Enthralled - 8. Chapter 8

 

The morning sun was an aggressive, cheerful yellow, beating down on the suburban asphalt with an optimism that Andy found personally offensive. He was a creature of the night, a 300-year-old apex predator who had spent centuries swathed in the comforting, blood-soaked shadows of European history. He had navigated the cobblestone streets of Victorian London, the gaslit alleys of Paris, and the smog-choked nights of the Industrial Revolution.

Now, he was driving a rusted, beige-and-brown 1972 Chevrolet Impala land yacht through a suburban school zone at a strictly enforced fifteen miles per hour.

Andy's pale, perfectly manicured hands gripped the massive steering wheel. He was dressed in his signature vintage leather jacket, his dark hair painstakingly pomaded, looking every inch the 1950s rebel he had frozen himself into. Beside him, riding shotgun on the cracked leather bench seat, was Amanda Cooper. She was in full cheerleader uniform, her blonde ponytail immaculate, aggressively applying a coat of strawberry-scented lip gloss using the Impala's rearview mirror.

"He's going to get himself killed," Andy murmured, his baritone voice tight with anxiety. His dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

Twenty yards in front of the massive chrome bumper, Lucas Cooper was aggressively weaving through the morning traffic on a heavily scuffed skateboard. He was wearing an oversized graphic tee, loose denim jeans, and a backwards baseball cap, completely devoid of any protective gear. He looked exactly like what he was: a chaotic, hyperactive teenager with the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. Lucas kicked off the pavement, picking up speed, and attempted a complex flip over a discarded soda can. The board wobbled dangerously, the urethane wheels screeching against the asphalt, before Lucas miraculously stomped it back down, entirely unbothered by his near-brush with a severe concussion.

"He's fine," Amanda said dismissively, popping her lips and capping the gloss. "He's rubber. He falls off that thing three times a week. The emergency room nurses know him by his first name. Focus on the road, Dracula."

Andy's jaw clenched, his fangs pressing lightly against the inside of his lower lip. He was an immortal monster, a creature of calculated stillness and sudden, devastating violence. Yet, every time Lucas's skateboard hit a pebble, Andy's cold, dead heart performed a phantom, terrified stutter.

Amanda shifted on the wide leather seat, turning to face him. She crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand, and leveled a deeply scrutinizing stare at his pale profile.

"So," Amanda began, her voice dropping the casual, apathetic tone she usually reserved for her family. "Let's talk about the vampire thing."

Andy's spine stiffened. He kept his eyes on Lucas. "I do not know what you are referring to."

"Oh, please," Amanda scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. "My parents think you're just a goth kid who is really into the whole vintage, brooding bad-boy aesthetic. My brother is just completely nuts, so his opinion doesn't count. And Marty—who, by the way, has the intellectual depth of a protein shaker—seems to think you are a literal vampire. But then again, Marty and his football friends seem to think they are a pack of werewolves." She let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Ha. Weed. Am I right? Honestly, the things teenage boys come up with when they have too much free time."

Andy remained perfectly silent, his expression an unreadable, aristocratic mask.

Amanda dropped her hand, leaning a fraction closer, invading his personal space with the sheer, unearned confidence of a high school cheerleader at the top of the social food chain.

"Seriously," Amanda said, her voice dropping into a deadly serious register. "Which is it? Because let's look at the facts. You live in a car. A very large, very loud car. You dress like you watch Grease on a continuous loop. You read The Outsiders like it's a religious text. You speak like a Victorian novelist who swallowed a dictionary. But holy hell, you know European history like an absolute boss. You corrected Mr. Gable yesterday on the exact thread count of Marie Antoinette's execution dress."

"It was a matter of historical record," Andy murmured defensively.

"So, deal," Amanda demanded, pointing a manicured finger at his chest. "Spill. Now. Are you just a deeply traumatized runaway with a bizarre hyper-fixation, or are you actually something out of a YA novel?"

Before Andy could formulate a response that preserved his ancient dignity without actively lying to the girl whose neck he had considered snapping only a few weeks prior, Amanda's expression hardened into pure, uncompromising steel.

"Actually, it doesn't matter," she interrupted herself. "I don't care if you're immortal, or if you're just weird. But listen to me very carefully, Andy. If you hurt my brother—if you break his heart, or if you drag him into some kind of dangerous, messed-up gothic drama—I will personally cut your nuts off with a pair of craft scissors."

Andy blinked. For a creature who had terrorized the European countryside, the threat of craft scissors wielded by a suburban teenager should have been laughable. But he looked at the fierce, protective fire in Amanda's eyes, and he felt a profound wave of respect.

"I assure you, Amanda," Andy said, his voice dropping to a soft, vibrating register that was entirely devoid of manipulation. "I would sooner step into the midday sun and burn to ash than allow any harm to come to Lucas."

Amanda stared at him for a long, heavy moment. She searched his dark, ancient eyes for any sign of deceit. Finding none, she let out a short breath, her posture relaxing back into the cracked leather seat.

"Good," she said simply. "Now, step on it. You promised to drive me all the way to the main entrance so the autoshop teacher can drool over this motorized boat, and I cannot be late for first period."

---

The party was in full swing by the time Andy and Lucas walked through the door.

It was at some upperclassman's house—a sprawling colonial with a massive backyard, a fire pit, and a distinct lack of parental supervision. The music was thumping. The werewolves were already there, their laughter echoing off the walls. The nerds were there too, huddled around a table with a suspiciously large stack of pizza boxes.

Andy stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression carefully neutral. He was wearing a letterman jacket—a custom-made one, with the school's colors and a massive, embroidered patch on the back that read:

**VARISTY SOCCER**

**#69**

**"THE VAMPIRE"**

There was no varsity soccer team. There never had been. Marty and the pack had it custom-made just to mess with him.

He had never felt more ridiculous in his three-hundred-year existence.

Lucas, however, was absolutely glowing. His grin was blinding. His hand was firmly clasped around Andy's, and he was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You're doing great," Lucas said, squeezing his hand.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're standing here. In public. With me. Wearing the jacket. That's already a win."

Andy sighed. "I am a creature of the night."

"You're a creature of the night who's dating the mascot. Embrace it."

Before Andy could formulate a response, a familiar voice boomed across the room.

"MOO-JUICE! ANDY! GET OVER HERE!"

Marty was standing near the fire pit, a red Solo cup in each hand, his grin wide and welcoming. He was flanked by the rest of the pack—Buzz Cut, Tight End, and the others—all of them looking like they had been waiting for this moment.

Lucas dragged Andy across the room, weaving through the crowd with the unearned confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world. Andy followed, his face a mask of aristocratic composure, his dignity trailing behind him like a deflated balloon.

"You made it!" Marty said, thrusting a cup into Andy's free hand. "And you're wearing the jacket! Bro, that's commitment!"

"I am wearing the jacket," Andy said flatly. "It was a condition of attending."

"Best condition ever," Lucas said, beaming. "You look so good. Like, really good. I'm going to have trouble keeping my hands off you."

"That's not a problem," Andy murmured. "That's a promise."

Lucas's eyes went wide. His grin turned feral.

"Okay," Marty interrupted, clapping his hands together. "Before things get weird, let's get this party started. Lucas, you're the mascot. You need to do something mascot-y."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Lead a cheer. Start a chant. Something."

Lucas looked at Andy. Andy looked back at him.

"I am not leading a cheer," Andy said.

"I didn't ask you to!"

"You were about to."

"...Okay, I was about to. But I changed my mind."

Lucas grabbed Andy's hand and started pulling him toward the makeshift dance floor near the speakers. "We're dancing. This is happening."

"I do not dance," Andy protested.

"You do now."

"Lucas—"

"You're dating me. Dancing is part of the package."

Andy opened his mouth to argue, but Lucas was already pulling him into the crowd, his hands finding Andy's waist, his hips swaying to the beat.

And Andy, the 300-year-old vampire, the Scourge of the Carpathians, the creature of terror and darkness, did the only thing he could do.

He danced.

It was terrible. Andy had no rhythm. He moved like a Victorian aristocrat being forced to participate in a peasant celebration. His joints were stiff. His posture was rigid. He looked like he was trying to solve a geometry problem while being electrocuted.

Lucas, however, was having the time of his life.

"You're doing great!" Lucas shouted over the music, his hips moving with the unearned confidence of someone who had never once been told he couldn't dance.

"I am not doing great. I am doing terribly."

"You're doing GREATLY."

"That's not a word."

"It is NOW."

Andy shook his head, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Lucas's joy was infectious. It was impossible to be near him and not feel lighter.

Lucas pulled him closer, his arms wrapping around Andy's neck. His grin was blinding. His eyes were bright.

"This is nice," Lucas said, his voice softer now, barely audible over the music. "This is really nice."

Andy's arms wrapped around Lucas's waist, pulling him closer. "Yes," he agreed. "It is."

"I love you, you know."

"I know. You tell me every day."

"I'm going to keep telling you."

"I would expect nothing less."

They swayed together, the chaos of the party fading into the background. For a moment, it was just them. The vampire and the mascot. The predator and the prey. The grumpy immortal and the chaotic teenager who had completely upended his existence.

---

Later, after the dancing had ended and Lucas had been dragged off to participate in some kind of "mascot initiation ritual" (which Andy was deeply concerned about but had been assured was "totally safe, bro"), Andy found himself standing near the fire pit with Marty.

The werewolf linebacker was nursing a beer, his eyes fixed on the flames. Andy was standing next to him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his fake varsity jacket.

The silence between them was comfortable. Almost friendly.

"I hated you when you were with Amanda," Marty said, breaking the silence. "Like, really hated you."

Andy nodded slowly. "I assumed."

"You were so dramatic. So broody. Always standing in corners, looking like you were about to burst into tears or kill someone. It was exhausting."

"I was not about to burst into tears."

"You had a vibe. A very murder-y vibe."

Andy's eye twitched. "And now?"

Marty turned to look at him, his expression thoughtful. "Now? I realize it was all just a scheme to get with Lucas."

Andy blinked. "What?"

"You know. The whole thing. Dating Amanda. Being mysterious. It was all part of your plan to get close to him."

Andy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"No," Andy said slowly. "Lucas definitely stole me off of Amanda."

Marty stared at him. "What?"

"I climbed through the window of his room. I was looking for her, and he found me. And then he... claimed me."

Marty was silent for a long moment. Then a slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face.

"Moo-Juice is persistent," Marty said, shaking his head. "And he loves the fuck outta you, dude."

Andy looked across the yard. Lucas was in the middle of the werewolf pack, laughing, his arms around two of the players, his grin blinding. He looked completely, utterly, unapologetically happy.

"I love him too," Andy admitted, his voice soft. "Even if he is either going to get me killed, or he gets splatted on that death machine skateboard of his."

Marty laughed. "Why don't you teach him to drive that land yacht of yours?"

Andy's face went pale. "Oh god. He can barely focus on a math equation for two minutes. Can you imagine him in four tonnes of Detroit steel? There wouldn't be a cat left in town."

Marty's grin widened. "There are no cats in this town."

Andy stared at him. "What?"

"We might have scared them all off," Marty admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's a whole thing. Territorial dispute. The cats lost."

Andy stared at him. Then he shook his head, a reluctant laugh escaping his chest.

"So, werewolves," Andy said, changing the subject. "I was wondering... is it just wolves? Are there werecats? And weresquirrels?"

Marty laughed so hard he choked on his beer. "Fuck no. Wererabbits? No. Weresquirrels?" He shuddered dramatically. "If weresquirrels were real, they would have taken over the world by now. They're plotting something. I can feel it. All those nutty secrets."

Andy raised an eyebrow. "That's... surprisingly paranoid for a werewolf."

"You don't know squirrels, bro. They're organized. They're strategic. They've got a whole infrastructure."

"I am deeply concerned by your level of conviction."

"You should be. We should all be." Marty took a sip of his beer, then glanced at Andy. "What about your side? Any vampire animals? I am fairly sure gargoyles are real."

Andy's expression flickered. Something ancient and fond crossed his features.

"I had a gargoyle once," Andy said, his voice quiet. "Lovely pet. He lives on a church roof back east. He writes. Sweetest dude."

Marty's jaw dropped. "Bro, what? You had a GARGOYLE?"

"I did. His name is Bartholomew. He's very old. Very wise. He sends me letters every few decades."

"Letters? Like, actual letters?"

"Yes. He has very neat handwriting for a creature made of stone."

Marty was silent for a long moment. Then his face split into a wide, disbelieving grin.

"Dude," Marty said, his voice filled with genuine awe. "You have no idea how awesome that is. You need to invite him. Seriously. We need to meet Bartholomew."

Andy blinked. "You want to meet my gargoyle?"

"YES. Bro, that's the coolest thing I've ever heard. A gargoyle who writes letters? From a church roof? That's EPIC."

Andy stared at him. He had been a creature of darkness for three centuries. He had inspired terror in the hearts of kings. He had been hunted, feared, and worshipped.

And now, a werewolf linebacker was begging him to introduce him to his gargoyle pen pal.

"I will consider it," Andy said slowly.

"You better! I'm holding you to this, bro. Pack meeting. Gargoyle invited. It's happening."

---

The next morning, the local news reported a mysterious gargoyle appearing on the steeple of the town's church overnight.

Father Michael and Ruth had a lengthy conversation about whether it was a donation from a wealthy benefactor, whether the mid-century wood structure could support the weight, and whether they should put it in the newsletter as a "gift from a generous stranger."

They decided to keep it. It was a very handsome gargoyle, after all.

Meanwhile, in the garage, Lucas was scrolling through his phone when he saw the post. His eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. He shoved the phone into Andy's face.

"Andy! Look! Your gargoyle is in the local news!"

Andy took the phone. He stared at the screen. There was Bartholomew, perched on the church steeple, looking magnificent and terrifying and utterly unbothered.

"He said he was coming," Andy said slowly. "He said he was already packing. I didn't think he meant... immediately."

"He's been waiting for this," Lucas said, his grin absolutely blinding. "He's been waiting for years. He finally found a church that needed him."

"He found a church that didn't have the structural capacity to reject him," Andy corrected.

"Same thing."

Andy sighed. It was a long, weary, defeated sigh. But he was smiling.

---

When they arrived at the church, the gargoyle was still there. He was standing in the parking lot, looking like he had just stepped out of a 1940s film noir. Bartholomew.

He was magnificent. He was terrifying. He was six-foot-seven of solid stone, draped in a trench coat that had clearly been tailored for his massive frame, and wearing a fedora that sat perfectly atop his carved head. His wings were folded neatly beneath the coat, and his expression was one of serene, unbothered contentment.

Lucas stared at him. His mouth was hanging open.

"He's wearing a trench coat," Lucas said, his voice filled with awe. "And a fedora. He looks like a detective from a black-and-white movie."

"He's always had a flair for the dramatic," Andy said flatly. "It's a gargoyle thing."

Bartholomew inclined his head, a slow, dignified motion. "I find it helps with the whole 'being a terrifying stone creature in a modern world' situation. Perception is everything, my dear boy. If I look like a strange but harmless eccentric, people tend to... not notice."

"Not notice?" Lucas asked. "You're six-foot-seven and made of stone!"

"And yet," Bartholomew said, spreading his massive hands, "I have walked through this town for the past hour, and not a single person has looked at me twice. It's a gift. A perception filter, if you will."

Lucas's eyes went wide. "A perception filter! Like from Doctor Who!"

Andy and Marty both turned to look at him.

"What?" Lucas asked, defensively.

"Doctor Who?" Marty repeated, his brow furrowed. "What's that? Some kind of medical show?"

Lucas stared at him. His face cycled through several expressions—confusion, disbelief, and finally, profound disappointment.

"You don't know what Doctor Who is?" Lucas asked, his voice cracking.

"Should I?"

"YES! It's only the greatest sci-fi show of all time! It's been running for like, sixty years! There are aliens! And time travel! And a TARDIS!"

"A what-is?"

"A TARDIS! It's a blue box that's bigger on the inside!"

Marty blinked. "So... it's a magic box?"

"It's not MAGIC! It's SCIENCE! Well, it's sci-fi science, but—"

"Lucas," Andy interrupted, his voice flat. "Focus."

Lucas took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He opened them again.

"Okay," Lucas said slowly, as if explaining something to a particularly slow child. "Doctor Who is a show about an alien who travels through time and space in a ship that looks like a police box. And sometimes, aliens have perception filters—things that make humans not notice them. Like, you see them, but your brain doesn't register that they're there."

Marty stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned to Bartholomew.

"So, you can go anywhere," Marty said slowly, a grin spreading across his face, "and do anything, and no one's going to notice you're a gargoyle?"

Bartholomew inclined his head. "The normies are entirely oblivious to my presence. It's quite convenient."

Marty's grin widened. It was the same grin he got when he was about to do something deeply chaotic.

"Do you play football?" Marty asked, his voice filled with barely contained excitement.

Bartholomew blinked. "Football?"

"American football. You're huge. You're solid stone. You'd be unstoppable. The other team would wet themselves the moment they saw you."

Bartholomew considered this. He looked down at his massive stone hands. He looked back at Marty.

"I have never played football," Bartholomew said slowly. "I am more of a... percher. I specialize in brooding on high places. It's my specialty."

"Brooding on high places is NOT a sport," Marty said.

"It requires a great deal of stamina."

"It requires you to sit still."

"Precisely. It's very taxing."

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's not going to play football, Marty."

"You don't know that!"

"I know that he is a gargoyle. A creature of stone. He would shatter the turf."

"He would shatter the OPPONENTS," Marty corrected. "That's the point!"

Bartholomew looked at Andy. Then he looked at Marty. Then he looked at Lucas, who was still muttering under his breath about "normies" and "perception filters."

"I like this pack," Bartholomew announced. "They have energy. They have enthusiasm. They have a very clear vision for my potential. I am pleased."

Andy sighed. It was a long, weary, defeated sigh.

"I hate all of you," Andy said.

"No you don't," Marty and Lucas said in unison.

Andy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"...No," Andy admitted. "I don't."

---

Later that evening, the pack meeting was in full swing.

Marty was pacing in front of the garage, gesturing wildly. Buzz Cut was taking notes on a napkin. Tight End was eating chips. And Bartholomew was perched on the hood of the Impala—carefully, so as not to dent it—listening with the serene, unbothered expression of a creature who had seen empires rise and fall.

Andy stood in the corner, his arms crossed, his expression one of profound exhaustion.

"So," Marty said, rubbing his hands together. "We've got a new member. Bartholomew. He's a gargoyle. He's solid stone. He can go anywhere without anyone noticing. This is a game-changer."

"I am delighted to be included," Bartholomew said, his voice a dry, cultured rumble. "I have always wanted to be part of a pack. The camaraderie. The shared purpose. The howling. It's a dream come true."

"You haven't even heard the howling yet," Marty said.

"I have been practicing. I am ready."

Lucas, who was sitting on the camping cot, suddenly perked up. His eyes went wide. "Wait. Bartholomew. You've been alive for like, centuries, right? You must have seen so much. You know about all sorts of things."

Bartholomew inclined his head. "I have observed much. I have perched on the rooftops of Paris, London, Rome. I have seen the birth of empires and their quiet demise. I am a student of history, of architecture, of the human condition."

"And you watch sci-fi?" Lucas asked, leaning forward. "The fact that you know what a perception filter… are you a closet fan of Doctor Who too?"

Andy's eyes snapped to Bartholomew. A flicker of panic crossed his ancient features.

Bartholomew's stone face broke into a slow, delighted smile.

"Doctor Who," Bartholomew repeated, savoring the words. "Yes. Oh, yes. I have seen every episode. Every incarnation. I was there in 1963, perched on a rooftop in London, when the very first episode aired on the BBC. The world was not ready for the Doctor. But I was."

Lucas's jaw dropped. "You watched the FIRST episode? In 1963?"

"I did. I remember it clearly. The Daleks were particularly menacing, though I must say, the practical effects have not aged well. But the writing? The writing was sublime."

Lucas was practically vibrating. "Who's your favorite Doctor?"

Bartholomew considered this, his stone brow furrowing thoughtfully. "A difficult question. Tom Baker was iconic, of course. The scarf. The hair. The sheer chaotic energy. But I have always had a soft spot for David Tennant. He brought such depth. Such vulnerability. And the coat? Magnificent."

"TENNANT! He's my favorite too!" Lucas practically shouted, leaping off the cot. "The coat! The glasses! The 'I don't want to go' speech! I cried for like, an hour!"

"An understandable reaction," Bartholomew said, nodding sagely. "It was a devastating moment. Truly Shakespearean."

Andy stared at them. His face had gone through several shades of pale, which was remarkable for someone who was already the color of skim milk.

"You watch Doctor Who," Andy said, his voice hollow. "You... you've been watching Doctor Who for sixty years."

Bartholomew turned to him, his expression one of gentle condescension. "My dear Andy, I have had a great deal of time on my hands. Perching on rooftops, watching the world pass by—it gets rather dull. I needed something to occupy my mind. The Doctor was a welcome distraction."

"You never told me."

"You never asked."

Lucas was bouncing on his heels, his grin absolutely blinding. "We're going to watch it together! We'll do a rewatch! Start from the beginning! I'll bring the snacks—well, you can't eat snacks, but I'll bring them for me—and we'll binge!"

"I would enjoy that immensely," Bartholomew said, his voice filled with genuine warmth. "It has been many years since I had a companion to watch with. The gargoyles of London have terrible taste. They prefer reality television."

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is my life now. My boyfriend and my gargoyle are bonding over a television show about a time-traveling alien."

"You're welcome to join us," Lucas said, not looking away from Bartholomew. "We'll explain everything. There's lots of running. And shouting. And emotions."

"I do not run," Andy said flatly. "And I do not shout. I brood."

"You can brood on the couch," Lucas said. "It'll be perfect."

Andy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I hate all of you," Andy said.

"You love us," Lucas and Bartholomew said in unison.

Andy stared at them. His boyfriend and his gargoyle. His two menaces. Bonding. Over a television show. Without him.

"...Yes," Andy admitted. "I do."

It was then that Andy made his fatal mistake.

"Pertwee was better," Andy muttered, almost to himself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bartholomew's head snapped toward Andy. His stone eyes widened. His mouth fell open. A sound, somewhere between a gasp and a roar, escaped his throat.

"AH HA!" Bartholomew bellowed, his voice echoing off the garage walls. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU HAD AN OPINION!"

Andy's face went pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You said Pertwee! Jon Pertwee! The Third Doctor! You have an opinion on Doctor Who!"

"I said nothing."

"You said Pertwee was better! You said it out loud! I heard it! Lucas heard it! The werewolves heard it!"

Marty looked up from his chips. "Wait, what's happening?"

"Andy watches Doctor Who!" Lucas shouted, pointing an accusing finger at his boyfriend. "He has opinions about the Doctors!"

Andy closed his eyes. "I was in England in the seventies. There was a television. It was unavoidable. I watched it when I was in the green room at Top of the Pops."

"You watched it backstage at Top of the Pops?" Bartholomew said, his voice filled with wonder. "I knew it. I knew you had seen it."

Andy opened his eyes. His expression was carefully neutral. "We used to get high backstage. Ringo had it on. It was... acceptable."

Lucas froze. His jaw dropped. "Wait. You used to get high backstage at Top of the Pops, like my mom talked about that show? Wait… Ringo… as in Ringo Starr?"

Andy's eyes went wide. He realized what he had just admitted.

"I said nothing," Andy said quickly. "You heard nothing."

"If you were in the green room, then you were performing… which means you were in a band," Lucas said, his voice barely a whisper. "You were in a band. With Ringo Starr."

"I was not with Ringo Starr. I was... in the same building. Occasionally."

"You got high with Ringo Starr."

"We shared a joint. It was the seventies. Everyone was doing it."

Lucas was vibrating with excitement. "You were in a band! What was the band? What did you play?"

Andy's face was a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.

"It was the seventies," Andy said weakly. "I was a bassist."

"A BASSIST?"

"It was a phase."

Lucas was already on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. "What was the band's name?"

Andy was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible, he muttered: "The Velvet Crypt."

Lucas stopped typing. He looked up. "The Velvet Crypt?"

"It was a different time."

"Wait," Lucas said slowly, his eyes going wide. "I know that band. Or... I know that song. They had that one song. You know, the one that goes..." He started humming, then singing, his voice cracking with excitement. "Doowhop shee doobie, do whop... about love and rollercoasters... 'Carnival of the Heart'!"

Andy froze. His ancient face, which had seen centuries of horror and triumph, went completely, utterly blank.

"Uh," Andy said, his voice hollow. "You didn't hear that."

Lucas was already running toward the house, his laughter echoing behind him. "OH MY GOD! MY MUM LOVES THIS SONG! SHE PLAYS IT ALL THE TIME!"

Andy stood in the middle of the garage, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his expression one of pure horror.

Marty slowly lowered his chips. His jaw was hanging open. His eyes were wide.

"Bro," Marty said, his voice filled with awe. "You were in a band? A one-hit wonder band?"

Andy closed his eyes. "I was young. I was foolish. I was trying to find myself."

"You were trying to get high backstage with Ringo Starr."

"That was a secondary goal."

Marty's grin was absolutely feral. "Carnival of the Heart. Doowhop shee doobie, do whop. I know that song. My mom plays it at cookouts."

Andy's face went through several shades of pale. "Your mother?"

"She loves it. She says it's 'got soul.'" Marty shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. "Bro. You wrote a song that white moms play at cookouts."

"I wrote the bass line."

"Bro. You're a one-hit wonder. That's the greatest thing I've ever heard."

A moment later, Lucas burst back into the garage, holding a portable record player and a vinyl record. He held it up triumphantly.

The cover art was magnificent. It was a gothic, moody photograph of a band—four figures in dramatic poses, wearing velvet and lace and bell bottoms. And there, in the back, looking broody and mysterious, was Andy. With long hair. And platform boots. And a bass guitar.

"OH MY GOD!" Lucas shrieked, nearly dropping the record. "MY BOYFRIEND WAS A ONE-HIT WONDER!"

Andy's face went through several shades of pale. "I will end you if anyone finds out."

Lucas was already pulling out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. "Too late! I'm finding this on Spotify! I'm playing it at the next pack meeting!"

Andy lunged for the phone. Lucas dodged, cackling.

"Doowhop shee doobie, do whop!" Lucas sang, waving the phone out of reach. "Love and rollercoasters!"

"LUCAS!"

Marty was wheezing now, doubled over, his massive shoulders shaking. "Bro. Bro. This is the best day of my life. You wrote a disco number one hit. You wrote a song that white moms play at cookouts. You're a legend."

Andy's dignity, which had been on life support for weeks, officially flatlined.

Lucas was still cackling, his phone held triumphantly aloft. "I'm finding it on Spotify right now! 'Carnival of the Heart' by The Velvet Crypt! It's going to be my new ringtone!"

Andy lunged for the phone again. "Lucas, I swear to every dark god I have ever worshipped—"

"Too late!" Lucas dodged, his thumbs flying across the screen. "I'm searching... I'm searching... okay, here it is. The original version. 'Carnival of the Heart.'" He pressed play.

The opening riff filled the garage. It was funky. It was groovy. It was unmistakably 1970s. And then the bass line kicked in—a deep, thrumming, infectious groove that made Marty's head start bobbing involuntarily.

"Bro," Marty said, his voice filled with awe. "That bass line is FIRE. You wrote that?"

"I was high," Andy said weakly. "I don't remember writing it."

"You were high and you wrote a bass line that white moms have been grooving to for fifty years."

"It was the seventies. Everyone was high."

Lucas was scrolling through the Spotify page, his eyes wide. "Wait. Wait. There's something else."

Andy's blood—what little of it was still circulating—ran cold. "What do you mean?"

Lucas turned the phone around. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated delight.

"There's a cover. By a rapper. A really famous rapper. He sampled your riff."

Andy stared at the screen. His ancient brain, which had processed centuries of complex political intrigue and philosophical discourse, ground to a complete and utter halt.

"He... he what?"

Lucas pressed play. A new song filled the garage—a modern hip-hop beat, layered with synths and a pounding drum track. And then, unmistakably, the bass line from 'Carnival of the Heart' kicked in.

Andy's jaw dropped. His face went through several shades of pale.

"That's my riff," Andy whispered. "That's my bass line."

"It's EVERYWHERE," Lucas said, scrolling through the comments. "This song has like, a billion streams. It was a number one hit. It's been in movies. It's been in commercials. It's been sampled by like, five other artists."

Andy stared at the phone. His expression was unreadable.

"I wrote that riff," Andy said, his voice hollow. "I wrote that riff in 1972. In a studio in London. I was high. I was very, very high."

"You wrote a billion-stream riff while high," Marty said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Bro. That's the most rock and roll thing I've ever heard."

"I didn't know," Andy said, his voice barely a whisper. "I had no idea."

"You didn't know your riff was in a hit song?" Lucas asked, his voice cracking with laughter.

"I was busy! I was being hunted! I was brooding! I had things to do!"

"You had THINGS TO DO?"

"Important things! Vampire things!"

Bartholomew, who had been watching the chaos unfold with serene delight, finally spoke. "My dear Andy, you have been oblivious to your own cultural legacy for five decades. This is the most magnificent thing I have ever witnessed."

Andy opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I hate all of you," Andy said.

"You love us," Lucas, Marty, and Bartholomew said in unison.

Andy stared at them. His boyfriend. His gargoyle. His werewolf friend. All of them grinning at him like he was the most ridiculous creature on earth.

"...Yes," Andy admitted. "I do."

Lucas was already on his phone again, his thumbs flying across the screen. "I'm texting this to everyone. The pack. Amanda. My mom. She's going to LOSE IT."

"LUCAS!"

"Too late! It's done! You're a legend, Andy! A one-hit wonder whose riff became a billion-stream sample! That's not a legacy! That's a dynasty!"

Andy sighed. It was a long, weary, defeated sigh.

---

Three weeks later, the donation was finalized.

The school board had been stunned—stunned—by the anonymous donation from a "mysterious benefactor." Enough money to renovate the entire sports complex. New equipment. New facilities. New everything. The football team was going to have the best field in the district.

There was only one problem. The school had no idea who the benefactor was. Of course Lucas wasn’t quite so shy, and so had sent them a detailed email explaining exactly who was behind it. And making a strong recommendation that they name the field after him.

Of course he has forgot to include Andy’s last name. And in that way that school boards do when they don’t know something they had assumed. They had guessed. And they had been completely, utterly wrong.

Andy stood in the middle of the high school football field, staring at a large, newly installed plaque.

It read:

ANDY COOPER MEMORIAL FIELD

Dedicated to the generous benefactor whose support made this renovation possible.

Andy's face went through several shades of pale.

"I am not dead," Andy said, his voice hollow. "And my name is not Cooper."

Lucas, who was bouncing on his heels beside him, was absolutely glowing. "I know! Well technically you’re undead… and they didn't know your last name! So they just... assumed!"

"They assumed I was dead and that my last name was Cooper."

"It's a very common assumption!"

Andy stared at the plaque. His eye twitched. A long, weary, defeated sigh escaped his lips.

"I am going to have to live with this," Andy said. "For eternity. This plaque will outlast me. It will outlast this school. It will outlast the human race."

"It's a legacy, Andy! A beautiful, confusing, completely inaccurate legacy!"

Lucas pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of Andy standing next to the plaque. His grin was blinding.

"This is going on the pack chat," Lucas said. "They're going to lose their minds."

"Lucas."

"Too late! It's already sent!"

Andy closed his eyes. He was an apex predator. He was the Scourge of the Carpathians. He was a creature of terror and darkness.

And now, there was a plaque on a high school football field that said he was dead and his name was Cooper.

Lucas pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Mr. Cooper. That's so sexy. I want you to get a tattoo that says 'Cooper' on your arm. And put it on your license."

Andy's eye twitched. "I am not getting a tattoo."

"But Mr. Cooper—"

"Stop calling me that."

"Mr. Cooper!"

"LUCAS."

Lucas laughed, pulling Andy into a proper kiss. "You're so easy to wind up. It's my favorite hobby."

Andy sighed against his lips. "You are impossible."

"I'm your impossible."

Andy opened his eyes. He looked at the plaque. He looked at Lucas. He looked at the field that his one-hit wonder money had renovated.

It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was completely, utterly undignified.

And he wouldn't have traded it for the world.

“I’m still not Mister Cooper… you have to earn that Lucas Cooper!”

“A challenge?” Lucas beamed, grabbing Andy’s hand and dragging him towards the Impala. “I’m going to boink you till you say my name…”

“I just said your name…”

“Again. Loudly, maybe screaming it…” Lucas grinned dragging harder. “I like it when you do that, it makes me feel really manly.”

“I am not your sex toy!”

“You totally are, and I’m going to make you squeak!” Lucas grinned his impossible smile and Andy relented, like he always did.

But as he walked away, he felt the twinge, the first familiar pang that meant he would have to feed soon, and his eyes tensed.

Uh-oh!