[This is a ficlet thing requested by i-want-my-iwtv based on my post here. It got a little longer than I expected. It’s Daniel and Armand fighting over giving him the blood. It’s about 1,200 words.]
By my thirtieth birthday, Night Island had started to feel more like a tomb than a palace. Thirty isn’t old, but you have to remember, I was living with a vampire who didn’t age. He’d died at seventeen and could pass, maybe, for twenty-three on a good night when he was dressed in sharp clothes and cut his hair short.
And yet I was spending more time in front of the mirror, plucking tiny gray hairs from my head. I was losing my stamina: staying up all night started to cost me in ways Armand could never have understood. My body ached in strange places. Recovery from whirlwind travel or a massive drunk took longer and longer. Tiny lines etched themselves across my face. The gap between our appearances widened.
Oooh! Will sneakily read this during work patiently wait till after work to read this read it sporadically during work ANYWAY!!!
I-want-my-IWTV 