Meyra - A vampire fairytale (english edition) E-Book

Elias J. Connor

• Herausgeber: FINN Books Edition FireFly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Meyra flees the shadows of her own family – an ancient vampire dynasty that forces her to choose life and death in her darkest hour. When she saves the human architecture student Kieran from death on a stormy night, a feeling awakens within her that is stronger than thirst and duty. But her secret love becomes a deadly threat when her brother uncovers the truth and abducts Meyra into the dungeon of the secret family castle. Kieran is faced with a choice – should he forget Meyra, or should he free her from the clutches of the dynasty and risk his own life in the process? A dramatic battle between loyalty and passion erupts – and only one sacrifice can save their love... A captivating novel about forbidden feelings, unbridled longing, and the choice between life and immortality.

Leseprobe

Elias J. Connor

Meyra - A vampire fairytale (english edition)

Fantasy romance

Dedication

For my girlfriend.

Muse, dream interpreter, true love.

Thank you for being there and for letting me have you by my side.

Elias.

Chapter 1 - The silence in the night

The choir's voice echoes softly through the night. It's hard to pinpoint exactly where the singing is coming from. Either way, it doesn't really fit, because it's a cold, wet night. Sleet and thick fog envelop the lonely side street, accompanied by an unpleasant, icy wind.

What time could it be? 11 p.m., maybe even past midnight?

After a while, the choral singing, wherever it came from, falls silent, and this strange, secluded place becomes very quiet.

She looks up briefly and then buries her head again under the collar of her thick wool sweater. She's trembling. Her legs twitch rhythmically, and her breath forms small clouds in front of her face.

For a second it looks like she said something, but that's probably just the shadow passing over her lips.

The bridge she's sitting under isn't big or very high, but at least it's dry down here.

The girl looks up again. Her dark-blonde hair hangs in her face, her hairstyle is disheveled, and she repeatedly tries to wipe the strands from her eyes. Her lips are still trembling from the cold.

The footsteps are getting closer. When she hears them, she looks up. She quickly scurries behind a pillar and hides. She buries her head even deeper in her wool sweater and ties up her half-open jacket tightly, hoping not to be seen.

Slow footsteps. She hears each one. Is it the cold, or is it her fear, that makes her body tremble?

She leans tightly against the bridge pillar, almost clasping it with her arms. It's as if she wants to become one with it so she remains invisible.

But it's too late. The older man has already spotted her. He slowly approaches her. The sound of his footsteps echoes under the bridge.

She presses herself close to the pillar and closes her eyes. Suddenly, she feels a hand on her shoulder. Not firmly, but firmly, the man turns her around so he can look into her eyes.

"I knew someone was hiding here," the old man grumbles at her. "What are you doing here, so late at night and all alone?"

The girl continues to tremble. She cautiously looks at him through her almost closed eyes and finally turns her head to the side without saying anything.

“A girl your age shouldn’t be walking around alone at night,” the man says in his sonorous voice.

The girl looks at her gray, thinning hair as it moves in the wind.

"I'm 19," she finally says, almost whispering. "It's my business what I do at night."

“You look 14 or 15,” the old man says incredulously.

“I’m 19,” the girl repeats quietly.

Only then does she let go of the bridge pillar and sit down on a ledge. The older man sits next to her and lights a cigarette.

Almost disgusted, the girl waves the smoke away with her hand in front of her face and looks at the older man with a contemptuous look.

“Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?” he asks.

The girl shakes her head.

"I'm not very good at walking anymore," says the man. "And it's still a long way to my home. I have to take a break every now and then."

The girl nods.

"You're not very talkative," the man observes with a questioning glance. "Do you have a name?"

The cloud of her breath almost completely envelops her pale face.

“Meyra,” she whispers softly.

"Okay, Meyra," says the old man. "You don't have to be afraid. I won't hurt you, okay? I'll just sit here for a while, and as soon as my legs can, I'll move on."

Meyra looks sideways at the old man. Her eyes seem compassionate, but upon closer inspection, you can see something completely different in her gaze.

Whatever it is, the old man doesn't recognize it.

“Do you live alone?” the young woman asks the man.

He exhales deeply and then turns to her. "My wife died a long time ago," he says. "We had no children. I don't have a family anymore. Yes, I live alone."

Meyra's eyes flicker as if the wind were playing a song in them. Her heartbeat is doing somersaults.

“You don’t have anyone else?” Meyra wants to be sure.

The man nods.

“And no one will miss you?” Meyra asks him the question directly.

"Why do you ask such a question?" the man replies. "Are you planning to kill me? Go ahead. I have nothing left to expect from life."

Meyra is breathing heavily. She's trembling inside. Her body is vibrating. She knows how much she hates it. She knows she's forced to do it, or she'll die herself. And as much as Meyra hates her own life—as the old man probably hates his—she doesn't want to die. It's the raw instinct for survival that keeps her alive, and that makes her do things she would never do under normal circumstances.

One last look. One last flash from his eyes that seems to strike Meyra right in the heart.

And in the next second the old man is lying dead on the ground.

Meyra crouches beside him. Her expression is deeply sad. Her eyes are filled with tears. Her lips are red, probably smeared with blood.

She looks at him once more. Then she quietly stands up. She takes a few steps away from that dark, creepy place under that bridge. When she's far enough away, she starts running.

Once she reaches the country road, Meyra runs even faster. Almost like lightning, faster than the passing cars, she runs through the dark night. Every now and then, a headlight grazed her, but it doesn't bother her. It's not her fault, she tells herself. If anyone asks, it's not her fault.

Yes, she hates it. She always has. But she has no choice. She knows that. It is so, and it always will be so.

The district that Meyra reaches after some time is located about 20 kilometers from the city center. It's not large. It actually consists of just a few houses, and these look like they're inhabited by rather wealthy people. It's obviously a good area.

As Meyra walks through the town, everything has long since fallen silent. No one is on the street. Meyra slows her pace and looks at a street lamp. She sees the fog drifting gently past and also notices the small raindrops in the light.

Meyra wipes the sweat from her forehead. Because she's warm, she opens her jacket again.

She walks slowly along the main road until she reaches the edge of town. Then, at the last traffic light, she turns right onto a nearby forest path.

The town's lights seem to slowly fade. Meyra turns around once more. When she looks ahead again, she finds herself standing in front of a small, hidden alley, its light seemingly completely swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

Hidden among shadowy hills lies the unknown village, gloomy and dark—a secluded cluster of half-timbered houses, their facades shimmering moss-green and their shingled roofs barely distinguishable from the dense canopy of the surrounding oaks. No signpost points the way, no map indicates it; only those familiar with the quiet paths can find the gate of vines between two ancient trees.

At the heart of this nameless, secret place, narrow alleys wind, little more than cracks between rows of houses. Cobblestones, cracked by root roots, gape here and there as if trees had driven their fingers through the soil. Blackened iron lanterns hang crookedly from the half-timbered beams, flickering in an irregular rhythm and casting dancing shadows on the weathered walls.

Some of these alleys end abruptly at massive oak trapdoors, studded with rusty bolts and faded runes. Those who listen closely can hear the distant dripping of water and the faint echo of distant footsteps. Beneath the steep steps of these hiding places lies the subterranean labyrinth—a network of damp passages, ancient catacombs, and high vaults where the breath of the city above barely echoes.

By day, hardly a traveler strolls here; but in the evening, when the mist creeps from the trees, stories are whispered of scholars who studied forgotten secrets in the deepest bunkers, and of travelers who smiled invitingly in the alleys, only to disappear into the shadows of the trapdoors. For once you've chosen the path, you'll find not just a hidden village, but an entire underground realm whose passages wind endlessly into the depths.

Meyra quietly steps through the moss-covered vine gate and enters the quiet village in the pale dawn. The half-timbered houses rise like silent witnesses to ancient times, and dew lurks beneath their heavy shingled roofs. Her gaze wanders to the narrow alleys that wind through the village in labyrinthine twists and turns, as if they wanted to trap any intruder forever.

She chooses an alley whose cobblestones creak softly beneath her boots and follows the gentle incline that leads her deeper between the wooden walls. The lamppost flames flicker in the gentle breeze, and shadows dance beyond on the cracks in the pavement. The branches of the old oaks arch above her, giving the alley a greenish twilight.

At one point, Meyra stops. A massive trapdoor made of antique oak, locked with a rusty bolt, bears faded markings. Her heart beats faster, for this is precisely where the path into the depths begins. With a practiced grip, Meyra turns the bolt, lifts the door a crack, and feels the cool, moist air wafting from the steps below.

She descends cautiously, each step a prayer echoing in the stone walls. Moss and root veins entwine along the crumbling walls, and the dripping of water echoes in the distance. Meyra follows the narrow corridor, its ceiling deepening, until she reaches a wide intersection. Arrows point left to the forgotten well, right to the Crypt of Whispering Night—but a faint torchlight glows straight ahead.

She chooses the middle path, leaving the whispering behind, and arrives at a wooden gate. Two stone gargoyles stand silent watch, and the gate itself is intricately carved—signs of a power older than the city above. Meyra's hand grips the metal handle as she takes the first pull. A creak, a glow of ancient magic—and the gate to the Night Watchmen's underground castle opens before her.

Beyond the threshold rises a hall of black marble, its surface reflecting the torchlight in cold reflections. Colossal columns reach into the shadows, the ceiling is covered with weathered frescoes telling stories of blood and honor. Meyra pulls back her hood, breathes in the scent of moss and ancient stone—and knows she has found the path into the darkness, the only way to her destiny.

Chapter 2 - The secret dynasty

In the narrow streets of London, fog lies like an impenetrable blanket over the old cobblestones. Lampposts cast their pale light on rain-slicked walls, while rivulets find their way into the sewers. A distant toll of the clock announces midnight, and with it awakens the ancient vampire family that has reigned in the shadow of this metropolis for centuries. Their presence remains hidden from mortals, but their whispers pulse in every dark corner, in every smoky pub, and behind every massive wooden door.

Meyra slips silently from her hiding place behind an overturned crate. Her blond braid falls over her shoulder, a sharp contrast to the black leather coat she wears. She is nineteen years old, barely older than many of the humans she hunts, yet older than any mortal will ever know. Her pale face appears flawless, but the tension in her blue eyes betrays the torment raging within. Every drop of blood is a step deeper into the darkness of her destiny, and Meyra hates herself for craving every bite.

Tonight, the alleys of the East End belong to her. The family has split into two groups to reach as many victims as possible before the first light of dawn penetrates the streets. Meyra belongs to the group of huntresses—an honor and a burden. At her side are Aveline and Lucinda, two older sisters from the clan who admire and despise Meyra in equal measure. Aveline with her red lips and the coquettish swing of her hips, Lucinda with her ice-grey eyes and her unfailing smile. Both master the arts of seduction and terror like no other.

A faint light emerges from a side street. Meyra feels her pulse quicken—so much life at once, so much warmth, so much scent of humanity. She smells the sweat of a construction worker, the perfume of a young woman, the beer of a small pub. Every drop of blood in this air is sweeter than the last. Her thirst screams for release in the veins of a mortal, but she forces herself to remain silent.

Aveline gives a barely perceptible signal, and the three vampires split up. Meyra sneaks up to the window of a poorly secured warehouse where workers are relocating crates. A muffled laugh rings out, and Meyra watches as one of the men pulls a cigarette from the corner of his mouth. She takes a deep breath, disgustedly inviting thirst into her veins, and then enters with the ease of a predator. The men don't see her until she's standing directly in front of them, with a smile that seems less like an invitation than a death sentence.

"Well, daughter, are you out of place here?" someone slurs, reaching for her coat. Meyra shakes her head, slowly turns, and pulls it back. The thin skin of her fingertips touches the damp wood as she floats away with a smooth movement.

In the blink of an eye, she leaps forward. The worker freezes as her claw grips his wrist. His heartbeat is pounding, his eyes widening. Meyra's teeth flash, sparkling like pearls in the darkness. For a moment, she hesitates—every heartbeat she hears is both music and Maleficent. Then she bites, and the world around her blurs. Blood rushes to her mouth, numbing her senses, filling her lungs with intoxicating warmth. The screams of the other men reach her only in a muffled voice as she takes gulp after gulp of drink until everything around her dies.

When she finally lets go, the dead body sinks to the ground. Meyra's eyes are clouded, her senses wavering between intoxication and remorse. She hates the thirst that compels her to destroy those she could have once protected, had her life turned out differently. Every meal scratches at her conscience, and yet she cannot help it. Blood is her destiny, the celebration in which she joins the evil web of her family.

Lucinda is already waiting outside in the alley, her gaze cool, but there is burning curiosity in her eyes.

"Couldn't you hold back again?" she whispers. The older vampire's lips curl into a smile that expresses both reproach and curiosity. "I thought you wanted to prove to us that you were old school."

Meyra wipes the corners of her mouth with her sleeve. Her coat bears bloodstains, but she barely notices them.

"The hunger was stronger." She lowers her gaze and feels a wave of shame. In moments like these, she feels like a child who has committed a sin, even though she should be older than those she killed.

Aveline approaches, her footsteps silent. Her hands rest on Meyra's shoulders.

"You mustn't be so weak, sister. Weakness is a luxury we can't afford." Her voice is soft, but every note hits Meyra like a dagger.

Annoyed, but also almost disgusted with herself, Meyra sighs and rolls her eyes.

"I know," whispers Meyra. She wants to be stronger, wants to feel the cold in her heart like the grown-ups. But as soon as the thirst begins to pound, it tears her apart from the inside.

Lucinda turns away and her voice is icy.

"We'll meet at the meeting point. The others are already here."

Meyra nods, straightens her shoulders, and takes a deep breath. She needs to compose herself and can't afford any more weakness.

A rendezvous in the abandoned tunnel network beneath the archaic railway tracks. There, where the air smells of mold and the silence is deeper than any chasm. A root of metal beams, wooden beams, and damp stone leads down into the darkness where the ancient vampire family gathers: Lord Sebastian, the patriarch, with his snow-white hair and impenetrable gaze; his daughter Isolde, as cold as an icy lake; and countless others whose names Meyra doesn't yet know, whose voices she has only guessed at.

They follow the tunnel, their footsteps echoing dully. Meyra feels every heartbeat as if it were her own. A silence falls over them before they reach the great hall—a sprawling underground chamber whose ceiling is supported by cast-iron girders. Tendrils of rust cover the walls, and from somewhere, water drips in a steady, monotonous rhythm.

In the center of the room rises a round stone altar, upon which blood vessels already stand in old brass cups. Meyra feels her stomach clench. Every drop in these cups is the essence of countless lives. Some are carefully prepared—a mixture of adrenaline rush and fear that refines the taste. Others come from fugitive victims who recently met their end in the alleys. Still others come from people whose right to live on this earth ended for specific reasons.

Lord Sebastian raises his hand, and silence instantly falls over the assembly. His gaze rests on Meyra, and she feels as if she were at his center, as if she had to explain herself for every drop of blood she had drunk.

"Meyra," he says in a sonorous voice. "We have called your name to the oath of allegiance. Are you ready to pledge your allegiance to our cause?"

A cold shiver runs down Meyra's spine. An oath seals her loyalty, binding her to the intrigues and power games of her clan. Anyone who refuses will be banished—or worse. And yet, this oath is also her protection, her place in this family. The moment she refuses, she loses everything.

She steps before the altar. Her reflection flickers in the rusty walls, marked by blood and guilt. She speaks in a trembling voice.

"I am Meyra of the Night Watch line. I bow to Lord Sebastian and promise to fulfill his will and uphold the honor of our family as long as the blood pulses in my veins."

A murmur runs through the crowd as Meyra places her hand on the cool brass basin. Her blood boils, and she feels something dark awakening within her—a power older than herself. She swallows her fear and raises her eyes.

Lord Sebastian nods, and with a barely noticeable flick of his thumb, he cuts his finger. A sharp pain, yet one that barely seems to touch him. A drop of shining red lifeblood hits the parchment on the altar, signing the oath with indelible ink. Then he offers the blood to Meyra.

She hesitates only a moment before nodding and drinking from the patriarch's hand. A spark shoots through her, sending warmth through every cell. This sip isn't hunger; it's obligation, empowerment, and a chain all at once.

As she returns the cup, her gaze is clearer, more determined. She feels the gazes of the others on her—envy, respect, suspicion. But she also feels the surge of power brewing within her and the realization that, despite despising her destiny, she can never lead an ordinary life again.

The Patriarch addresses the assembly.

"The night is young, and our feast awaits us. Go forth, seek the souls that feed us. And return with tales of fear and blood."

A collective murmur rises, and the vampires scatter in all directions to spread their doom among the humans. Aveline and Lucinda join Meyra, and together they step out of the tunnel entrance into the fresh night air.

The alleys of London stretch before them like a network of possibilities. Meyra feels the thirst bending her again, more intensely than before.

But she's ready. Ready to dive into the darkness, ready to accept her fate—no matter how insidious it may be.

She raises her gaze and feels the pulse of the city beneath her feet. And as the first shadows disappear into the corners, Meyra takes the first step into a long, dark night full of betrayal, passion, and blood.

Chapter 3 - First encounter

The night wind tugs at Meyra's coat as she crouches on the side of the busy country road, hidden in the shadow of a burnt-out van. The headlights of passing cars flash across the dented metal, casting flickering reflections across the wet pavement. The roar of the engines, the constant whooshing of tires on the rain-slicked road—all this blends into a dull chorus that pounds through her temples.

She crouches there motionless, barely a breath escaping her lips. The night is damp, the smell of oil, exhaust fumes, and mold creeps through the air. Somewhere behind her, a motorcycle roars, speeding past her far too fast. Meyra doesn't flinch. Her eyes follow the headlights until they disappear into the distance.

Her gaze flickers. Hunger burns like hot coals beneath her skin, just beneath the surface. She hasn't had a drink in two nights—not properly. A few drops from a mugger in Whitechapel, little more than a taste, which only ignited her thirst further. Her fangs press against her gums, ready to pierce skin. She presses her lips together, staring out at the street.

A silver BMW drives slowly by. A couple sits inside, laughing. Music booms through the windows. A joie de vivre, so light, so careless. Meyra tilts her head to the side, smelling for a brief moment the blood pulsing beneath her skin.

But she doesn't attack. Not yet. Her fingers cling to the sharp-edged bumper behind her, as if she's trying to hold onto something that will protect her from herself.

Hunger hurts. It doesn't think, it doesn't argue. It is.

She squints her eyes, forces herself to remain calm. The country road isn't a hunting zone. Too many witnesses. Too much light. Too much noise. And too little protection should something go wrong.

Another car brakes abruptly in the oncoming lane. Meyra sits up slightly, her senses alert. Two men get out and argue loudly on the shoulder, just an arm's length from her hiding place. One of them is young, fit, his pulse pounding so loudly she can almost taste it.

She leans back into the shadows, remaining there like a statue. Her blue eyes glimmer briefly in the darkness, a telltale glimmer that only those who know what they're looking for could see.

But no one sees her. No one notices the girl in the coat crouching among garbage bags and rusty scrap metal.

She bites the inside of her cheek. She tastes blood. Her own.

Part of her wants to jump up, wants to hunt, wants to finally drink until the burning subsides. But the other part—the human part, or what's left of it—holds her back. It's this inner conflict that drives her mad.

Suddenly, a loud screech of tires. Two cars. A collision, a metallic crash, splintering, a dull thud.

Meyra's head snaps around. Just twenty meters away: an accident. A car skids across the road, nearly hitting the guardrail. The other, a black SUV, speeds off without braking, its taillights flashing red in the rearview mirror in the night.

Meyra jumps up. Her senses are in overdrive. The smell of fresh blood hits her in the face like a fist.

Instinct and humanity collide in her like two trains on an open track.

She starts running. Toward the destroyed car. Toward the blood.

Meyra feels her heart racing as she uses the last of her strength to pull a young man, apparently seriously injured, from the dented car. The stench of metal and gasoline stings her nostrils, but she barely registers it. Her gaze is fixed on the young man's motionless, blood-soaked body. His dark hair is plastered to his temple, where a deep wound gapes. She carries him into a narrow side alley where the diffuse light of a distant streetlamp only dimly illuminates him. Her thirst lashes within her—a hot, raging storm—but something holds her back, like an invisible wedge irreconcilably separating desire and inhibition.

She gently sets the man down on the damp grass of the ditch. His eyelids flutter, and Meyra leans forward, gently placing her hand on his cheek. Her heart pounding in her ears.

"Stay with me," she whispers, even though she knows he can't hear her. She carefully takes his face in both hands, staring into his dark, sleep-deprived eyes. He groans softly, breathing heavily, and there's so much pain and life in that movement of his breath that Meyra's resolve becomes as tough as steel.

The traffic rushes by as if nothing had happened. A bright headlight catches them both for a heartbeat, then the cars scurry on. No one notices the young vampire and her victim. No one asks if help is needed. Meyra looks around—not a soul except the injured man and herself.

She opens a handbag she recently took from an unsuspecting student and takes out a few first-aid supplies: sterile gauze bandages wrapped in silver foil, disinfectant wipes, and scissors. With astonishing routine, she cleans his wound, dabbing the edge before applying a gauze bandage. Every move is precise, but her mind races. For a moment, she considers simply drinking. The temptation is relentless; the pounding in her throat practically pulses. But she pauses. A faint, alien sense of responsibility lurks in the mix, a tiny spark of humanity she thought she'd long since lost.

The young man opens his eyes and stares at her, as if he needs to make sure he's dreaming. His gaze is fixed on her face—so clear, so beautiful, and yet the face of death itself, so pale and unapproachable. Meyra smiles timidly.

"You're safe," she says in a calm voice. "My name is..." She thinks for a moment. Whenever she lies, she feels her blood pulsing, as if searching for the truth. "My name is Marian." She detests the word, yet she whispers it to him as if it were her real name. "I'll help you get to the hospital. An ambulance will be here soon."

She seems so convincing that the man nods for a moment, although his expression remains questioning. His breath comes in gasps.

"Kieran," he says hoarsely as he stammers his name in a shaky voice. His body twitches, his eyelids flutter, and he closes his eyes again.

Meyra stands up.

“Kieran,” she repeats, as if speaking to a child, “hang in there, okay?”

The next moment, she hears sirens, distant yet close. She breathes a sigh of relief, but at the same time, her stomach tightens. An ambulance means doctors, light, recognition. She can't allow her identity to be revealed. The sirens echo louder, blaring against the walls of the alley. An ambulance turns the corner and glides toward the scene. The doors burst open, and paramedics rush in with stretchers and equipment.

Meyra buries her face in Kieran's neck. One last attempt to feel his blood, to taste his heart. But then she forces herself back, wiping her mouth with her sleeve as if nothing had happened. The paramedics approach. The bright flashing lights bathe the scene in red and white light.

“What do we have here?” asks a paramedic when she sees Kieran and her colleague hastily pulls down the blanket.

"An injured passenger in one of the crashed vehicles," Meyra answers firmly. "He's unconscious. I took care of him until you got here."

The paramedics assess his injuries, place a collar on his neck, and carefully lift him onto the stretcher. Meyra stays beside them, resting an arm under his knees.

“Can I come with you to the hospital?” She tries to sound as human as possible.

The paramedics exchange glances.

"We have enough staff," one says cautiously. "But if you'd like, you can sit in the car with us—to calm the patient."

Meyra nods with relief. "Thank you."

She carefully climbs into the ambulance and sits next to Kieran on the left side. The interior is brightly lit, with all the equipment and glowing displays, it seems like another world. Meyra feels her gaze drawn to every light – resuscitation equipment, oxygen masks, monitors. All the tools used to save human life. An act she should never be able to witness, and yet she is currently witnessing it.

The doors close, and the car starts moving. Meyra puts a hand on Kieran's shoulder. He doesn't move, the helmet of the cervical collar restricting his movement. She exhales, her thirst throbbing behind her cheeks, but she concentrates on not arousing the nurses' and paramedics' suspicion. She nods when one of the paramedics asks, "Did you see the accident?"

"Yes," she says truthfully. "I was coming out of this tunnel here..." She points toward the underpass. "...when I heard the bang."

"Good. Please stay with us," says the paramedic. "We need your statement."

Meyra nods. She knows she'll have to make everything up later to keep her lie coherent. Just as the thought of the layers of lies threatens to overwhelm her, she feels a light grip on her arm. A young paramedic, barely older than she is, looks at her with warm eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

"Yes, thank you." Meyra smiles uncertainly, and there's so much sickness and longing in that smile that it makes her uncomfortable. Again, she feels Kieran's body next to her and the urge to see him as food. But this man, this strange paramedic, would have seen through her immediately. No, she must act differently—she must save him, not consume him.

The ambulance rushes through the empty streets of London, past sleeping houses and lit shop windows. Meyra leans over Kieran, observing his pale cheeks and blood-soaked bandages. Her gaze lingers on the vein in his neck, as if secretly issuing a warning: "Be strong. I'll keep you alive."

At the hospital, bright neon lights flood the hallway as paramedics carry Kieran in. Meyra follows them and points to the reception desk.

“He came from a serious car accident.”

Two nurses take him and gently pull him into the treatment area. A doctor steps forward and briefly examines them.

“Who are you?”

“Marian,” she says, and as she says the word, she notices for the first time how foreign it feels on her tongue.

The doctor nods.

“Please stay here.” He disappears into the treatment room.

Meyra stands in the hospital corridor, alone between green and white walls, at the end of which muffled screams and the beeping of machines can be heard. She feels the night's work yearning for sleep in her limbs. But she can't sleep—not here. Not as long as Kieran's heart beats in these hospital casemates.

She leans against the wall, closes her eyes for a brief moment. Her thirst roars wildly, but she forces herself to control herself, suppressing the urge to plunge down and taste Kieran's blood. Because she wants more than food. She wants answers. She wants to know why he, of all people, blocks her from the crowd, why the sight of his chronically injured body gives her a strange sense of duty to protect her.

A soft beep makes her jump. A nurse steps out of the treatment room, carrying a tablet computer and looking at Meyra with serious eyes.

"The patient is stabilized, but we need to transfuse blood. Can you tell us if he has any allergies?"

Meyra hesitates. Shards of ice pierce her chest: An allergy can be looked up in a file. An allergy requires a name, a medical record. Pitfalls everywhere. She bites her lip.

"I don't know," she whispers. "He just told me... I don't know anything."

She shrugs her shoulders to appear perplexed.

The nurse frowns.

“Okay, let’s start with standard canned goods.” She types something into her tablet and disappears again.

Meyra takes a deep breath. For a moment, she's relieved. Then she realizes how dangerous this lie is. Doctors and nurses have protocols, improving a file with every step. She can't stay here forever.

She brushes a strand of blonde hair from her face. A weak attempt to appear more human. Then she turns, dives into the hallway, and quietly moves away. Each step is heavy, as if she feels the resistance of reality. Finally, she reaches the stairwell. She quickly takes a flight of stairs, another hallway, until she's outside the patient area.

Outside in the entrance hall, she breathes in the cool night air as if she hadn't breathed in years. London continues to sleep, unaware of what lies hidden in the catacombs of its clinics. Meyra leans against a pillar, pulling her coat tighter around her. Her thirst drums impatiently within her. A gritty unease creeps into her veins, as if she knows of the impending temptation.

She knows now that she must return. Again and again. Every day, every night, she will come to Kieran, each time having to fight the urge to taste his blood. And he—he will no longer call her "Marian." He will ask for her true name, perhaps her story. Questions she has no answers to. Questions she is not allowed to answer.

But a voice in her head whispers, "You have to do it. It's the only way you can protect him. It's the only way you can preserve some shred of humanity."

Meyra looks up. A neon sign glows above the hospital's facade: "St. Bartholomew Medical Center." A temple of life in the midst of a city that simultaneously harbors places of death. She closes her eyes and exhales.

Her decision is made. She wanders through the dark streets back to the tunnels that lead her into the depths of London. This is where she feels at home. This is where her heart beats—the heart of a creature that is both guardian and avenger.

The blood of countless victims pulses through her veins, but this night she will once again witness what it means not only to take blood, but to receive it. And as the gray stones of the metropolis pass by, Meyra knows she is rewriting her destiny: not only as a night watchman, but also as a protector of life. For in a person who had just escaped death, she saw something that lies beyond all darkness—a hope that even a vampire can maintain.

And so a new game begins, the rules of which she herself has yet to write. The streets of London wind before her, dark and mysterious, and Meyra steps out into the night—a shadow among shadows, a guardian in the spirit of a beast, ready to find her own law.

Chapter 4 - Meyra's other side

Meyra opens the creaking door to her attic apartment and steps into the narrow hallway. The tiny room beyond is high, the roof sloping, the walls painted bright white. Between the bookshelves and the small sofa stands a worn desk, on which her laptop, some notebooks, and a half-empty teacup vie for attention. A small kitchenette is hidden behind a half-height partition, and the only view from the room is through a tiny skylight that looks up at the roofs of the old buildings and across the street.

Meyra quietly closes the door behind her, drops her backpack with her lecture notes to the floor, and brushes a strand of blonde hair from her face. The sun is already low in the sky—it's early afternoon. She feels a slight urge to close her eyes and rest for a moment, but she forces herself to stay awake. She can't allow any fatigue or weakness to cling to her. Like every other student, she relies on full fitness and discipline.

In the living room, she takes her smartphone out of her pocket. A dozen messages from fellow students appear on the screen.

“Meet at the café at 3 p.m.?” asks Jonas.

“Group run at 5pm?” Lara types right below.

Meyra smiles and types back: “Sounds good – I’m in.”

Her thumb hesitates on the send button as she thinks for a second of Kieran, of his blood-soaked face in the alley. A deep urge to swallow rises within her—but she suppresses it.

She puts a teacup in the sink, throws away the mug, and hastily puts the freshly washed laundry into a basket. Everything has to be inconspicuous: not a drop of blood on her fingers, not a ghastly look in her eyes that might make others suspicious. She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, smooths her black leather jacket, and opens her large backpack. Books, folders, a USB stick, and her university tarpaulin are neatly arranged inside.

She leaves the apartment promptly at 3 p.m. The hallway smells of old wood and fresh rain, just drained from the roofs. She steps into the sun-drenched backyard, briefly glances up at the wire antennas shimmering like cobwebs in the light, and follows the narrow staircase to the street. On the way, she greets an elderly lady carrying the trash down. A friendly "Good afternoon" – as routine as the disguise she's spent her life developing.

The café is just three streets away. She strolls past imposing sandstone houses that speak of their long London history, while modern bike racks and electric scooters block the sidewalk. People hurry past her: office workers, schoolchildren, young couples, older men with newspapers under their arms. No one suspects that centuries lurk behind those blond curls, that beneath that delicate face lies a creature that has wandered in the shadows for centuries.

In the café, daylight shimmers through large windows. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with sweet vanilla and the crispy smell of croissants. Meyra nods to the barista she already knows and orders, as always, a double cappuccino with oat milk and a snack—today, a slice of lemon cake. The saleswoman smiles and doesn't even glance at Meyra's pale face.

The group is already waiting at one of the wooden tables: Jonas in sportswear, his hair tied back in a messy bun; Lara in a denim jacket, smartphone to her ear; Nathan with a sketchbook, eyes shining with curiosity. They greet her warmly, and Meyra sits in the middle, folding her hands on the table.

“What’s next?” she asks.

Jonas takes a sip from a stainless steel bottle.

"We want to do a few laps around the park later. But first, let's discuss tomorrow's presentation."

Meyra nods and pulls out her notebook. Her heart beats briefly faster – she has an important lecture in literature tomorrow. She has spent entire nights in dusty libraries, studied old manuscripts, and traced a common thread through Shakespeare's late plays. There's an imperceptible passion in her voice when she speaks of themes of transience. Her fellow students listen enthusiastically, ask questions, and she answers precisely and eloquently. No one suspects that she draws her energy not from coffee, but from a far darker source.

As the discussion dies down, Lara stands up and opens the café door.

"Coffee revives tired minds," she calls out. "Would you like some fresh air?"

They stroll out onto the sidewalk. Meyra follows them, takes another sip of her cappuccino, and feels the warm aroma on her tongue. She could almost forget that she's a vampire. Almost.

The afternoon passes routinely: exercise in the nearby park, a leisurely jog, stretching exercises in the shade of tall oak trees, then a shared laugh over one of Jonas's hilarious jersey fails. Meyra feels the joy that comes with the movement, the pulsing in her muscles – and at the same time, she sharply registers every tremor in her body, the desire that pulses behind every pore. She doesn't grab, she doesn't bite, but the thirst is always there, latent like a fog.

Towards evening, the group splits up. They exchange warm farewells. Jonas suggests they all have a picnic in the park this weekend. Meyra smiles and nods. Then she returns to her attic apartment and lets the door close behind her.

Once upstairs, she lays her workout clothes over the chair and slips under the sloping ceiling onto her small bed. She stretches her legs out, the pillow pressing warmly against her neck. A glance at the clock—8:30 p.m. The streets are becoming quieter, the restaurants are emptying. Soon, she will transform again when the clock strikes midnight.

But now, in the twilight of her cozy hiding place, she's simply Meyra, a student, a fellow student. No one suspects that in an hour she'll have to hunt again, that the café, the park, her fellow students are just a fog she uses to conceal her real life. She takes an old, leather-bound notebook from the shelf—journal entries from her childhood, with her mother, in the summer in the South of France, smiling in the sun. Tears well up in her eyes, but they disappear into the shadows of memory before she feels the pain.

Instead, she stands up, draws the curtains across the skylight, and reaches for her backpack. A black mask, a pair of gloves, a small flashlight, and a slim leather bag containing a stainless steel knife and sterile bandages—her trusted hunting gear. Then a long-sleeved shirt to hide any bloodstains. She checks everything with practiced fingers, covers the bag, and throws her jacket over her shoulders.

She takes one last look at the laptop screen, where an incoming email from the university portal flashes up.

“Deadline for next homework assignment: Friday.”

She types a quick reply into her notebook, jots down a reminder on her phone. Everything is arranged and planned – just as her entire life is organized.

At around 11:45 p.m., she leaves the apartment. The moon is high above the rooftops. Meyra breathes in the cool night air and feels the desire she had suppressed in the apartment now forcing its way to the surface again with full force. She shoulders her bag, looks around the dark street, and makes her way back into the tunnels that lead her into the depths—back into the alleys where blood flows.

But this time she's not alone. She thinks of Kieran, the young man whose life she saved. The memory of his unconscious face, of the first glance she saw when he woke, stabs her heart like a dagger. He curbed her hunger, gave her back a spark of empathy. She mustn't forget him. She must return and secure his presence before thirst tears her apart again.

With determined steps, Meyra disappears into the shadows of the old town's alleys. Her cloak flutters behind her as if it were the banner of an invisible warrior. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the gas lamps, ready for another night between two worlds—one in which she is human, and the other in which she is the beast. The city breathes, the darkness pulsates, and Meyra walks between the two, hidden yet omnipresent.

The wind whispers through the narrow alley, swirling faded scraps of paper and carrying with it the distant murmur of the city.

Meyra leans her back against the cool brick wall, her coat flapping softly in the night breeze. The lantern behind her casts flickering shadows on the damp cobblestones. Everything inside her throbs, pushing to the surface—her thirst, unquenchable, heavy as stone. She closes her eyes, breathes in slowly, and concentrates on the pounding heartbeat in her chest.

She slowly tenses her hands, her fingers trembling. A barely audible crackle courses through her veins. In the darkness, the tips of her nails glow as if sparks were fizzing. Meyra's skin tingles, her senses heighten. Sounds that would otherwise fade away insignificantly become clear messages: the dripping of water from a leaky gutter, the distant clink of an open shop door, the breathless rustle of a pedestrian hurrying past. Her vision expands, every movement a fractal of light and shadow.

In the ancient chronicles of their clan, buried deep within a worn tome of yellowed parchment, it is written that a vampire whose blood is infused with the ancient power of their ancestors sometimes reaches the so-called ghoul state—called "mākir" in the dialect of their ancestors. Once this transformation begins, the creature loses the cool elegance and controlled grace that characterizes vampires. Instead, the archaic instincts of millennia past thrive within them: the pure, unbridled lust to hunt and drink until all life is drained.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---