The small, obscure London town was covered in a blanket of darkness. Fog eased its way around the townhouses, weaving through the close cobblestoned streets, hugging the town in a cold, clammy blanket. The fog seeped outside the town, surrounding the rickety old church. It wound about the iron fence posts, coating the tall, steel gates with a layer of dew, the large padlock chilled.

The silence was only broken by the rustling of skirts. Out of nowhere, a young woman appeared at the wrought iron gates, slightly out of breath, ivory curls astray. Her strange, violet eyes took in the lock. Looking behind her once more, she wrapped her small hand around the lock, tugging.

It broke into pieces, falling off the gate.

White teeth gleaming in the moonlight, she slipped through the gates. She hastily walked up the gravel path, stopping in front of the church steps. Grimacing, she skirted around the church, weaving through the tombstones and crypts. She sleuthed from shadow to shadow, glancing behind her, until she found that place of solitude on an old stone bench beneath the weeping willows. Destroyed, mildew infested tombstones surrounded the bench, damaged statues weeping around her.

Her intense vision stares all the way back towards the entrance. She can see his silhouette; he pauses at the gate, looking at the shattered lock, and slowly creeps his way into the cemetery. Her sensitive hearing picks up his words.

"Eleanor, please... Eleanor, where are you?!"

She waits for a bit, watching his shape come closer, before she gets up and darts towards a crypt-the crypt. She senses him behind her as she gracefully descends the round staircase, submerging herself into the darkness of the cold chamber bellow.

She knew that he saw her purple skirts swishing around the corner, as she retreated into the darkness. A daughter of the shadows, she slowly backs into them, her small kid shoes barely making a sound.

He appears, then, the fine young duke. Stopping abruptly at the stairs, he looks around, hazel eyes wide with fear.

"Eleanor?" he shouts out, timidly. Slowly, he ambles into the dim crypt, squinting through the shadows. "Please, we need to talk."

Eleanor glided through the shadows, circling the man. He wanted to talk, yet she could see the wooden object in his hand, the outline of his silver rosary underneath his white cravat.

"Why?" she uttered quietly, her voice naught but a sharp whisper, echoing around the silent stone walls.

"You're...one of them."

"One of what?"

His face went several shades paler. She could see the blood draining out of his face.

"Don not make me say it, Eleanor."

"Say what, Timothy?"

"You know what you are. Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knew but me."

He looked around. He could hear the rustle of her skirts as she waltzed around him, dancing with the dark. The resounding silence bothered him. Swallowing his anger, resentment, and fear, he kept circling the ancient tombs, turning into an antechamber, bare but an empty stone table in the middle.

"Eleanor. Let us work this out."

There is no escape now, Eleanor, she told herself, and, stepping out of the shadows, appeared behind him.

"Work what out, Timothy."

Gasping, he whirled about, the wooden object falling out of his hands as he grabbed the stone table behind him, in order to balance himself. Eleanor raised an elegant eyebrow. Standing up straight, he looked down on her, emitting the power his title of Duke gave him.

"Just tell me now. It is true, isn't it? You are one of those creatures of darkness. A parasite. A-" he pauses, breathing deeply, uttering the word so quietly that no human could have heard it, "-vampire."

She looks down at her elegantly folded hands, his ring sparkling on her finger.

"Yes." There was no denying it.

He let out a whoosh of breath, hazel eyes turning stony; he seemed to be in control-but Eleanor could sense his fear.

"After all these years. Our courtship, our love-and you neglected to tell be that you were, in fact, one of those foul, blood sucking leeches that the ton has been gossiping about?"

"I thought you didn't listen to the ton, Timothy."

"Normally I wouldn't; but when the ton keeps talking about the woman you intend to take as a wife, spreading foul lies and rumours that she is some kind of-of demoness hell bent on killing us all? Sometimes, you listen, if anything to dissuade the rumours and be rid of the distaste every member of fashionable society speaks and make life easier for your intended. Instead of stopping the rumours though, what do I find? That each and every eyewitness report, each superstition each foul, cruel lie is actually the truth?!"

As he spoke, the Duke had walked towards Eleanor, moving her closer and closer to the corner. Despite having every advantage over him, Eleanor was petrified.

"Then, there are the recent murders to consider. Each victim, they said, was found with two indents in their necks, bite marks for Christ's sake, shriveled up and pale, all the blood gone from their bodies. Each and every one of these foul deeds happening at the same time that you, coincidently, 'went to bed'. You did those deeds, didn't you?"

She pauses, looking up at him. "It's my nature, I have to. But it wasn't I who finished them off-."

"They were my people. My responsibility. To think that their future duchess would do such a disgusting thing!"

He had cornered her, pinned her to the wall.

"The worst part of all this, Eleanor? The worst part is that you are a monster. A monster that I am in love with. You betrayed me."

"Timothy, please, I never betrayed you-"

"Did you even ever love me?!"

She gasped, her violet eyes flashing, glaring at him. "How dare you accuse me of my feelings for you!"

"How dare I? Your kind have no heart, no feelings; how dare you."

"I have feelings!" she snapped, fury blazing in her eyes. The silence stretched on, the only sound that of their breathing. Eleanor took a deep breath in, glaring at her lover.

"And so after the ton kept pressuring you, you decided to follow me tonight, didn't you?"

"Of course. I needed to see for myself." He paused, some of the anger diminishing from his eyes, fear and hurt taking precedence. "I just cannot comprehend this, Eleanor, I love you. How could someone who holds my heart be such a creature as you are?"

"Bad luck," she replied, quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"I won't get into my life story."

"How old are you?"

She looked at him, lips pressed together tightly, "I won't tell you."

He leans his head on her forehead, eyes closed tight, composing himself. He looked into her eyes, the odd purple irises he loved so much staring back at him. Now he knew why they were like that.

"Why?"

"Because fate is cruel, Timothy."

He grimaces; searching her eyes for that warmth he knew was there, somewhere. All he found was cold, the warmth gone-though he could see the sadness in her eyes. The arms that were pressed against the wall, on either side of her head, left the stony surface, as the duke turned towards the table. She could hear his sharp intake of breath, as he leaned against the stone structure. Eleanor made her way towards him, her cool hands on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

He places his hand over hers, squeezing, before he shrugs her off, and kneels down to the floor.

"Eleanor, I have a duty to my people. To my family. You know this is not going to end well, for either of us."

Eleanor wrapped her arms around his chest, embracing him from behind. "It doesn't have to end terribly, Timothy."

Suddenly, a searing pain spread through the palm of her hand. Hissing, she jumped back, tightly holding her wrist and looking at her irritated palm. Her pupils dilated, and long, elegant fangs extended. She looked, horror stricken at Timothy, who had staggered back a few feet, clenching the stake tightly in his hand.

"Your rosary," she offered as a means of explanation. She hissed, squeezing her hand.

"Silver burns you?"

Another hiss in reply. Eleanor had backed up against the wall, back to the corner she had been trapped in only moments before. Everything was clearer now. Her vision was flawless, her sense of smell impeccable. The obvious stench of earth mixed in with the decaying bodies around them assaulted her nose. She smelt the ashes of those who had been cremated long ago, albeit faintly. She could see the tiny bugs crawling through the cracks, the bats flying in the high ceiling.

What she saw most of was Timothy's neck. And the vein that pulsed underneath, the rush of blood very loud to her inhumane ears.

"My God," Timothy said, blessing himself, "you truly are a wretched demoness. A cursed creature."

"Please, don't come any closer," she said, trying to melt into the wall. Timothy had picked up the wooden stake, holding it like he did his sword. The stake was long, shiny and heavy, elegantly tipped into a sharp point. She could smell the varnish and cedar as Timothy walked closer.

"I am terribly sorry, Eleanor, but I need to keep everyone safe."

She eyed him fearfully as he raised the stake, almost nose to nose with her, and thrust it forwards. She dodged, moving slightly to the side; the cedar stake had missed her heart, but grazed her arm. She put her hand over the wound, instantly weakened, her strong skin shriveling where she had been hit. Tears stung her eyes, slowly falling down her face. She looked at her lover.

"Please, don't, Timothy. Please."

She could see how tense he was, feel his conflicted emotions radiating off of him in torrents.

"I must. Any last words?"

He was right beside her, trapping her arms against the wall. She could easily break free, but instead she stood, shocked, in her place. Her instincts were taking over; it was time she ended it all.

"Do you not realize where we are, Timothy?"

He briefly gazed around, fully taking in the crypt. It's large pillars and grand, spacious chambers told of the wealth the family of this crypt had attributed over the years. He looked, really looked, at the stone table in the middle, as if seeing it for the first time.

"This isn't just any crypt, Timothy."

"No. It's my family crypt. The crypt of the Dukes of Roseworth."

"You showed it to me, after our engagement."

"I did. And this specific room as well. The ducal chambers, where all of my previous title holders are buried. My great grandfather, my grandfather, and my father, as well. And that stone table. That is meant for me, when I pass away as well. Well Eleanor, isn't this fitting, hmm? The duke's bride-to-be dying in the family crypt."

He lunged once more, the smell of his blood fogging Eleanor's mind. "Timothy, wait, please!"

It was gently said, and Timothy paused, searching the depth of her violet irises. He looked at her quizzically. "Why is it that even now, knowing what you are, I can't simply stop listening to you? Well, out with it, Eleanor."

"Before you...you...you stab me to death with that wretched piece of wood, just give me one last kiss."

He looked at her, shocked, his arms going slack.

"Just, one last kiss. Please, darling."

Timidly at first, he bent his face down, his warm lips pressing against her cold ones, her visible fangs lightly scratching his tender flesh. The kiss deepened, the fiery passion they shared unleashed, full force. Slowly, Eleanor made her way down his face, kissing his neck, gently nipping and licking.

She reached that vein; it was pulsing beneath her lips, the sweet smell of his blood assaulting her nose.

She bit down.

Timothy screamed, as the pain from her bite scorched his whole body. He watched as his blood stained her pale face. She had a feral and unearthly demonic beauty to her, at that moment. He could feel the blood slowly draining out of him. Raising his arm to thrust the stake into her heart, his arm felt...heavy; with a loud clank, the stake fell to the floor.

He felt her fangs deep within his neck. His vision was going blurry, the whole room spinning, and he fell, into the pool of his own blood.

She knelt down with him, carefully holding his weight as he dropped, and lifted him, carrying his still body to the stone table. The blood pools over his clothing, splattering the table. She looks at his face, his hazel eyes slowly diminishing, questioning her. She bends down, her lips over his ear.

"How fitting that the duke of Rosewood should meet his death in the family tomb."

His breathing is choppy; his body twitching. He looks at her pale face; she is almost angelic, like a statue outside. The red stains her lips, dripping down her teeth-those two, sharp fangs.

She kneels at the stone table, her face neutral; yet he could see tears-tears?-falling down her cheeks.

"I did love you, Timothy."

He closed his eyes, dead.

"I always will."


A/N- This was an entry for a horror romance contest on dA. Elanor is actually a character we'll be seeing at a later date (much later, if I ever finish my stories I have planned out at the moment at all). She is, in fact, a vampire. No, not the sparkly kind-a type of vampire that is Dracula crossed with Night World Vamps with elements from another person's ideas and some of my own modifications I've heard over the years.

Drop me a line, guys. Let me know what you think :)