[1] Encounters with a Vampire
Start Here < : > Chapter Two
Listen and read: Everything In Its Right Place, Roy Markson
I, Catherine Vaughn, have incredibly bad luck. My fiancé called off our wedding, I contracted a virus in a New Orleans bar that’s left me craving blood, and now, some guy has just found me with someone else’s blood on my hands, telling me he will keep it a secret if I join him on a quest for a lost amulet… Well, maybe that’s all just a half truth.
People say drinking wine is sensual. Drinking blood could be too, if decanted into a glass that is traditionally used to drink Pinot Nior. However, straight from the artery is the freshest. I suppose that’s why I have a college girl pressed up against the wall in a damp, backcourt parking lot on Dauphine street.
“You taste amazing,” I told her, gripping her hair tighter.
She moaned back. Or had her breath hitched? Her foot slipped and her shoulders slumped. I hoisted her up and kept drinking.
Deep red warmth numbed my throat, enchanting me into a hypnotic trance—more, more, more, more. I extended her neck further and heard a pop, her feet gave way again and I followed her body to the ground, my knees wet with moisture.
“What are you doing?”
I pulled away. The girls eyes had rolled back and blood seeped from her wounds, off her shoulder, onto the ground, all over my hands and—
“Hey. What are you doing?”
I spun towards the figure walking towards me. I had to get out of here. I jumped, gripping at small holds in the brick and bounded my way up the roof—to safety—to flee from—
A man with a black leather jacket stood on the roof, hands casually in the pockets of deep green corduroys. “I asked, what are you doing? Are you an imbecile?”
I looked over the wall. The girl laid slumped in a puddle of blood. Blood. I could still feel its warmth, even from here. It would grow cold soon, mixed with that muddy asphalt. I could still hear the faint pulsing of her heart, an octave louder than all of the healthy hearts in the pool bar below. I should jump—
“Where’s your maker?” A voice asked, suddenly inches from me.
“My maker?”
The man examined me closely, as his head shifted, his dark hair dipped in front of gray eyes. Gray, as a storm cloud dense with rain. That is what he smelled of: rain, earth, and cigarettes. The wind shifted. Blood. Below me.
He snapped in front of my face. “The person who make you like this. Where have they gone?”
I looked at my blood crusted hands. Where had they gone? When did—how did—I had been drinking absinthe in a jazz bar, that was my last memory. There was a man who kept meeting my eyes across the bar and the absinthe was green and there was a sugar cube. I gagged.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, looking down at my black silk, blood soaked dress. “What day is it?” I wiped my lips. Red lip stick was indistinguishable from oxygenated red, deep red, life wine.
The man pinched the bridge of his nose. “You did a real number on that girl, you know. You’re sloppy, the police will come. Maybe I should call them, as a punishment to your maker.”
“No, please don’t.” I staggered towards him. “How do you—? I—I don’t know how I got here, I swear. I was just at a jazz bar. I don’t remember.”
“Where’s your cellphone?”
I patted myself down. I had lost my purse, cellphone, wallet, rental car keys… all I had was someone else’s blood on my hands. If only I could remember that man’s face from the bar. He wore a completely black suit and smelt of amber and rosemary.
“I lost it.”
“Good.”
“Good? What do you mean good?”
He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed the neat tri-fold to me. “Wipe your face, if you can.”
“I don’t want to ruin your—”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Do it, or I’ll leave you to your conniption by your lonesome. I don’t have time to doddle.”
I did not protest. I could already feel the drying blood irritate my skin. I had only wiped my left cheek when there was a splash below, followed by a gasp and tousling and—rapid, rushing, gushing pulse.
The man gripped my shoulder, isolating me in place with such force that it gave me whiplash. He removed his jacket and slung it over my shoulders. “Come with me.”
“Where?” I pulled the jacket on. Warm leather, rain, earth, cigarettes.
“Is now really the time for questions?” He jumped swiftly to an adjacent roof.
I nearly asked him how he managed the jump, but he was onto the next roof, and I was left stationary between torrents.
So, I followed him.
Did you know?
The city of New Orleans doesn’t have alleyways?
© 2026 Meg Taylor. All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission of the author, this includes input of the work into LLMs to create summaries.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, you may also enjoy the micro-fiction that inspired this story.
Additionally, a huge thank you to TheGrimoireVault for providing beta reader feedback on Encounters! If you need more vampire tales, check out The Manor.
I think I will be following this 💜💀🦇