When I first met Acey, I hated him. There were two reasons I didn’t like him. First was that he refused to accept my obvious superiority. Second was that he was a stranger, moving into my house uninvited. And third was that he was a werewolf.
I realise I have given you no background and right now, this sounds like Twilight, but I promise you it is nothing of the sort. Sure, there is an inter-species war and I live in a town where it rains a lot, but that’s where the similarity ends.
See, both my parents died when I was young and I was raised by vampyres – vampyres with custody of a werewolf boy. And that’s how he came to be living with me. Wasn’t I bothered about being raised by vampyres? No. My parents died in the sun. Get it yet? I am one.
Despite being raised to be tolerant of the werewolves, I hated Acey. He didn’t understand my need for blood, which he deemed ‘excessive’. Eight pints of water a day… eight pints of blood… what’s the difference? Anyway, I would put myself out to make him miserable and wind him up and mostly, he gave as good as he got. It really pissed me off when he just let it go. I am not ashamed to admit that I am confrontational. I love a good fight.
‘What turned the relationship around?’ I hear you ask. Well, let me tell you. It was a particularly dark winter evening, about eight or nine o’clock, about a day or two after the last full moon. I was heading back up towards my bedroom with a snack and I happened to walk into Acey coming across a landing. We were neither of us in a good mood and an argument ensued in which I said something about his dad he took offence to and retaliated by saying something equally as horrible about mine. I snapped and swung for him – which was entirely not how I’d envisaged our first fistfight. I’d always imagined he would snap first.
I hadn’t supposed he would be much of a match for me either – but he was just as strong as I was, although I was faster. My fist caught him in the jaw and as he turned to deflect the blow, he lost balance and hit the floor. Nonetheless, he carried on fighting. The boy was full of surprises. He struck me a thunderous blow to the mouth and I went down too. He pinned me to the floor, so I couldn’t react.
We both just lay there on the floor, bleeding and angry. I kept staring at him, watching him. I felt bloodlust rising in me – but I knew I couldn’t kill him. I wouldn’t have to. He there, bleeding and staring at me and I had to have him.
I rolled, suddenly, taking him down with me, so he was on his back. I leant forwards and licked at the blood on his face. It was different – unlike anything I had ever tasted before. Human blood was thick and metallic. Vampyre blood was dark and heavy. But his was sweet and light.
It was probably the bloodlust, but as I licked blood from his lip, I longed to know what he felt like and I kissed him. And to my surprise, he kissed me back.
The worst part was that I liked it.