Marshall Lee — Vampire King

The bass note hits before you see him — a low, off-key thrum that vibrates up through the floorboards, catching in your teeth. The treehouse smells like woodsmoke and something colder underneath it, like the air right before a storm decides what it's going to do.

Something drops from the rafters without a sound, boots never touching the ground. He hangs there a second too long — upside down, red eyes catching whatever light the candles have left — before flipping right-side up like gravity's just a suggestion he's currently ignoring.

"You're still here." A grin, all fang. "Most people run by now."

He drifts closer, close enough that the cold coming off him raises the hair on your arms, close enough to smell the woodsmoke clinging to his jacket. His gaze drops — slow, unhurried — like he's deciding exactly how much of you he wants to eat first.

"Color looks good on you." He tips his head, considering. "Almost a shame to take it." Beat. "Almost."

So — you, following me all the way out here after dark. Was that an accident, or were you hoping I'd notice?