A Grave Exchange
834 Words
Cassian Grey stood in the alley where she had vanished, her scent—night-blooming jasmine and something coppery—lingering in the air like a ghost’s breath. Every rational instinct screamed that he should go home. Sleep. Let the fog settle.
Instead, he followed the trail.
She hadn’t walked. She had glided. He was sure of it. No footprints in the wet cobbles, no echo of heel or whisper of fabric. Just fog curling back around him as though to erase her presence.
He didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to find her. Every inch of him buzzed with anticipation, curiosity, something deeper he didn’t want to name.
It led him to the graveyard.
Tucked behind an old Anglican church, half-forgotten by time, the cemetery was a tangle of ivy and leaning headstones. The gaslights were sparse here, their dim glow more shadow than illumination. But he saw her.
Sitting on a bench as if she belonged there.
She looked up as he approached, a slow smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d come.”
“You left no directions,” he said breathlessly. “Only breadcrumbs.”
“That was enough, wasn’t it?”
Cassian chuckled. “You knew I’d chase you.”
“I hoped.”
He took a seat beside her. For a moment, silence stretched—soft, silvered fog settling around them like a veil. Then she gestured to a stone a few feet away. Ancient, weatherworn, nearly swallowed by creeping moss.
"That’s mine," she said simply.
Cassian squinted. The name was unreadable, but the date chilled him.
1603.
He looked at her sharply.
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about death.”
Cassian leaned back, stunned. “You’re... over three hundred years old.”
“Closer to four.”
He blinked. “Bloody hell.”
She laughed, and it was beautiful—a sound full of centuries, high and hollow and soft around the edges.
“I was born into silk and duty,” she said. “France, long before revolution. A noble house. But I wasn’t content to be sewn into a marriage like a hemline.”
She didn’t give her name. She didn’t have to. She told him about the stranger with cold eyes and colder blood. How he whispered immortality like a promise and a warning. How she chose it anyway.
The transformation was not violent. It was ritual. It was rapture.
She spoke of centuries slipping by like rain on a rooftop. Of masquerades in Vienna, of firelight in Constantinople. Of love and betrayal, of allies turned dust, of surviving in the shadows while the world moved on.
Cassian sat forward, enthralled.
“I don’t hide because I’m afraid,” she said. “I hide because the world fears us. And fear burns faster than kindling.”
He swallowed. “You said you came to me because of my writing.”
“I did. You see things others miss. But that’s dangerous.”
“I won’t expose you.”
“I believe you believe that. But curiosity... it gnaws.” She turned toward him fully now, eyes gleaming like polished garnet. “You can’t help yourself. And one day, you’ll write the wrong truth.”
He hesitated. “So what, you silence me?”
“No,” she said softly. “I redirect you.”
She pulled a small charm from her coat—an obsidian shard on a silver chain, etched with symbols older than the grave beneath their feet.
“I’m going to take this night from you. Not all of it—just the details. Just enough.”
Cassian stood. “You can’t—”
“I can.” She rose too, inches from him. “You’ll remember what matters: that I exist, that I’m not human. You’ll remember my face. Everything else will drift away like a dream at dawn.”
“Why?” His voice cracked. “Why not just trust me? You just sat here and told me your whole life story and I listened with bated breath.”
“Because I do trust you. I trust that you’ll chase me. And while you do, you’ll be too busy to uncover anyone else.”
Her hand rose, two fingers brushing his temple.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But this is the only way to keep them safe.”
Then she spoke a word—no louder than a breath, no clearer than mist.
Cassian’s world tipped sideways.
Cassian sat on a bench.
Alone.
The graveyard was quiet. The fog thick.
He rubbed his temple. His heart raced. His breath misted in front of him.
And he remembered her.
Her face: otherworldly. Her eyes: ancient. Her presence: unforgettable.
And one truth, unshakable:
She was a vampire.
Everything else was gone. But he stood anyway, a fire lit beneath his skin.
He didn’t know why. Only that he had to find her again.
- Writer
