Enthralled - 5. Chapter 5

 

The morning sun was aggressively, offensively optimistic. It streamed through the Cooper family kitchen windows in bright, judgmental shafts, illuminating the mundane domesticity of suburban life. The air smelled of burnt toast, artificial maple syrup, and the faint, citrus hum of a refrigerator that had been running since before Andy was turned.

Andy sat rigidly at the small wooden table, his posture an exercise in aristocratic tension. His pale, perfectly manicured hands were wrapped around a ceramic mug that read #1 Dance Dad, a relic from a brief, disastrous period in Amanda’s childhood. The mug contained lukewarm black coffee. Andy had no intention of drinking it. It was a prop. A prop that made him look human, which was the entire point of his existence in this brightly lit kitchen.

Across from him, Lucas was an entirely different species. The teenager was sprawling in his chair, wearing a faded backwards baseball cap and a pair of athletic basketball shorts that sat dangerously, spectacularly low on his hips. He was shoveling obscenely colorful loops of sugary cereal into his mouth with the ravenous enthusiasm of a man who had just won the lottery.

"So," Lucas said, crunching loudly, a rogue droplet of milk flying onto his chin. "I've been thinking."

Andy’s left eye twitched. "That is rarely a positive development."

"Ha ha. Very funny. You're a comedian now. The undead Seinfeld." Lucas pointed his dripping spoon across the table. "No, listen. You need to park your car in our garage."

Andy blinked slowly. His ancient brain attempted to process the sentence. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Impala. Your boat. Your vampire-mobile." Lucas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "It's a classic, sure. It's your home, absolutely. But right now, it's sitting on a side street where literally anyone could see it. Where the neighbors could see it. Where Mrs. Harris could see it and start asking questions."

Andy frowned, his dark eyes narrowing. "Mrs. Harris?"

"The neighborhood gossip," Lucas explained, waving his spoon. "She’s like a human bloodhound with too much free time. She measures her lawn with a wooden ruler to make sure the landscaping crew isn't cutting it too short. She once called the cops on a kid who was selling lemonade because she thought it was a front for a cartel drug ring. If she sees a massive 1970s land yacht with a vanity plate that literally says 'V4M-P1R3,' she's going to start a neighborhood watch. And then she's going to find you. And then she's going to try to stake you with a rusty garden trowel."

Andy stared at him, genuinely taken aback. "That is... a remarkably specific and violent scenario."

"I've been workshopping it," Lucas admitted, his grin widening into a blinding flash of teeth. "So, you're moving into our garage."

"I am absolutely not moving into your garage."

"You're not moving in permanently! You're just... establishing a home base. A tactical retreat. Somewhere secure. Somewhere with a roof, where you don't have to worry about being discovered by a nosy octogenarian with a vendetta against supernatural creatures."

Andy opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal regarding his independence, his fearsome reputation, and his ability to handle an elderly woman with a trowel. But the words died in his throat. Lucas was making a disturbingly logical argument. The side street was not secure. The Impala, while magnificent, was a neon sign of peculiarity. And the thought of having a permanent, sheltered location—even a suburban garage—was undeniably, genuinely appealing.

"I will... consider it," Andy said carefully, buying time. "But only if your parents agree. Which they won't. I am a monster, Lucas, not a stray cat."

Lucas’s grin turned feral. "Oh, they'll agree."

"How do you know?"

"Because I already asked Dad."

Andy’s jaw dropped. The coffee mug clunked heavily against the table. "You asked your father if your three-hundred-year-old vampire boyfriend could move into his garage without consulting me first?"

"I was being proactive! It's a sign of maturity."

"It's a sign of unhinged insanity!"

Before Lucas could defend his chaotic methodology, the swinging kitchen door was pushed open. Art Cooper shuffled into the room, wearing faded denim overalls over a plaid shirt, holding a steaming mug of his own. He looked like a man who had long ago accepted that his life was a series of increasingly bizarre, unstoppable events.

Art glanced at Andy, then at his son, and let out a long, weary sigh.

"Andy," Art said, his voice completely flat, devoid of any surprise. "You're moving into the garage."

Andy stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the linoleum. "Mr. Cooper, I assure you, I did not orchestrate this. I would never impose—"

"Lucas already told me. It's fine." Art waved a dismissive, calloused hand, cutting off the immortal predator's apology. "I've been meaning to clean it out anyway. There's a camping cot on the shelf in the back that you can use. An old tube TV. A mini-fridge that still works if you plug it in and jiggle the wire. The utility sink is rusted, but you can use the hose out back if you need to wash up. Or the shower in the house, if Ruth agrees." Art paused, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Just... try not to be underfoot."

Andy stared at the man. Art Cooper was offering him a home. A literal, physical home. Not an abandoned castle in the Carpathians. Not a forgotten crypt beneath Paris. A garage. With a camping cot. And a mini-fridge.

It was the most generous, staggering offer Andy had received in a century.

"Mr. Cooper," Andy said, his voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything." Art walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and bypassed the milk entirely to retrieve a can of domestic beer. It was 8:47 in the morning. He cracked it open with a practiced motion. "Just help me clear out the boxes later. The Christmas gear is in the way."

"I will absolutely help you clear out the boxes," Andy said, placing a hand over his dead heart. "I am... deeply, profoundly grateful."

"Don't be grateful yet," Art muttered, taking a long pull of his morning beer. "You haven't seen the garage."

"Well," Art added, glancing around the kitchen, "at least he didn't move you into the house. Yet. Give him a week."

Lucas dropped his spoon into his empty bowl with a loud clatter. "I heard that!"

"You were supposed to!" Art shouted back, though his eyes crinkled with faint amusement.

Andy slowly sat back down, overwhelmed by the rapid shift in his housing situation.

Art turned to walk out the back door but stopped, his hand resting on the frame. He looked back at Andy, and then leveled a stern, unwavering finger directly at the vampire's face.

"Alright, you two. I'm going to say this once, and then I'm never going to say it again."

Both Andy and Lucas froze.

"If you and my son are going to... you know... in the garage," Art said, his voice dropping into a deadly serious register, "I need you to close the door. I know him. He'd do it on full display of the street, and I don't need Mrs. Harris complaining about his scrawny ass on show for the whole neighborhood."

Lucas’s face flushed a catastrophic, violent shade of crimson. He choked on his own saliva. "Dad!"

"I'm serious, Lucas. Mrs. Harris has binoculars. She watches everything. If she sees your pale, underfed butt cheeks in broad daylight, she's going to call the HOA. And then I'll have to file a complaint. And then I'll have to talk to her. And I don't want to talk to her. So close. The. Door."

Andy’s mouth was hanging open. He was staring at Art Cooper with an expression of pure, unadulterated awe. He had never met a mortal so utterly unfazed by the supernatural, yet so deeply terrified of a homeowners association.

"Mr. Cooper," Andy said slowly, measuring his words, "I assure you, I have absolutely no intention of engaging in any activity that would be visible from the street. I have standards."

"Good." Art nodded, his expression unchanging. "Because I have a pressure washer, and I'm not afraid to use it."

Lucas burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, his mortification instantly eclipsed by the sheer absurdity of the threat. "Dad, you can't threaten a three-hundred-year-old vampire with a pressure washer!"

"I can threaten anyone with a pressure washer," Art countered calmly, taking another sip of his beer. "It's a matter of principle. Welcome to the family, Andy."

With that, Art stepped out into the backyard, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Andy looked at Lucas. Lucas looked at Andy. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.

"You have a very strange family," Andy murmured.

"I know," Lucas grinned, his swagger returning in full force. "You fit right in."

The actual move-in process did not go as smoothly as planned.

That evening, the sun finally dipping below the horizon to cast the suburban streets in a safe, violet twilight, Andy walked the three blocks to where his Impala was parked. He slid into the massive leather driver's seat, turned the key, and listened to the familiar, throaty rumble of the V8 engine. He felt a rare sense of peace. He was going home. He was driving his sanctuary into a new, permanent shelter.

The demise of the 1972 Chevrolet Impala did not happen with a dramatic, fiery explosion, but rather with a pathetic, wheezing cough right as Andy rolled the front tires up the slope of the Cooper family driveway.

A loud, metallic SNAP echoed under the hood, followed immediately by a geyser of white steam hissing aggressively from the front grille. A distinct, foul smell of burning rubber and overheated metal flooded the cabin. The steering wheel locked up, and the engine died with a final, rattling shudder.

Andy gripped the massive steering wheel, staring blankly through the steam-covered windshield. He had outrun angry mobs with pitchforks. He had survived the Spanish flu. He had navigated the political treachery of the French court. But he was completely, utterly defenseless against a blown radiator hose and a busted alternator.

The side door of the garage opened. Art Cooper stepped out, still wearing his denim overalls, holding a fresh can of beer. He looked at the smoking land yacht blocking his driveway. He looked at the immortal apex predator staring hopelessly back at him through the glass. Art gave a single, knowing nod.

It was the universal dad signal.

Ten minutes later, the Impala had been manually pushed into the garage, taking up almost every square inch of the cluttered space. The hood was propped open, looking like the gaping maw of a mechanical whale, and Andy was experiencing a profound rite of passage: holding the flashlight for a suburban father.

Andy had carefully draped his vintage leather jacket over the promised camping cot in the corner. He was standing in a plain white undershirt, his unnatural, porcelain pallor starkly obvious in the harsh fluorescent garage lighting. Art didn't seem to notice or care. He was in his element, a socket wrench in his hand, buried up to his elbows in the greasy, tangled guts of the beast.

"Hand me the half-inch drive," Art muttered, not looking up from the engine block.

Andy, who had spent the last fifteen minutes rapidly memorizing the names of various tools purely to avoid disappointing this exhausted mortal, quickly selected the correct wrench and slapped it into Art's waiting palm.

"Good man," Art grunted, torquing a bolt with a sharp twist of his wrist. He wiped a smudge of black grease from his forehead with his forearm. "It's the alternator bracket. Rusted through. Snapped clean off, and the serpentine belt took the upper radiator hose with it when it went. It’s an easy fix, but we need parts. You're not driving this thing anywhere tonight."

"I deeply appreciate your assistance, Mr. Cooper," Andy said, keeping the flashlight beam perfectly, supernaturally steady. "I must admit, my knowledge of... internal combustion engines is somewhat limited. Horse-drawn carriages were much simpler to diagnose."

Art chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the small garage. "Well, you stick around, I'll teach you. Cars are honest, Andy. They break, you figure out why, you fix them. Makes sense. Unlike people."

Art paused, leaning back and resting his greasy hands on a shop rag. He took a sip of his beer, his eyes dropping to the engine block for a moment before shifting slowly to Andy.

"Is he alright, at school?" Art asked. His voice lost a bit of its casual, gruff edge, settling into something quieter and surprisingly paternal. "I know he can be... a bit much."

Andy’s rigid posture softened. He lowered the flashlight a fraction, illuminating Art’s chest rather than the engine. "He is... surprisingly fine. He has friends. And he has been entirely adopted by the football team, Mr. Cooper. I don't think you have to worry about his social standing or his physical safety."

"He's wearing a mascot cow head for a pack of linebackers," Art pointed out dryly.

"He wears it with an astonishing amount of pride and unearned confidence," Andy countered, a faint, fond smile tugging at his lips.

Art smiled faintly, shaking his head. "I see you've been tutoring him. I approve of that. His mother and I... we love him, but getting that boy to sit still and focus is like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree. Keep him on the straight and narrow, Andy. Otherwise, he's going to go through life as an 'influencer'—whatever the hell one of those is."

"I am trying," Andy said, a genuine note of bone-deep exhaustion bleeding into his smooth baritone voice. "He is... incredibly hard to keep up with. He possesses zero self-preservation instincts."

"None," Art agreed immediately. "Never has."

"But he has this power with people," Andy continued, his brow furrowing as he thought of Lucas’s impenetrable, teflon-coated swagger. "He just speaks, and he makes them listen to him. He bends the room to his will without even realizing he's doing it."

Art leaned against the workbench. "Oh, I know. He'd be a supervillain if he could ever channel that charisma into something other than getting out of homework... and you, apparently."

Andy felt a cold flush rise up his neck, but he didn't look away. He offered a slow, helpless nod. "Believe me, Mr. Cooper... I wish I understood it. I have commanded armies. I have enthralled nobility. I have instilled terror in the hearts of kings. And yet, your son put on a pair of grey sweatpants and completely, irreparably shattered my willpower."

Art let out a loud, barking laugh, clapping Andy firmly on the shoulder. It was a heavy, grounding, aggressively human touch, leaving a faint smear of grease on Andy's white undershirt.

"Son, that's just the Cooper charm," Art said affectionately. "You never stood a chance."

Art turned back to the engine, pointing a grease-stained finger at a heavy metal component. "Alright, let's pull this busted alternator out so we can take it to the shop tomorrow. Grab that ratchet. Time to get your hands dirty, Dracula."

Andy smiled—a wide, entirely genuine expression that showed the very tips of his fangs. He stepped up to the front bumper, rolling up his sleeves, and reached into the greasy, tangled heart of the engine block. For the first time in three hundred years, covered in motor oil and holding a flashlight in a suburban garage, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

While Andy was discovering the joys of automotive repair, Lucas Cooper was upstairs, alone in his bedroom, unleashing chaos upon the internet.

Lucas's bedroom was a monument to organized disaster. Posters of vintage horror movies, obscure indie bands, and poorly framed comic book covers covered the walls. A high-end gaming PC hummed on the desk, its RGB lighting casting the messy room in a pulsing, neon rainbow glow. A massive monitor dominated the workspace, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and crumpled snack wrappers. And in the center of it all, Lucas was bouncing in his ergonomic gaming chair like a hyperactive golden retriever that had just eaten a bag of espresso beans.

He was live on stream.

"WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Lucas yelled into his headset microphone, his voice crackling with unrestrained joy. "I got a BOYFRIEND! YES, baby! Uh-huh! Uh-huh! UH-HUH!"

He leaped out of his chair, spinning in a tight circle in the middle of the room, his arms flailing wildly. His backwards baseball cap nearly flew off his head. He grabbed it at the last second, shoving it back into place over his messy hair.

"I'm the man! Yep! Go Lucas! It's your birthday! Yes, Lucas! It's your something-something-something birthday!"

The chat on his secondary monitor exploded into a waterfall of text.

LucaFan42: WHAT

SchizzWizz: Did he just—

DarkLordSteve: Is he okay

BloodGodSlayer: LUCAS WHAT

LucaFan42: SAY THAT AGAIN

Lucas dropped back into his chair, his grin absolutely incandescent. "You heard me! I got a BOYFRIEND! A real one! A hot one! A vampire one!"

LucaFan42: VAMPIRE?????

SchizzWizz: Wait wait wait, are we talking like, a goth vampire or an actual vampire?

"Yes," Lucas said, nodding sagely, pointing both index fingers at the webcam. "Both. He's a goth vampire. He's got the leather jacket, the pomaded hair, the brooding eyes. He's got a 1972 Impala with a vanity plate that says—"

He caught himself, his eyes going wide.

"—a very normal license plate that says normal things," he finished quickly, clearing his throat. "Nothing suspicious. Just... normal car stuff for a normal guy."

DarkLordSteve: He definitely was about to say something suspicious

BloodGodSlayer: Lucas just doxxed his boyfriend

SchizzWizz: Lucas what does the plate say

"Nunya," Lucas said, his voice high and defensive. "Nunya Business."

LucaFan42: PLATE REVEAL

DarkLordSteve: WE DEMAND THE PLATE

"No! It's a secret! I'm protecting his privacy! I'm a good boyfriend!" Lucas grabbed a handful of chips from a bowl on his desk and shoved them into his mouth, chewing aggressively. "Anyway! We're not here to talk about my extremely hot, extremely mysterious boyfriend! We're here to play Vampire: Defy the Blood God!"

He reached for his Big Gulp, taking a long, loud slurp. The cup was comically enormous, practically a bucket of blue raspberry sugar water. He set it down with a satisfied ahhh.

"Okay, okay. So now, my little Luca-nauts, let's get back to the game. Thank you SchizzWizz for the 3-month sub, you're the bomb. We're still allowed to say bomb, right? I know, I know, it's dated, but I'mma bring it back. Anyway, when last we left off, we were about to storm the evil lair of the ancient vampire lord—which, by the way, is total bullshit lore."

SchizzWizz: What do you mean bullshit?

"I mean bullshit," Lucas said, gesturing wildly at the screen. "Like, okay, I'm not saying I have insider knowledge, but I'm saying I have INSIDER KNOWLEDGE. You see this?" He pointed at his game character standing outside a pixelated mansion. "The game says vampires can't enter a house without being invited. FALSE. They can enter. They just choose not to because it's polite."

DarkLordSteve: That's... actually kind of cute?

"Right? Vampires have manners. They're not animals. Well, okay, they're kind of animals, but they're POLITE animals. They wipe their feet. You know?"

LucaFan42: What about garlic?

Lucas's grin turned absolutely wicked. He leaned closer to the microphone. "Ah. Garlic. Okay, so, the garlic thing? Total myth. Absolute propaganda. Garlic doesn't do anything to vampires. It doesn't burn them. It's just a flavoring."

BloodGodSlayer: A flavoring for what?

Lucas leaned forward, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "For us. Humans. It makes us taste better."

LucaFan42: WHAT

SchizzWizz: EXCUSE ME

DarkLordSteve: That's so dark???

"I know, right? It's genius. They spread the rumor that garlic repels them centuries ago so humans would eat more of it to protect themselves. It's like... a marinade. From the inside out. It's exactly like how guys drink pineapple juice to make their... juice... taste better. If you catch my meaning." Lucas winked aggressively at the camera. "Don't want to get demonetized! Wink, WINK."

SchizzWizz: Lucas what are you not telling us

LucaFan42: He definitely knows a vampire

BloodGodSlayer: Lucas is dating a vampire confirmed

DarkLordSteve: Wait is he actually dating a vampire

Lucas's eyes darted to the chat. He bit his lip, clearly debating how much to reveal. Then his swagger returned, even wider than before.

"I can't confirm or deny anything," he said, his voice dripping with fake innocence. "But I can say this: if you ever meet a tall, pale, brooding guy with a vintage leather jacket and a boat of a car, just... be nice to him. He's been through a lot. He's got a lot of baggage. Emotional baggage. Literal baggage. He lives in his car. Which, by the way, is parked in my garage right now."

LucaFan42: Your BOYFRIEND LIVES IN YOUR GARAGE?

SchizzWizz: Lucas what is happening

BloodGodSlayer: This is the most chaotic lore drop I've ever witnessed

"He's not living in my garage! He's just... staging his car there. Establishing a perimeter! For safety reasons. It's a classic car, okay? It needs protection. From the elements. And Mrs. Harris."

DarkLordSteve: Who is Mrs. Harris

"The neighborhood gossip. She's got binoculars. She's a menace. She'd probably try to stake my boyfriend with a garden trowel if she found out what he was."

LucaFan42: FOUND OUT WHAT HE WAS???

"I said nothing!" Lucas shrieked, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I said nothing! We're talking about the game! The GAME! Okay! Back to the GAME!"

He frantically tabbed back into the game, his character standing motionless in front of the gothic castle. But his chat was a runaway train, and it was not stopping.

SchizzWizz: Lucas you definitely just confirmed you're dating a vampire

BloodGodSlayer: This is the best stream ever

DarkLordSteve: Does your boyfriend have fangs

"I don't know what you're talking about," Lucas said, his voice cracking. "I'm just a normal guy. Dating a normal guy. Who is normal. And not a vampire. At all."

LucaFan42: YOU JUST SAID GARLIC MAKES US TASTE BETTER LIKE PINEAPPLE JUICE

"That was a joke! A funny joke! About a video game! Where vampires are fictional! Because they're not real! Obviously!"

Lucas was sweating now. He grabbed his Big Gulp and took an enormous, desperate sip.

SchizzWizz: Lucas what would your boyfriend do if he heard you talking about him like this

Lucas froze. He slowly lowered the massive cup, his eyes going wide as he processed the question.

"...He'd probably drain me," Lucas admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But like, in a sexy way."

BloodGodSlayer: SEXY WAY???

DarkLordSteve: LUCAS

LucaFan42: This is the greatest content I've ever witnessed

Lucas buried his face in his hands, groaning loudly. "I'm going to get demonetized. And then I'm going to get staked. By my own boyfriend. And then he's going to be sad, and I'm going to be dead, and it's going to be a whole thing."

SchizzWizz: Lucas your boyfriend wouldn't stake you

"You don't know that! He's got a lot of rage! He's got three centuries of pent-up aggression! He's been through a LOT, okay!"

DarkLordSteve: Lucas this is the most unhinged lore drop I've ever seen

"I'm not dropping lore! I'm just—" Lucas stopped, pulling his hands away from his face. His eyes landed on the scrolling chat. "Okay, fine. Fine. You want the truth? Here's the truth."

He leaned forward until his face filled the camera frame, his expression suddenly fierce and unapologetically possessive.

"My boyfriend is hot. He's really hot. He's got the jawline. The cheekbones. The whole 'I could kill you with a single glance but I won't because I'm too busy brooding' vibe. And he's MINE."

He pointed at the camera with both hands, radiating proto-frat boy energy.

"So back off. He's taken. I claimed him. He came through my window thinking I was a goth, he walked right into my bedroom, and he's never leaving. That's it. That's the lore."

LucaFan42: HE CAME THROUGH YOUR WINDOW???

SchizzWizz: LUCAS

BloodGodSlayer: This is the greatest meet-cute I've ever heard

DarkLordSteve: Lucas you're literally living a fanfiction

"I AM," Lucas agreed enthusiastically, his blinding grin returning. "And it's AMAZING. I'm living the dream. I'm dating a vampire who lives in a 1970s boat with a vanity plate that—" He stopped, biting his tongue. "—I said nothing. Again. I said nothing."

He frantically tabbed back into the game, sending his character charging blindly toward the evil vampire lord's castle doors.

"Anyway! We're storming the castle! Let's go! Let's do this! I'm going to defeat this vampire lord and then I'm going to go kiss my boyfriend in the garage! Because he lives there now! In my garage! Which is totally normal!"

SchizzWizz: Lucas you're unhinged and I love it

LucaFan42: Best stream ever

BloodGodSlayer: We need a garage tour

Lucas's head whipped around. From the open window, he could hear the distinct sound of his father's loud, booming laugh echoing from the driveway, followed by the heavy, metallic grind of the garage door sliding shut. Andy was officially moved in.

"I have to go!" Lucas yelled, already reaching for the mouse to hit the 'End Stream' button. "My boyfriend is downstairs! I need to go do boyfriend things! Which are normal! And not vampire-related!"

LucaFan42: LUCAS NO

SchizzWizz: WE NEED DETAILS

BloodGodSlayer: At least tell us his name!

Lucas paused, his finger hovering over the mouse. He looked at the webcam, and a soft, genuine smile—devoid of any irony or cockiness—spread across his face.

"His name is Andy," Lucas said, his voice quieter now, filled with an adoration he couldn't hide. "And he's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

He ended the stream.

Ten miles away, in a basement bedroom that hadn't seen natural sunlight since the late 1990s, the stream abruptly cut to a black screen.

The room was dark. Not the cool, atmospheric darkness of a gothic vampire's lair, but the sad, cluttered darkness of a thirty-year-old man who refused to clean up after himself. The walls were plastered with posters of obscure, aggressive metal bands and anime characters wielding highly impractical weaponry. The floor was a minefield of crushed energy drink cans and crumpled, grease-stained fast-food wrappers.

And in the center of it all, hunched over a flickering, dust-covered monitor, sat a man who was definitely, absolutely, not a threat.

His name was Kevin.

He was thirty years old. He lived in his mother's basement. He cultivated a sparse, patchy neck beard with the same obsessive dedication that other people applied to their careers or marriages. He wore a black trench coat that was at least two sizes too small, the cheap synthetic fabric straining across his shoulders in a way that suggested he had purchased it at a mall kiosk in high school and refused to accept his current dimensions.

Kevin was an edgelord. He was a self-proclaimed vampire hunter. He was, in his own mind, the last bastion of humanity standing against the creeping, blood-soaked darkness of the supernatural.

In reality, he was a guy who spent twelve hours a day on conspiracy forums and had never successfully hunted anything more dangerous than a neighborhood stray cat that kept using his mother's flowerbed as a litter box.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Kevin had found something real.

Kevin's eyes were glued to the black screen, the residual glow reflecting off his pale, pimpled face. He had been watching Lucas's stream for the past hour, his fingers hovering over his mechanical keyboard, his heart pounding with a mixture of terrified excitement and righteous fury.

Vampire, the chat had said. Lucas is dating a vampire.

At first, Kevin had dismissed it. It was typical internet hyperbole. Everyone claimed to know a vampire. Everyone had a story about a weird goth kid at school who drank red food coloring and was "totally a real immortal, bro." It was always nonsense. Just dramatic teenagers seeking attention.

But then Lucas had started talking about the garlic. About how it was a myth. About how it was actually a human marinade.

Kevin had frozen. His fingers had stopped mid-type on a forum post about cryptids in the sewer system.

That's not something a normal person would know, Kevin had thought, his mind racing. That's not a common trope. That's real lore.

And then Lucas had dropped the clues. The 1970s Impala. The vanity plate. The fact that the vampire was currently parking the car in Lucas's garage.

Kevin’s fingers were flying across the keyboard before Lucas had even ended the stream. He didn't need the plate number. He had the streamer's username. He ran a quick IP trace. He pulled up geolocation data. He cross-referenced local property records with the practiced, terrifying efficiency of someone who spent way too much time obsessing over strangers on the internet.

He found the address in under four minutes.

It was a suburban house. A normal, split-level house in a quiet, affluent neighborhood. With a two-car garage.

Kevin leaned back in his creaky computer chair, a slow, sinister grin spreading across his face. He reached for the weapon resting on his desk—a balsa wood stake. It was a pathetic, splintered thing he had carved himself using a dull kitchen knife in a fit of misguided enthusiasm. It was sharp-ish. It would probably shatter on contact with actual human skin, let alone vampire bone, but Kevin didn't know that. Kevin thought he was armed for war.

"There's a real vampire," Kevin whispered to himself, his voice trembling with adrenaline. "A real beast, right here in suburbia. And I'm going to hunt it."

He stood up, his tight trench coat creaking loudly with the movement. He grabbed his keys from the desk—a massive collection of novelty keychains that included a plastic skull, a fake dragon tooth, and an 'I Heart Goth Girls' pin—and shoved them into his pocket.

He stomped over to the basement stairs, looking up into the illuminated hallway of the house proper.

"Mom!" Kevin yelled, his voice cracking slightly on the second syllable. "I'm borrowing the car!"

From somewhere in the living room above, a muffled, exhausted voice responded. "Don't scratch it, Kevin! And be back by ten! Your father and I are watching a movie!"

Kevin rolled his eyes. His parents didn't understand him. They didn't understand his burden. They didn't understand that he was the only thing standing between them and the forces of eternal darkness.

He marched up the stairs, his heavy combat boots thudding against the carpet, and burst through the front door into the cool night air.

Parked in the driveway was his mother's chariot of justice.

It was a 1997 Toyota Tercel. It was painted a faded, depressing shade of beige. It was dented on the passenger side door. It had a severely wobbly back-left wheel that made a rhythmic thump-thump-thump sound whenever the vehicle exceeded thirty miles per hour. And on the rear bumper, right next to a peeling "Coexist" sticker, was a shiny metallic Jesus fish.

Kevin stared at the car. It was not the vehicle of a hardened vampire hunter. It was the vehicle of a suburban mom who had given up on finding joy in her commute.

But it was all he had.

He climbed into the driver's seat, his trench coat bunching awkwardly beneath him, restricting his arm movement. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his own reflection—pale, determined, with eyes that burned with the fire of someone who had never actually accomplished a single physical feat in his life.

"You can do this, Kevin," he told his reflection, his voice shaking. "You're a hunter. You're a warrior. You're the blade in the dark."

He turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, and finally roared to life with a sound that was more of an asthmatic wheeze than a roar.

He pulled out of the driveway, the wobbly back wheel immediately starting its rhythmic thump-thump-thump as he accelerated down the street. The Jesus fish glittered proudly in the headlights of oncoming traffic.

Thirty minutes later, Kevin was parked across the street from the Cooper residence. He had killed the headlights, sitting in the dark cabin, his hands gripping the thin steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

The house looked entirely normal. A light was on in an upstairs window. A lawn sprinkler was quietly ticking in the front yard. It was aggressively suburban.

But Kevin knew better. He could feel it. There was evil lurking here. Evil wearing a leather jacket, seducing innocent streamers.

He reached into the passenger seat and pulled his "hunting kit" into his lap. It was a faded JanSport backpack filled with loose garlic cloves from his mother's pantry, a wooden crucifix he had bought at a strip-mall gift shop, and a plastic squirt gun filled with what he believed was holy water. It was actually just tap water he had blessed himself by whispering "I bless this water" three times in the kitchen sink, but he felt confident in its efficacy.

He grabbed the balsa wood stake, gripping it tightly in his right hand.

Kevin took a deep breath. He opened the car door. He stepped out into the night.

He was wearing his trench coat. He was carrying his JanSport. He was ready.

He crossed the street, his combat boots crunching loudly on the asphalt. He crept up the driveway, trying to stay low and tactical, though he nearly tripped over a coiled garden hose near the flowerbeds. He recovered quickly, heart pounding, and approached the side door of the garage.

That was where Lucas had said the car was parked. That was where the vampire was establishing his "perimeter."

Kevin reached out, his hand trembling violently as he grasped the doorknob. He turned it.

It was unlocked.

Of course, Kevin thought, a sinister, knowing grin spreading across his face. They're arrogant. They think they're untouchable. They think no one would dare hunt them in a subdivision.

He pushed the door open just a crack and peered into the darkness.

The garage was dimly lit by a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Kevin could see the outline of the massive car—the 1970s land yacht, its hood propped open, smelling faintly of burnt rubber and old oil.

The Impala.

And there, standing near the back wall, organizing what appeared to be a stack of 8-track tapes on a dusty shelf, was a figure.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Unnaturally pale. He was wearing a plain white undershirt that clung to his muscular frame, with dark, pomaded hair that was slightly ruffled.

The vampire.

Kevin’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His hand tightened around the balsa wood stake until his knuckles turned white. He was about to step inside, about to kick the door open and shout a badass one-liner, about to make his move, when—

The figure turned around.

And Kevin found himself staring into the darkest, coldest, most ancient eyes he had ever seen in his life.

Andy did not hiss. He did not bare his fangs. He did not crouch into a predatory stance. He was holding a dusty copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours on 8-track, and he simply looked at the intruder in the trench coat.

"You know," Andy said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone that carried the chilling weight of three centuries of violence, "most people knock before entering a private residence."

Kevin opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His vocal cords had paralyzed entirely.

"I'm going to give you one chance," Andy continued, his tone devoid of anger, sounding merely bored. He didn't move from his position by the shelf. "Put down that splintered piece of balsa wood. Get back in your vehicle. And leave."

Kevin's brain was screaming at him to run. Every primal instinct he possessed was telling him that he was standing in the presence of an apex predator. But his pride—his stupid, misguided, internet-fueled pride—kept his combat boots rooted to the concrete floor.

"You're a monster," Kevin finally spat, his voice trembling so badly it cracked. He raised the stake, pointing it at Andy's chest. "And I'm going to destroy you."

Andy sighed.

It was a long, weary, devastating sigh. It was the kind of sigh that carried the weight of centuries spent dealing with absolute idiots.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Andy said, carefully placing the 8-track tape on the shelf. "I don't hunt humans anymore. I haven't hunted humans in decades. But if you don't leave this garage right now, I am going to walk into that house and tell my boyfriend's family that there is a man in a trench coat lurking in the dark. And they are going to call the police. And you are going to have a very difficult time explaining to local law enforcement why you were trespassing in a suburban garage armed with a JanSport backpack and a wooden stick."

Kevin blinked. That wasn't what he had expected. He had expected a fight. A showdown. A dramatic, life-or-death struggle where he could use his squirt gun of tap water.

He had not expected a vampire who was just... aggressively tired of his bullshit.

"You're bluffing," Kevin said, trying to sound tough, but his hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped the stake.

"I am not," Andy said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have been alive for three hundred years. I have dealt with dozens of people exactly like you. And every single one of them ended up embarrassed, arrested, or both."

Kevin swallowed hard. "How do you know... people like me?"

"Because you have a public Facebook page, Kevin," Andy said dryly.

Kevin froze.

"Your name is Kevin," Andy continued, perfectly calm. "You post extensively about government conspiracies involving fluoride. And you drove here in a beige Toyota Tercel that desperately needs a wheel alignment, featuring a Jesus fish on the bumper. You are not a master of stealth."

Kevin's face flushed a deep, agonizing shade of magenta. He was mortified. His entire identity, his carefully cultivated persona as a hardened warrior of the night, was being systematically dismantled by a vampire who was too busy organizing his music collection to even bother killing him.

"This isn't over," Kevin said, taking a step backward toward the door. "I'll be back. I'll bring reinforcements."

"Please don't," Andy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I have a camping cot I still need to assemble, and my alternator is broken. I really do not have the time to deal with a crusade this week."

Kevin turned and fled.

He scrambled out the door, sprinting across the driveway, entirely abandoning stealth as his combat boots slapped loudly against the pavement. He fumbled frantically with his novelty keychains, practically falling into the driver's seat of the Tercel. The engine coughed, sputtered, and finally caught. He peeled away from the curb, the wobbly back wheel thumping loudly in protest as he sped off into the night.

Andy watched him go from the doorway of the garage, his expression utterly unimpressed.

"I am getting far too old for this," Andy muttered to himself, shaking his head as he closed the side door and locked it.

He turned around and found Lucas standing in the doorway that connected the garage to the house kitchen. The teenager was wearing his basketball shorts, holding his phone in one hand and a fresh, massive cup of water in the other. His grin was absolutely incandescent.

"Did you just intimidate a vampire hunter into fleeing without even baring your fangs?" Lucas asked, his voice vibrating with pure, unadulterated delight.

"I didn't intimidate him," Andy said flatly, walking back to his pile of 8-tracks. "I bored him into submission."

Lucas burst out laughing, a loud, joyous sound that echoed off the garage walls. "That's even better! That is so much better! He drove all the way here with his little stake and his little backpack, and you just... sighed at him."

"I have been sighing at people for three centuries," Andy pointed out, turning to look at his boyfriend. "It is, without a doubt, my greatest weapon."

Lucas walked over to him, carefully setting his cup down on the workbench before wrapping his arms securely around Andy's waist. He pressed his chest against the vampire's white undershirt, radiating heat.

"That's amazing. That's the most 'Andy' thing I've ever heard. You defeated a vampire hunter with passive-aggressive exhaustion."

"I didn't defeat him," Andy corrected, wrapping his cold arms around the boy's shoulders. "He will be back. They always come back. Usually with friends who also live in basements."

"And you'll just sigh at them again."

"Probably."

Lucas tilted his head back, looking up at Andy with bright, adoring eyes. He pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to Andy's pale cheek. "I love you. You know that? You're perfect. You're the absolute best boyfriend a chaotic disaster like me could ever ask for."

Andy felt the familiar, dangerous flutter in his dead chest. He looked down at the boy who had just doxxed him to the internet, who wore a cow head for werewolves, and who had completely upended his immortal existence.

"Speaking of chaotic disasters," Andy said, his voice dropping into a dangerously soft register. "I couldn't help but notice that Kevin seemed remarkably well-informed about my location. And my vehicle."

Lucas’s grin faltered slightly. "Oh. Yeah. About that."

"Did you tell your internet audience that I live in your garage?"

"No!" Lucas defended quickly. "I told them you were... establishing a perimeter!"

"Lucas."

"Okay, I might have dropped a few hints! But they don't know it's you!"

"Kevin knew."

"Kevin is a weirdo! But hey, on the bright side, I also told them that garlic doesn't hurt you and it just makes us taste like pineapple juice, so they won't try to poison you."

Andy stared at him. The sheer, terrifying audacity of the boy was staggering. "You told your stream... that garlic is a human marinade."

"It was a joke! For the game!"

"I am going to drain you," Andy said, his eyes narrowing.

"You love me," Lucas countered, his cocky swagger returning in full force as he squeezed Andy's waist.

"I am going to drain you in a way that is entirely unsexy."

"Liar."

Andy stared at him. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with this impossible, reckless boy.

"Yes," Andy admitted softly, leaning down to press his forehead against Lucas's. "I am."

"See?" Lucas beamed, kissing him properly this time, hot and demanding. "Now, come on. Let's go set up that camping cot. I want to see if it can support both of us, or if my dad's going to have to use that pressure washer."

Andy sighed, a long, weary, defeated sound. But he followed Lucas toward the cot anyway.