February 28th, 1894 — Beast Boutique

Maddie sat by the window of her cozy apartment above her shop. She didn't normally stay in the apartment, Cane was happily ensconced in the residence normally but the snow had kept him trapped at the library. She was grateful for it tonight when the snow was too thick and dangerous to even attempt to make it back to her parents. The fluu wasn't working and she had settled in to wait out the snow. She was tucked into the upstairs window, looking down at the street below, a warm cup of tea cradled in her hands as she observed the snowflakes dancing in the dark evening sky. The air was heavy with the promise of an even thicker blanket of snow, and the world outside seemed to be hushed in anticipation. The glow from the street lamps reflected off the swirling flakes, creating a magical, winter wonderland.

As she gazed into the night, a figure emerged, barely visible through the veil of falling snow. Maddie's eyebrows furrowed with concern as she recognized the struggles of someone trudging through the accumulating snow. Instinctively, she rose from her seat, the tea forgotten on the windowsill, and descending the stairs to the front door of the shop.

The wind howled as she tugged at the handle, the door resisting against the weight of the snow. With a final, forceful push, Maddie managed to swing it open. The cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of winter. Squinting against the snowflakes, she called out to the person battling the elements. "Hello there! Do you want to come in, you can't be out in this!" Maddie's voice cut through the wintry silence, offering a warm invitation. She stepped onto the threshold, her breath visible in the frigid air, and extended her hand towards the struggling figure, her golden blonde hair catching stray snowflakes.

  

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He was the only one outside in this tonight, and no fucking wonder. Trudging through the snow wouldn’t send him to his death like it would some – but he was hungry, and he wasn’t used to worrying about his usual supply of blood. But his stores in the cavern were not as full as he would like, and the Floo was down so he had no way of getting to London, and – who knew how long this weather would last?

So he had been tramping towards the slums, hoping to knock unceremoniously on the door of one of his ordinary bloodbanks, when... a door opened on the deserted High Street.

And who was Ishmael to resist an invitation inside, when it came? He could hear her pulse in his ears already, guiding him as he crossed over to the doorway through the battering snow – and he grasped her hand gratefully to let her bring him inside, sure that she would mistake the coolness of his touch for a mere consequence of the frozen weather.

“Thank you,” he murmured, once he had crossed the threshold.

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Maddie couldn't fathom how anyone could be out in such treacherous weather. "Come in, come in quickly," She urged. She couldn't ignore the chill emanating from his skin as she wrapped her fingers around his hand, and then putting her weight against the door to reseal it against the oppressive cold and billows of snow that were already sweeping around her feet.

"Here, let me help you," Maddie insisted, ushering him into the warmth of the small living room. She hurried to fetch a thick blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. "You must be freezing. Please," she gestured to the seat closest to the hearth, a comfortable high-backed gentleman chair, "Sit down by the fire," she urged.

"You need to warm up before you catch hypothermia," she fussed, "Can I get you something warm to drink? Tea, perhaps, or some hot cocoa?" she waved her wand and a tea pot and cups appeared on the side table. Without waiting for a response, Maddie bustled to pour a steaming mug and pressing it in his hands. "Here you go," she encouraged, offering a comforting smile. "You'll feel better once you're warmed up. Just take your time."

She didn't recognise him as a local - perhaps it was why he was stuck tramping in the snow rather than sheltering with a someone he knew. Even in the small room, the fire was struggling to keep the room warm as the storm outside did it's best to drain the room of heat. Maddy took the seat opposite the one she had ushered him into, pulling her feet up under her wrapping a shawl around herself.

  

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She was like a furnace in comparison to the cold outside, and Ishmael, playing at being placid, allowed her to usher him to a chair and wrap a blanket around him and fuss over him, like he was a plaything or a lost orphan or a poor stray creature. He wasn’t used to such a reception.

(He took the mug, and feigned lifting it to his lips, close enough to inhale the steam off it – but of course he had no need, nor desire, to drink it.)

She seemed quite relaxed at having company, a perfect rosy young hostess. Ishmael set the mug down beside him, swallowing in his dry throat as he heard, and smelled, the blood coursing in her body. “Y-you’re very kind,” Ishmael ventured eventually, drawing the blanket more around him to act as if he was shivering beneath it; really, he was trying not to show any glint of amusement in it, and his pretend teeth-chattering. “I’m sorry to impose,” he added: smooth, polite, listening out for anyone else’s footsteps in the building and hearing no one. She seemed very comfortable; unintimidated by having a stranger here – naive or open-hearted, maybe. His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Is no one else at home with you?”

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'Of course you're not imposing' she fussed, her lips twitching in a smile. 'No one should be out in that!' she gestured to the road over her shoulder through the window behind her with a shudder, her body at 90 degrees to him, halfway between him and the window, the fireplace between them. She was worried about Cane, he didn't tell her his coming and goings, but it was usual for them bid goodnight to one another - when he arrived home from work, and as she left to return to her parents. It was rare for her to spend the night here, and while there were a few of her things here for emergencies it was very much Cane's residence.

Distracted Maddie was twitching the curtains checking the street, half expecting to see her brother slouching up the road, his jacket up against the cold, his face buried in the scarf that she had made for him last Christmas, but the snow was deep and unbroken and there didn't seem to be anyone outside. Without thinking she shook her head, 'he's probably stuck at the library' She muttered distractedly, fighting pack a small surge of panic, before letting go of the curtain material and turning back to her guest.

Her eyes returned to the present, turning again to focus on him, 'This is my brother's home' she explained, sipping her tea, cupping her tea cup with both hands, absorbing the heat through the bone china. 'Are you from around here?' she asked observing him, her head cocked to one side 'I don't think I recognise you from the village'

  

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She was anxious about her brother, Ishmael considered; or anxious that he wasn’t here. Well, his chances of slaking his thirst were better just dealing with her alone, he fancied – she mightn’t even tell anyone what had happened, if Ishmael was gone before anyone else returned – although he wasn’t sure whether he would be able to convince her to offer her blood up willingly. Usually he had a better sense of his potential bloodbanks, had eyed them up and guessed what they could get out of it in exchange.

This was more difficult. All he had so far was the apparent kindness of her heart, rescuing a stray from the snow.

He didn’t think her brother would make it home tonight, not if the weather kept up as it had been for the last twenty-four hours. So he had a window of time. But the longer he waited without sating that hunger, the more difficult this – sitting in close proximity to her, playing at hospitality – would get.

“At least he’ll be safe indoors, hopefully,” Ishmael answered, to reassure her about her brother; he put his mug down on the table beside the chair, undrunk. “Better than out there. I don’t live here,” he added in answer – not quite. He spent quite a bit of time in Hogsmeade still, but likely not the places she frequented. “Amir,” he said, introducing himself – with a nervous, tentative smile, that might just be enough to give her a glimpse of his unusually sharp canines. How she reacted to it, if she wasn’t too preoccupied to notice, would decide his course of action for him.

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Maddie's concern for Cane lingered, in her glances at the door and the drifting snow beyond before she turned back to the man, as she watched the stranger settle into the warmth of her living room. She had hoped that he would find solace in the shelter of her home, but his next words sent a shiver down her spine.

Her grip tightened on the blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she listened to him introduce himself as Amir, his smile nervous but tinged with an unsettling edge - the teeth.

Vampire.

Maddie's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to comprehend the gravity of the situation. She had heard tales of vampires lurking in the shadows, preying on unsuspecting victims in the dead of night. And now, one sat before her, his sharp canines glinting in the firelight.

A gasp escaped her lips, audible in the sudden silence of the room. Fear coursed through her veins, primal and raw. But he hadn't made a move to attack her, hadn't even bothered to conceal his true nature. The realisation struck her with a mixture of horror and confusion. She didn't know what to do. Should she run? Should she scream for help? But something held her in place, rooted to her seat as if by invisible chains. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, couldn't ignore the undeniable truth staring her in the face.

With a trembling hand, Maddie wrapped the shawl around her tighter, seeking comfort and protection in its folds. 'Wh...are you...' There were a hundred questions running through her brain, what did he want? What was he going to do? Was he going to kill her? But instead of words a slightly panicked breath came out, a strangled noise.

Maddie gathered her blonde hair over one shoulder, playing with the end of her plait. It felt odd to ask him why he was here - she had invited him in after all, 'Are you....hungry' she asked him trying to keep the shake out of her voice.

  

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Ah. The realisation wrought its change instantaneously. The temperature of the room hadn’t shifted, and there she was, tugging her shawl better around her as if it was any worth as a shield.

If Ishmael hadn’t been so used to the fear flickering across people’s faces, he might have had room left to feel offended by it. Had he not been entirely courteous thus far? What did she expect him to do – just pounce, like some feral creature?

Wh... are you? she had stammered; Ishmael clicked his teeth softly, knowing it wasn’t quite what she had been asking but feigning it all the same. “We’ve covered that,” he said, the hesitance gone from his voice, but still just as friendly – light and teasing. “I’m Amir.”

He stood up. She hadn’t moved yet, but they might as well get the messy part out of the way, and see if they couldn’t stay friendly afterwards. “And I’m famished, actually,” Ishmael admitted, with an apologetic look. She had moved her hair over her shoulder, and exposed her neck by it, and his throat had gone oh so dry. “I had hoped you might be generous enough to help me with that. It won’t be any skin off your back.” (Or at least not much trouble.) He smiled, close-mouthed this time; his best impression of non-threatening, but he couldn’t resist the joke. “Or much off your neck.”

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Maddie's heart raced as she watched the stranger rise from his seat, his movements deliberate and unsettling -- which may or may not have been on purpose. She couldn't tear her eyes away from him, her mind racing with a whirlwind of fear and confusion. The realisation that she was face to face with a vampire sent a chill down her spine, and she couldn't shake the dread that gripped her.

Her hand instinctively rose to cover the right side of her neck, a feeble attempt to shield herself from whatever intentions he harboured. She felt vulnerable and exposed, the weight of his gaze bearing down on her like a suffocating blanket.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice trembling with fear and uncertainty. "I've never met a vampire... does the blood have to be... mine?" Her words tumbled out in a rush, her mind reeling with the implications of what she was asking.

She couldn't believe she was even considering his request, couldn't fathom the idea of offering up her own blood to a creature of the night. But the fear of what he might do if she said no loomed large in her mind. 'If you started...could you stop?' the questions might have been rude, but the lines were certainly blurred when you were asking to drink someone.

  

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He had seen all variety of reactions to the idea, over the decades – her trepidation was no surprise. A pity he didn’t know her or couldn’t read her better, to see how he could find a way to massage the idea, offer something in exchange. Fear might have done its work on her too well.

But, although her hand had gone up to protect her neck, she had moved to – bargaining, he supposed. That was what the questions were. It was inevitable it was going to happen, and they both knew it – she was trying to get to grips with the situation first. Ishmael stayed by his chair for the moment, but leant forwards to treat her concerns seriously. (If he was smirking internally, he couldn’t help himself.)

“I’ve been around for more than a hundred years,” he explained, for some definition of lived, “so I can control myself. It’ll hardly even hurt, I promise.” With an apologetic frown, he added – “But the longer it’s been since I fed, the longer I starve myself, the harder it gets to stop when I do...” By which he meant: the longer they waited, the more danger she put herself in.

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Maddie's mind raced, a whirlwind of fear, confusion, and an instinctive drive to survive. The vampire's words washed over her, his explanation doing little to quell the dread pooling in her stomach. Her hand trembled slightly as it clung to her neck, the weight of his gaze heavy on her.

A hundred years. The thought was almost incomprehensible. Yet, here he was, standing before her, his presence undeniable and his needs terrifyingly real. Maddie bit her lip, her mind desperately seeking a way out, but there seemed to be no escape from the inevitable.

Her breathing was shallow, her heart pounding in her chest. "It... it won't hurt?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She didn't want to believe him, but what choice did she have? The longer she delayed, the more dangerous the situation became – that much was clear. She felt sick. With a deep, shaky breath, Maddie steeled herself. "Alright," she murmured, her voice trembling. "If it means you'll stop... then okay. Just... please, be quick about it."

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any hint of deception or malice, but all she saw was an unsettling mix of hunger and control. Slowly, she lowered her hand from her neck, exposing the vulnerable skin beneath. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, but she remained still, bracing herself for what was to come.

"Let's get this over with," Maddie whispered, her voice quivering with fear. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of him leaning in, and prayed silently that he would keep his word.

  

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She was a picture-perfect victim in all regards. She might sprung out of those penny dreadful gothics, tales of innocent maidens trapped in castles, all purity and grace just waiting to be torn apart and ravished.

Ishmael didn’t plan on ravishing her that way: he preferred people with less self-preservation, or at least the audacity to tease him, not waves of fear. But a healthy meal was a meal nonetheless, and if he had to pick between her and the snow outside, it was an easy choice to make.

He could have been kinder to her, and taken her by the wrist – but she was already expecting the bite to her neck, and it would be easier to subdue her from there if her fight or flight instincts kicked in. So Ishmael propped himself on one knee by her chair, and took her by the hand, calm but firm, to keep it lowered against any temptations. “It’ll be less painful if you can relax,” he remarked, with a grin. (Telling people to relax rarely worked, but it was true. If she could sink into it, give into the feeling, it would be really a rather intoxicating experience for her. He’d had no complaints.)

Better that he didn’t give her too much time to think about it; Ishmael leaned in close to her, curling his other hand around the back of her head and inclining her neck slightly away. He bared his teeth and bit, unable to think of anything else now but the blood about to hit his tongue.

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