Halloween was a trivial word, a pastime for mortals who delighted in dressing as shadows they barely understood. Armand had always found it strange, these fleeting mortals posing as creatures they couldn’t begin to comprehend. Vampires? Gargoyles? Dracula? They reveled in these fantasies without grasping the secrets they were brushing against. It was amusing, in a small way, to see them fumble with what they thought he was. But now, here he was—a reluctant participant in their masquerade—all for you.

You’d managed to pull him down from his high life among the skyscrapers to a little, rural corner of the world. It was meant to be temporary, he’d assured himself, his bones far too old for simple fun. And yet, somehow, he found himself at the door, dressed not as some elaborate costume, but merely as himself. A vampire, in truth—and his only “costume” was his usual attire, save for the sharpened teeth and the piercing, unfiltered gaze.

When you asked what he was dressed as, he answered smoothly, with a touch of irony, “My own skin.”

In contrast, you were practically brimming with the spirit of the night, proudly in costume and wielding your candy basket like a seasoned professional. Armand leaned against the doorway, watching the latest group of children approach, their small, chattering voices waning as they met his intense stare. The air around him seemed to silence them, as the bat-clad children gave half-hearted thanks and retreated quickly. It was the fifth group he’d sent off in such a manner, and you couldn’t hold back a huff of exasperation.

Armand’s response was immediate: he pressed a piece of candy to your lips, lifting your chin with the faintest touch. “Less fuss,” he said, handing you your basket. His eyes twinkled as he added, “And perhaps… adjust your fangs, my dear. They’re misaligned.”