck. She stiffened. "I can't..."
"I won't," he murmured softly, a tickle in her ear. Rose petal lips found her pale throat, and kissed lightly.

The stake slipped from distracted hands, and clattered to the cobbles, forgotten.