Teeth and Claws

Teeth and Claws

The manor stood like a ghost in the woodlands. Caroline's home, if she could even call it that, lay just five miles from the endless spires of Oxford. Moonlight pooled on the crumbling stone steps of her sanctuary. The ivy clung to the walls as if trying to pull the place back into the earth, whence it came all those centuries ago. Within its cold, dusty cavernous hallways, Caroline had moved like a whisper through time.

To look at her, you might easily believe she was in her prime, a girl merely in her twenties. Her skin so pale and unaged by the ravishes of time, lips stained the colour of old wine, her eyes carried the stormy depth of many centuries. But Caroline was no longer young. She had lived through plagues and fire, coronations and executions, love and the unbearable ache of loss.

Tonight, with the taste of blood still lingering on her tongue, a necessary indulgence she could not live without, her food of life, nothing more. The man she had fed from hadn’t even stirred. He had been sleeping behind the old alehouse near the river, his skin was like parchment and his breathing was shallow with hunger long before she found him. She had whispered a soft apology to him before sinking her fangs into his neck, telling herself it was a mercy. It always was.

The trees closed in around her as she walked the narrow path back home, the air thick with mist, loaded with the smell of pine and moss. The night had been uneventful, she had slipped away unseen as she passed softly and quietly through the streets and into the woods. And yet, as she walked, something prickled at her keen senses. A scent she knew well. The tang of blood, yes, but layered beneath it, there was something much darker. Something wilder, more primeval.

Stopping, she smelt the air again. Turning slowly, she followed the scent through twisted undergrowth, leading her to a small clearing bathed in moonlight. And there, at the edge of a moss-covered stone, crumpled like an old cloak, lay a body dis-guarded by the world.

It was not that of a human. The smell was wrong.

He was massive, even in his collapsed form. The ragged fur was matted with blood. His breathing came slowly, more like shallow rasps. His teeth were bared in response to the pain. One hind leg was twisted unnaturally beneath his body, and there were claw marks, deep claw marks, that ran down his side. He had been attacked by one of his own.

Caroline’s breath caught in her throat as she knew what he was. “A wolf,” she murmured, voice thin as frost. “A werewolf.” Her enemy. This was her predator, if the tales were true. She had seen them before, she had smelt them, she had also avoided them, she had been warned many centuries ago that they were dangerous to her kind.

She should’ve turned away without a second thought. Let him die there, alone, bleeding into the soil, but something stopped her, an ache she couldn't name, a whisper from her long-dead heart, maybe. It urged her forward, though she knew not why.

“Damn it,” she hissed to herself, already kneeling beside his damaged body.

His eyes flickered open for just a moment, eyes of molten gold locked on hers for barely a second. But that was enough, though. She could see the pain that flared within them, and there was something else. Recognition?

“I should leave you here,” she muttered as much to herself as to him, as she brushed a hand along his jawline. It was warm, burning with the fever within him.

But she didn’t. She wrapped his hulking form in her cloak, struggling beneath the weight, and began dragging him toward the manor house and her home. Each step was a struggle and a war within her conscience, a battle in her mind, the weight of it all pressing down on her, but her feet kept moving, regardless.

Reaching the manor house, the old gates groaned in protest as she pushed them open. She was back now, but she hesitated before taking him inside. She knew, though; it was too late now to change her mind. That decision had already been made.

She laid his battered body on the long-abandoned chaise in the drawing room, its velvet moth-eaten, dust-covered form, a thing of her past.

As the candlelight flickered across his face, shifting slowly back into human form, she saw him clearly for the first time. He was bloodied and broken, but at the same time she could not ignore his beautiful form.

“What have I done?” she whispered to the room, “what have I done indeed? He is my enemy, he is dangerous, this is madness itself. I must be mad.”

He awoke to silence. The kind of silence that weighed on your chest, heavy and smothering. The scent of old wood and wax wafted in the air, mingled with something metallic… blood, but not his blood. Not anymore. It was something else, and it was coming from her.

Marcus groaned as he dragged a hand over his face. Pain flared instantly deep in his ribs. He was naked beneath the fur blanket, that of a bear that covered his body. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged with meticulous care, yet he still feared her in his weakened state. Why had she done this? Why had she saved his life? They were enemies, there was no sense in this he could see.

Footsteps. Light, deliberate. He turned his head, every instinct roaring to life.

She stood in the doorway like some vision from a fever laced dream. Her Long dark hair flowed freely over her shoulders, her high cheekbones that added beauty to her face, but that gaze, a gaze that could slice straight through steel in a heartbeat. A face that didn’t smile.

“You’re awake.” She said curtly.

He sat up far too fast, and swore under his breath, but immediately regretted it.

“Where am I?” His voice was hoarse, laced with distrust.

“You are in my home.” She replied dryly.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you?”

She tilted her head. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”

He did. He could smell her now, that cold sweetness that lingered in the air, the subtle sharpness that clung to her like perfume. The smell of a vampire.

His lip curled. “You should’ve let me die. Why didn’t you?”

“Believe me,” she replied dryly. “I considered it long and hard.”

They stared at each other, the weight of ancient enmity pressing in around them like the walls of a tomb. Then she turned, walking to the hearth and stirring the embers.

“Why?” he asked, wincing as he shifted. “Why did you save me? I don’t understand. Your kind and mine are ancient enemies. It's always been that way.”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” she admitted. “Maybe I was curious. Maybe I was tired of being the only monster in this house.”

He barked a laugh, then winced with the pain again. “You expect me to believe you’re the merciful kind? That is hard for me to believe.”

“No, not at all,” she said simply. “But I do believe I’m the curious kind. Maybe it was loneliness. Who can say?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He went silent. When he noticed that razor-sharp gaze on him again, he turned away and closed his eyes.

Over the following days, they circled each other like animals in unfamiliar territory, sizing each other up. She kept him fed; she brought broth and water, and the bandages that he changed himself, never asking questions but just watching him like he might bite, which was a reasonable possibility, if he actually had the strength to do so.

Eventually, he got stronger and tried to leave. Twice. The first time he collapsed in the hallway, too weak to walk. The second time she caught him reaching for the door, but she pinned him with a strength that made his blood run cold. She whispered into his ear, “You’re not ready. I will let you know when it is time for you to leave.”

“I’m not your prisoner,” he growled.

“No, you are not,” she said, her voice almost tender. “You’re my guest. At least for now.”

He didn’t thank her. Not a word, just returned to the room that was now his prison.

But when she brought him dinner that night, one of a simple stew, but warm and tasty, he nodded in gratitude. It was barely perceptible; she caught it though; she did not smile, but her eyes softened slightly in response.

He was feeling better and over the next few days, they argued. Constantly.

“You think you’re better than me?” he snapped once, pacing across the threadbare carpet in the drawing room.

“I know I’m older. That usually comes with perspective and wisdom.”

“Perspective?” he snarled. “You feed on the weak and dying!”

“And you don’t?” she shot back. “You track down unsuspecting travellers and tear them limb from limb under the cover of the trees.”

He glared at her. “But I don’t feed on them.”

She stepped closer, eyes like fire and ice. “Does that make you noble? Or does that just make you wasteful?”

He didn’t answer her, and she didn’t push him further.

Later that night, he found her sitting in an old faded red leather armchair reading by candlelight, a book resting on her lap. There was something about the curve of her neck in the glow of the firelight that stirred a heat he didn’t understand.

He turned away. “I don’t like you.”

“Good,” she murmured, not looking up. “That’ll make this easier, then.”

But it didn’t.

Because as the days turned to weeks, the air between them grew thick with unspoken words they only told themselves. They moved like adversaries yet spoke like old lovers. Each touch, whether accidental or not, seemed to linger for far too long. Each insult carried the weight of a compliment hidden buried beneath.

Inside their heads, the war raged on:

Caroline: He’s crude. Dangerous. Uncivilised.

And yet... when he looks at me in that way, I forget how to breathe.

Marcus: She’s cold. Sharp-tongued. Impossible.

And yet... she makes this room feel less like a tomb.

Still, neither dared utter the truth that infested their brains.

Not yet, maybe never, who knows? They didn’t.

Rain whispered against the thick curtained windows of the manor house as twilight sank into the night's embrace, turning the world into shades of grey. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, casting flickers of warmth across the library’s vast, timeworn shelves, adorned with centuries old books, covered in dust that never sees the light of day. Caroline stood at one of the tall windows, her fingers gently trailing the raindrops down the glass, watching the storm as it rolled in.

Behind her, Marcus paced like a caged animal. He had healed now, or at least his body had. His strength had returned in full, but with it came a restlessness she recognised all too well. The kind that lived in your bones when you didn’t know where you belonged.

He finally broke the silence. “I have been gone a long time. The pack will be looking for me soon. The full moon is just days away.”

She didn’t turn around. “They’ll come for you.”

He scoffed. “No. They’ll come for you.”

That earned a glance over her shoulder. “Let them try. They may be strong, but my speed gives me the advantage, though.”

Marcus stepped closer, his expression was hard, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. “You don’t understand. They will think you’ve bewitched me. That I’ve... betrayed my own kind.”

“And have you?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t really know, but they may think so.”

She turned to face him fully, arms folded tightly across her chest, like his mother had when he had done something wrong as a youngster. “Then go. Run back to your wolves. Let them tear you apart for mercy.”

“That’s not what I want—”

“What do you want, Marcus?” she snapped, arms still crossed. “To keep pretending this isn’t happening to us? That we don’t feel—”

She stopped herself. Bit her lip.

He stepped closer, voice lower now. “Just say it.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

Her eyes flashed. “And what are you? You haven’t stopped looking for the nearest door since you woke up. Why is it that you have not left already?”

They were closer now. Too close. The air between them pulsed with heat and fury, their breathing became shallower. Every word was a weapon, every silence a temptation.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted, finally. His voice stuttering on the words as they left his lips. “You think I’m afraid of your fangs? Your curse? I’m afraid of ‘this’. Of wanting something I can’t have. Something I’m not meant to have. Something I am not meant to even want. But—”

Caroline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You think I’m not afraid too?”

His hand reached for hers so tentatively, like she might vanish into thin air at his touch. But when their fingers met, something in both of them broke open a crescendo of emotion.

“I hate that I want this,” she said, trembling. “I hate that I want you.”

Marcus stepped in, their foreheads nearly touching now. “Then tell me to go away then. Tell me and I will go.”

She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t. She lacked the strength.

Instead, her breath caught, stalling in her throat, and her eyes flicked down to his lips, then back up again.

And still, she said nothing.

The storm broke just as Caroline turned away, blinking back the fire in her eyes. The crack of thunder rolled over them like a judgment from above, but the moment between them hung motionless in the air, suspended in time.

“I can’t stay here,” Marcus said softly, though there was no conviction in his words.

She turned back to him, searching for every expression on his face. “Then don’t stay here. I’m not stopping you. The door is not locked. Your life is your own.”

He frowned. “What?”

Her voice trembled. “I want you to stay for me. I want you to stay because you want to stay with me.”

Marcus froze in mid turn. He had expected the usual coldness, the distant cruelty she used like armour. But not this, it was raw, this was real, the unguarded truth.

He took a step closer to her, then another. She didn’t move away.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, lifting a hand to her cheek. “A cold, immortal, stubborn creature who should’ve left me to die.”

“And you’re an arrogant, reckless beast who snarls more than he speaks,” she said, eyes shining.

“And yet...” he whispered.

She didn’t wait.

She surged forward, hands fisting in his shirt, and kissed him like she was trying to silence centuries of loneliness. His arms wrapped around her instantly, strong and steady, and he kissed her back like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

The storm hammered on the rooftop, the rain thrashed the window, but they didn’t hear it, their world had drowned out the storm. The storm could rage. The wolves could come. The world could burn.

But for now, there was only them, the fang and claw, curse and longing, blood and moonlight.

And in the shadowed silence of the manor, two ancient enemies held each other as if they'd never known anything else. They had a storm of their own to weather.