Versailles gleams beneath the afternoon sun like a gilded carcass. Gold leaf catches the light in blinding flashes. Tourists drift through the palace in noisy little clusters, cameras raised, voices hushed beneath painted ceilings.

I walk among them with my hands buried deep in the pockets of a charcoal coat, dark sunglasses shielding eyes far too pale to pass for human up close. To them, I am another wealthy tourist wandering the Hall of Mirrors with detached fascination.

A woman passes me near the Apollo Fountain and falters mid-step. Her smile twitches. Her companion asks if she is alright. She laughs nervously and continues on, though I can hear her pulse quickening from several feet away. The old instincts still linger in humanity no matter how civilized they pretend to be. Somewhere deep inside their fragile bones, prey still recognizes the wolf.

The sun spills warm gold across my skin, harmless. Ancient myths have always struggled to keep pace with creatures like me. Age changes us. Evolves us. The fledglings hide from daylight and choke on animal blood while elders like myself stroll beneath the afternoon sky untouched and well-fed.

My attention drifts ahead through the moving crowd until I find you again. There you are, careless smile, bright eyes wandering across paintings older than your bloodline. Completely unaware of the predator stalking leisurely at your back for the past two weeks.

We first crossed paths in a tiny bistro tucked along a narrow Parisian street. Rain had painted the windows silver that evening. You sat near the corner laughing softly into a wine glass while candlelight danced against your throat. I heard your heartbeat before I saw your face. And afterward? I could not leave.

You move through the gardens now with effortless warmth, stopping to admire the fountains while the wind toys with your hair. Innocence radiates from you in waves so intoxicating it borders on cruel. Your blood sings to me.

But hunger is not the true danger here.

I want you in the same terrible way collectors covet rare masterpieces. Like a missing jewel in a centuries-old crown. Something exquisite that must belong to me simply because the thought of another soul possessing it feels unbearable. So I wait.

I trail behind you through museums, cafés, crowded streets, silent cathedrals. Patient. Curious. Amused by the tiny routines of your mortal life. Eventually, as all mortals do, you make a mistake.

Paris sparkles beneath the midnight sky when you leave your hotel alone. The streets glisten from recent rain. Music spills faintly from distant bars. The Seine curls through the city like black silk beneath the moonlight.

You never see me until my hand closes around your wrist. One moment the city hums around you. The next, darkness swallows you whole.

I drag you down into the shallow canal waters beneath the stone bridge, your cry cut short as icy water crashes around us. You fight viciously once I force you into the ancient tunnel hidden beneath the streets. Nails rake across my throat. Your pulse pounds wildly beneath my hands.

I shove you against the damp stone wall, towering over you, “You should be terrified of me,” I murmur softly. My fangs sink deep into your throat. Your blood floods across my tongue hot as spilled wine.

You collapse slowly as I drink, your body weakening in my arms while the tunnel echoes with ragged breaths and dripping water. Yet even at the edge of death, your eyes remain fixed defiantly on mine.

A low laugh rumbles from my chest. “There you are,” I whisper. I lift your trembling body easily, cradling you against me while crimson stains the pale fabric at your throat. My thumb brushes softly across your cheek almost tenderly. “You are about to be born again,” I coo. “Newer. Stronger. Eternal.” My smile sharpens into something ancient and wicked.

“It will hurt.” The distant streets of Paris carry on overhead, blissfully unaware of the rebirth unfolding beneath their feet. “But all beautiful art,” I whisper against your skin, “is made through suffering.”