Ladies and Gents, and faithful followers. Here's an idea I had for a Vamp fic .. This came from a discussion with BetTheDuckIsinTheHat about vampire fictions in general .

Its going to take place over a number of years and in a number of different countries.

There's Wolves, Witches and all the supernatural stuff we love

Hope you enjoy

Ps. My vamps shall not "shine like a god damn diamond"

(and so help me god if any of you ask) ; P

Dedicated to BetTheDuckIsInTheHat




Spain 1670 . . Give or take but Brittany isn't counting. Basque region….. She thinks.


She had smelt her before she had seen her.

That spicy sweet aroma, titillating her senses, had brought her screaming from her slumber, and it had taken all her resolve, plus a fear of acute sunburn, not to claw her way out of the cosy wooden box that, for the next while at least, was home.

She had lain, attentively, listening to the smoky voice that reminded her of the parlours of the land of the Orient, where everybody had oddly shaped eyes and tasted, well simply put for want of a better word, musty!

The words she did not know but the emotion behind them called to her.

Cursing at how inconsiderately loud the worms were being as they burrowed through the damp earth. She strained to hear more.

Not a few feet away, her dam lay, the tendrils of the older vampire's thoughts creeping into her own.

If she could smell her, surely she could too.

Quite proudly, she managed to squirrel away that particular thought

Her Mistress was not cruel, per say, from what she had told her of the antics of her new brethren, she was quite the lady. Nevertheless, it niggled her that quite rudely she crashed into her thoughts, delving into the hidden passageways of her mind, demanding to know why she was causing such a ruckus.

She had passed it off, assuring her it was nothing. Charlotte had grumbled at her and commanded her to sleep. Of course, she had obeyed, it wasn't as if she was in any position to do otherwise.


That night she had been woken by her Mistress who had taken her to a large town nearby. Negotiating with the notary for the use of his rooms and books, under the guise of wishing to continue her 'daughter's' studies, they had began the arduous task of teaching her the local language and foreign words.

She had told her that even though she was proud of young-lings ability of being able to project her wants and desires into their feeble little minds without speaking, it tended to make the sheep a little nervous and a flock on the brink of panic could very easily turn into an enraged mob.

It stood to reason that it would be a good idea to pay attention to these boring lessons if she wished to live in the foreseeable future.

It never failed to surprise her how swiftly a group of dumb, simple farmers could mobilise themselves into a semblance of an army and all those seemingly innocent appliances of sickles and scythes, that just so happened to be conveniently lying around, could be suddenly fashioned into garish weapons of death.

The pitchforks she did not mind so much but the flaming torches always made her smell funny.

On returning her to humble abode she had noticed how that spicy sweet smell lingered near a beautifully carved angel, that stood like a sentinel, watching over a freshly covered grave.

Not quite understanding the words etched into the stone, she had asked her maker to translate.

It simply stated.

In memory of

Maria Lopez.

Loving Wife and Mother.


As she waited to see if her Songbird, as she affectionately referred to her, would return, she mulled over many things.

Like the nature of her rebirth.

In a country ravaged by famine and war, her dam had taken pity on her or so she claimed, by offering her a better life. In kind, she had promptly turned that pity upon her parents, making sure to drain them completely because who in their right mind wanted their parents with them forever.

Had she felt guilty?

Maybe for the first decade or so. And maybe she shouldn't have chased them across the corn field in the fashion that she had, but when she really thought about it, it had been their own fault. She had been hungry and when they ran, she found she had not been able to help herself.

She had done them a huge favour in the long run, what with the plague and all.

Being from the northern regions of France, Charlotte had seen fit to re name her Brittany, not that she minded, she had never liked her own name anyways, and had opened her eyes to so many new experiences she could never have imagined in her wildest dreams.

However, that did not stop her from hating her Mistress and revelling in the guilty pleasure of somehow being able to keep her thoughts of Songbird all to herself.


Over the next few weeks, she grew accustomed to the comings and goings of the girl she only knew by smell and sound. She would twitch and fidget within the confines of her casket in anticipation of the familiar footfalls and steady heartbeat that heralded her arrival.

Next would come Brittany's favourite part.

Whilst she placed fresh flowers and tended to the up keep of Maria Lopez's final resting place, she would start to sing.


Her change in behaviour did not go unnoticed by her maker.

She had lost her concentration in the middle of a feed when the over whelming scent of her daily visitor, well maybe not her visitor, but a girl could dream, wafted from deep within the narrow, twisting alleys of the town.

She had, momentarily, loosened her grip on their terrified quarry, intent on following that sumptuous aroma to its very source until Charlotte wrapped her ice-cold feelers round her thoughts and squeezed.

She wished to punish her further but instead she had promptly snapped the whimpering young mans neck before dumping his corpse in the river and demanded to know what on earth could have been so important to cause the young-ling to run the risk of exposure by almost allowing him to slip away. .

She had dutifully answered that she had found something to her liking and she could do with the practice.

And in Brittany's case, she really needed it.

It would help avoid problems in the future, much like the fiasco that had occurred in Paris.

She shuddered as she remembered the awkward situation of being caught with a limp girl in her arms and evidence of her dinner all over her face.

A novice mistake and half the reason they had been forced to move on.

In her defence, the girl had flaunted it, asking her if she wanted to catch a drink and a ravenous Brittany could hardly be blamed for taking her quite literally. Besides what kind of idiot ran round the streets of the city in the middle of the night especially after all the warnings about a Ripper frequenting the area.

Putting it down to the impulsiveness of youth and a wish to play with her food, Charlotte herself having grown weary of such games centuries beforehand, she indulged her, giving her permission to pursue her prize.

And so she had begun.


Never had she wished for the coming of nightfall so much in her existence. She had tossed and turned, finding the six flimsy boards that surrounded her stifling.

Her Mistress told her to shut up and that she was making enough noise to wake the dead.

She had laughed at the irony.

As soon as she felt the sun set, she had burst from her coffin, brimming with the excitement of a child, setting off in search of the one she craved.

Following the rich fragrance from her neighbour Maria, down the path and into the bustle of the town, she had found herself outside the a grand house. Hidden in a shroud of darkness she had waited, watching the comings and goings of the town's folk, until finally the door opened and a cloaked figure, with lantern in hand, slipped out onto the thoroughfare.


She would recognise that heady incense any where.

She had cautiously shadowed the girl. She was smaller than she imagined and moved with speed and agility that surprised her.

She thought she was doing rather well until they arrived at the vacant town square and the smaller girl stopped abruptly.

She had removed her hood to reveal long, dark locks that cascaded down her back, turning to peer back the way she had come.

In the moonlight, she could see the girl was truly beautiful. She had caramel skin that begged to be tasted and plump full lips that begged to be kissed.

The velvet voice snapped her from her thoughts.

"I know you're following me! Show yourselves!"

She restrained herself repeating the mantra of her Mistress. Control is key to survival.

"I swear to god Hudson, if that is you ill give you a thick ear."

Normally she would have cleared the distance between then in one leap, tearing out the throat of such a decadent feast, savouring every precious last drop of sweet nectar it would surely hold, but instead she found herself taking a tentative step forward.

Usually Brittany could see everything about a human but this one was shrouded in secrets and it intrigued her.

Her raspy voice held no hint of fear at being faced with a stranger.

"You're not Hudson."

"No I am not."

Everything about the girl assaulted her senses. The heartbeat she had only ever heard, muffled, through layers of dirt was suddenly loud, clear and so deliciously inviting.

She had approached her and had been startled when the girl did not cower but brazenly stood her ground.

They stood nose to nose, to what seemed like, to the young-ling, eons, wide, dark eyes staring straight back at her.

Hypnotically, the smaller girl's chest rose and fell with every breath she took. Brittany registered a pang of jealousy.


"Who ar…"

She had leaned down, taking those thick plump lips in her own, enjoying residual taste of dinner wine that lingered upon them. She slipped out her tongue to be met with the warmth and wetness of the other girls as they danced back and forth. The moan she received caused her to throb and bite down ever so slightly.

The tanned girls hands found their way to her hair, wrapping in her tresses, drawing her deeper

That's when she tasted it.

That one tiny drop.

Suddenly images of them writhing, naked together, calling for each other in ecstasy flashed across her mind in quick succession causing her to reel.

It was not here.

It was not even now.

It was somewhere else.

She could feel it and it burned!

She was sure if she had any in her lungs, she would be breathless.

"Who are you?"

"Santana." Came the whispered reply.

It broke the spell and Brittany had done the only thing she could.

Leaving the girl in the middle of the square, she turned on her heel and fled.

If she had taken a moment to collect herself, she would have noticed the eyes of another.


The next day her songbird did not come.

Instead, she was greeted with the sound of shovels cutting into the soft turf. For a moment she had panicked, thinking she had they had been discovered, but she had relaxed when she realised that the noise was coming from far over.

When she awoke she was met with a fresh hole beside that of her neighbour.

Such was the frailty of mortals.

She did not confide with Charlotte what had occurred and she was oddly comforted when her Mistress did not press or bully her way into gaining any details

She did not seek out Santana that night, choosing instead to take to the fields and help herself to a lonely Shepard.


Wails of grief and the soft thud of earth upon wood had dragged her from her slumber.

Groaning at being so rudely awoken, not that she needed sleep but sometimes it was nice to dream of the sun upon her face and the rolling meadows of her youth, she had pulled her pillow over her ears.

Charlotte had commanded her to sleep and for once, she had not loathed being told what to do.

That night something had felt different.

Something that had pressed against her, causing her skin to tingle and something inside her to ache.

Her Mistress had told her to make haste.

Some idiot had alerted the natives to their existence by breaking the cardinal rule of outlying towns.

"Always take peasants or those that wouldn't be missed. Never feast on someone of importance."

Brittany had assured her dam, it had not been her.

Before leaving, she had made her way to Maria's grave and had seen the new addition filled in beside her.

Illness had been rife in the town.

She had left on the head stone a small bouquet, weighed down with a pebble, hoping the next time Santana came, she would notice.

She had sensed it again. Goose bumps had appeared on her skin.

It was sheer unadulterated rage.

And it rolled through the earth in waves!


Please read and review and let me know what you think so far..