I stalked the beast under the cover of night.

This wasn’t something that I hadn’t done hundreds of times before. I knew to keep to the shadows, blend in with crowds, avoid being seen in windows, mirrors - while he had no reflection, I most certainly did.

What was new, however, was for the vampire to have security. Not that it mattered that he did; they wouldn’t get in my way. I figured: if you were willing to work for a vampire, you must be evil yourself. I couldn’t kill them, though, not humans - that wasn’t how my mother had raised me, god rest her soul.

I followed them through the busy streets of Soho, weaving through oblivious tourists and stroppy locals alike. Not yet had we strayed to the more secluded, darker streets of London - areas in which I might strike without attracting attention.

Of course, the target, Tristen Maxwell, generated no lack of attention. Heads turned to look at him as he walked by, some shrieked with delight when they saw him. Tristen Maxwell: international film star. But, little did they know, he was also Tristen Maxwell: scourge of the night.

Finally, as I followed them down St Martin’s Lane, Tristen Maxwell and entourage turned into a building.

Perfect. Time to close in.

The building they’d walked into was emblazoned with a bright blue neon logo, illuminating the damp ground below with a soft, cold hue. Siren PR, it read.

I waited just long enough for them to pass through the building’s security, before I, too, entered. As I approached the doorman, sat behind a grand reception desk, I glanced at the elevators. The one on the left was on the move.

Floor 1… 2… 3…

‘Are you here for the event?’ the receptionist asked.

4… 5...

‘That’s right!’ I replied keenly, taking advantage of this information that had been freely provided to me.

The doorman raised an eyebrow at my response. ‘I’ll need to see some ID.’

I removed my work ID from my pocket. On it, it read: Myles Abiel, photographer.

Working at a gossip magazine did tend to open a few doors; believe me, I wouldn’t work there if it didn’t. Beholder didn’t know I even applied there for the media pass, that I was only using them to open doors for my real job. As long as I got the shots they wanted, though, I wasn’t sure they’d care.

While I slid my ID to the doorman, I glanced once again at the elevator. It had come to a halt on the sixth floor.

‘I can’t see you on the list…,’ the man murmured, uncertainty in his voice.

‘Ah, yes. I’m the replacement. Should be under “John”,’ I gambled.

The doorman scanned the list again. ‘John Lawson?’

‘That’s the one!’

This was met with a frown. ‘Says here he works for Gossip Weekly.’

‘Yep!’ I replied, as confidently as I could manage. ‘Parent company.’

‘Ah right, gotcha,’ the doorman said, reaching down for a button to open the security gate. ‘Know where you’re going?’

‘Oh yes,’ I replied.

 

The slow-moving elevator hummed with jolly keyboard music as it took me up to the sixth floor of the Siren PR building. I fidgeted with the wooden stake in my pocket and allowed the adrenaline to pump through my body.

Finally, the elevator doors opened, leading me out into an empty hallway. I looked around, remaining still, quiet, for any signs of life. All I could hear was a quiet murmur from behind a set of double doors in front of me.

I pulled the stake from my jacket, and burst through the doors, ready to strike.

...And found myself in the middle of a press conference.

Tristen Maxwell and a number of suited, name-tagged people stood on the stage, while dozens of reporters sat in uncomfortable folded chairs, awaiting his response. Upon my arrival, everyone turned to look at me.

I yanked my stake back under my jacket, shielding it from view, and took a seat at the rear of the room.

‘...Anyway,’ Tristan Maxwell said from his podium, beckoning the attention away from me and back to him. ‘I know there’s been a lot of gossip about me recently. More than there normally is, I mean!’

The audience laughed politely.

‘So,’ Maxwell continued, ‘I talked it over with my new PR agency - Siren PR, that is, that’s where we are, get to know them because I think they’re about to start making waves.’

He shook his head to himself.

‘Forgive me. I’m going off on a tangent. God, you’d think being an actor, I’d be able to speak properly, wouldn’t you?’

The audience laughed again, more enthusiastically this time.

‘What I want to say is: I discussed everything with my PR team. And we think… it is time for the world to know the truth. Never has the world been more ready for this news than it is in 2020.’

Wait… What is he doing?

‘The sneaking around, the strange visitors to my house in the middle of the night… there’s a good reason for it all. The truth is…’

He paused. I wasn’t sure if he was actually nervous about finishing his sentence or was just being theatric. He was an actor, after all.

Maxwell glanced at one of the suited employees of Siren PR, who nodded once at him - curtly and reassuringly.

‘The truth is…,’ Maxwell continued. ‘I am a vampire.’

Shit. This information getting out was not going to make my job any easier.

The room was silent except for one journalist, who seemed to think that Maxwell’s announcement was a joke. This man laughed proudly - before coming to an abrupt halt when he realised he was the only one doing so.

When nobody said anything, Tristen Maxwell tapped his microphone to check it was on, and then repeated. ‘I’m a vampire.’

Still, the room was silent.

The Siren employee who had nodded earlier stepped up to the pedestal.

‘Don’t worry,’ she started, ‘We anticipated this confusion.’

Turned to stage left, she ushered on two men, who were dragging with them a large, body-length mirror. They positioned it at an angle, so we could see Tristen Maxwell’s reflection - or lack thereof.

The actor waves his hand in the air as if to say “et voila!”

The people on the stage looked at one another awkwardly. Someone piped up, ‘Is this a magic trick?’

‘No…,’ Tristan Maxwell responded, leaning back into the microphone. ‘No, it’s real.’

‘Magic tricks are real, though,’ the same journalist insisted.

‘It’s not magic!’ the actor responded. He sighed, and with a flick of his head, bared a pair of long, sharp fangs.

Another journalist called out, ‘Is that makeup?’

Mr Maxwell screwed up his face in frustration. ‘No! It’s not fucking make-’

His PR representative pushed him away from the microphone. ‘I think what Tristen is trying to convey is that there’s no trick here, he really is a vampire.’

Still the crowd murmured, the volume steadily increasing.

‘They’re real,’ the woman continued. ‘Vampires are real. As are werewolves, ghosts, ghouls, zombies. Banshees. Mermaids. Unicorns. Trolls. Ogres. Sirens - the clue’s in the name for that one-’ she pointed upwards at a logo hanging above the stage. ‘All of whom we have taken on board as clients.’

‘Is this a publicity stunt?’ a journalist, from somewhere in the crowd, shouted out. 'Do you have a vampire movie coming out?' 

Tristan Maxwell stamped his foot once in irritation.

A young woman stepped up to the podium and handed the speaker a large, wooden cross.

‘Sorry,’ the representative mouthed to Tristen Maxwell as she handed it on to him. He sighed, held out his hand, and grasped the cross. Smoke started billowing from his hand and he crunched his face in response to the pain.

‘So…,’ one of the journalists asked, now standing. ‘He’s a vampire?’

‘Yes!’ Tristan Maxwell cried out in frustration, his voice sounding hollow without the microphone.

‘That’s correct,’ the representative responded, nodding to him. ‘Any more questions? That’s really what we’re trying to do here - have a discussion.’

After a brief pause, the same journalist asked, ‘How is he with garlic?’

That’s your first question?!

‘Not a fan,’ the PR woman responded. ‘Next question?’

‘Can he stand out in the sun?’ a woman in the crowd asked. ‘Or is that just in the books? Sorry if that question’s offensive.’

‘As long as he regularly re-applies strong sun cream, he won’t burst into flames.’

‘Does he sleep in a coffin?’ another asked.

Surprising even myself, I stood up, and called out, ‘Isn’t he evil? Shouldn’t we be killing him?’

Only a few faces around the room murmured or nodded their agreement with this angle of questioning.

‘No, no,’ the Siren PR employee responded. ‘We don’t use the E-word here. Vampires - and indeed all supernatural beings - are not inherently evil. They’ve just had bad representation. That’s why we’ve been brought in - to fix that. Next question?’

She looked away from me, back to scanning the room. The same journalist who I’d interrupted spoke again. ‘I was just wondering about the coffin. Is it-’

‘If vampires aren’t evil, then why did one kill my mother?’ I shouted out.

Gasps erupted around the room. Tristan Maxwell eyed his representative warily.

The Siren employee took a brief moment to collect her thoughts before responding. ‘May I first say, Mr Abiel: everyone at Siren is sorry for your loss. It’s tragic to lose a mother at such an age.’

Wait, how did they know-

‘Yes. There are bad vampires just like there are bad humans- Bad people, I should say. But they are just as few and far between as their human counterparts.’

The audience seemed satisfied by this answer, and quickly moved on to asking more, inane, questions, while I sat quietly, plotting my next move.

 

‘I avoid human blood,’ Tristan Maxwell was saying, having now returned to the podium. ‘It gives me heartburn.’

This received a range of uncomfortable laughs from around the room.

‘What is it that you drink, Mr Maxwell?’ a journalist asked.

‘Pig’s blood, mostly,’ he responded, and then put his hands up defensively. ‘I know, I know, veganism is all the rage these days, but-’

I felt a tap on my shoulder. One of the Siren PR assistants peered up at me.

‘Myles Abiel? They… they want you to come with me,’ she mumbled.

‘Me?’

Clearly I’d caused too much of a scene earlier. I glanced towards the door, planning my escape.

‘Yes. They- they said they just want to talk, that’s all.’

I followed her back through the double doors and out into the hallway, where we walked down to the very end. The assistant paused at the door and gave me a worrying look, before opening it for me.

The room inside was a beautiful corner office overlooking much of the rooftops of London. Windows ran across two walls, covering floor to ceiling, and I struggled to tear my eyes away - even when another occupant of the room cleared their throat.

I turned to see a man sitting in a large leather armchair behind a grand oak desk. He was immaculately built, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face. Long, greying hair was swept back over his forehead, falling at the back of his neck just where his gold chain necklace was resting.

Before I spoke, I glanced once more at the door, double-checking that my way out was free of obstacles.

‘You don’t need to be so paranoid, Myles. We’re not about to chastise you.’

‘It wasn’t chastising I was worried about…’

The man laughed to himself - that hearty guffaw that could only come from someone with money. ‘OK. Well, we’re not about to harm you in any way, let me assure you.’

I stayed quiet, letting the man in the chair fill the silence.

‘We know a little about you, Myles Abiel. We’ve seen what you do, where you come from, what you’re capable of. You’re a talented young man! ...If, perhaps, a little misguided. And we, at Siren, take great pride in identifying those with potential. So when I say we don’t want to harm you, what I mean, really, is the opposite. We were wondering if you might consider applying for a job.’

‘A job?’ I replied, incredulous. ‘You want me to work for you?’

The man pressed his lips into a long, thin smile. ‘More than that, Myles Abiel. We don’t just want that. The prophecies foretell it.’