A/N: So first off I think it goes without saying that besides my OC, none of Fantastic Beasts belongs to me. I'm just a girl running with a plot idea sharper than scissors. Please enjoy and most definitely review.

Also please note that this is a mature story. There's drugs, murder, mystery, blood and a general darkness to this story. But don't worry, Credence will be well loved and cared for.

The speakeasy was packed to the brim that night. Bodies pressed against bodies while a mix of heavy perfumes and tobacco smoke filled the air. The club was a tiny spot, with small round tables that sat against the walls. The center was open, allowing couples to move a bit easier to the music that rang out heavily. There was a stage at the far side of the room. If you could really call it that; said stage was a wooden platform about three feet tall that allowed room for only a handful of people at once. Although tonight there was only one person on stage, and that was plenty enough to keep the crowd captivated and the drinks flowing.

The woman singing swayed with the sound of her own voice, clutching at her mike with fingers that had grown numb from the strain. This song always got to her, pulling up emotions that she often wanted to forget and would if it weren't for the music. She sang of a lost love and something that never was to be. Something that was lost and lonely with no relief in sight. Her voice was haunting and thick with emotion; the contralto made people listen. It left little room for distraction, and people in the crowd couldn't help pulling their dates closer. The small spot for dancing showed lovers holding each other tenderly, lucky that tonight this song wasn't about them.

The periwinkle of her dress shimmered with each move of the singer's hips. At some point during the show she'd closed her eyes, caught up in the moment while she let her voice and body take over. But now she winded down, her voice trailing off on a long note as she opened her hazel eyes and scanned the crowd. The applause broke out, both whites and blacks giving her praise. In a place like this, green was the only color that mattered after all.

Frankie made a small curtsy then and moved to get off the stage. She felt lightheaded, as if blood should be pounding in her ears. Even though that wasn't the case and hadn't been in a long time. She sucked in a deep breath and as she passed the bar the bartender, Tony, slipped her a shot of moonshine. Frankie gladly took it while shooting the man a silent thank you. That song always took so much out of her; probably because she put so much of herself into it. It hurt, yet there was always that thrill of release as she let the words go and for a few moments her heart would lighten as she sang out her burdens. It was always short lived and in the end she was always drained, but she couldn't stop or even wanted to.

She took the shot, her lips puckering some as the alcohol burned along her lips and down her throat. It was nothing compared to a shot of giggle water, but it eased her emotions all the same. Looking into the mirror, she noted her all too bright eyes practically glowing amber, contrasting with the warm mahogany of her skin and the dense black eyelashes that surrounded them. Her short hair had been fashioned into precise finger waves, glossy and dark. The red lipstick she wore had slightly rubbed off; some was starkly visible on the rim of her small glass. Looking at herself, she could see the signs of her hunger and she realized she needed to feed tonight before her cheeks started hollowing out more than they already were. Before she looked ill and people asked questions. Frankie always feared people would ask questions.

"You put on an amazing show, girl! I never seen them pay so much attention for that long!" Came a cheerful voice followed by a chuckle. Madame Bea, the speakeasy's owner, had come into the changing room. She was a tall, thin woman with golden red hair that had started to show signs of graying in the most subtle of ways. "Who knew little Frankie Gold had such a voice on her, eh?" Frankie turned around in her chair to face her boss smiling at the woman's praise and enthusiasm. It was much better to catch Madame Bea in jovial excitement than upset, for the woman was well known for her sharp tongue and temper. As of yet, Frankie had been more than lucky never to have crossed her. "Thank you, ma'am. I guess it's a crowd-pleaser." Madame Bea took note at how subdued Frankie seemed, but this was nothing new. The girl was always very somber, even when she was in a good mood. Something about Frankie always stayed hidden, pushed under the radar. She patted the young woman's shoulder and slipped a small wad of bills onto the vanity. "That's because they can hear you singing straight from your soul, darling. I'll see you back this weekend." With that the owner left Frankie to change so she could leave for the night.

The night air was crisp, hinting at the possibility of snow sometime soon. Frankie had gone out the back of the small bar. At this point she wanted nothing more than to eat and spend the rest of her night relaxing. Maybe she could find a book to read along with some cocoa laced with blo-

Her thought stopped short as a very familiar scent hit her sensitive nose. Metallic, rich, earthy... Yet something was a little off about it. The back alley behind the club was narrow and filled with old waste, half frozen from winter's frost. It was still and silent, yet Frankie could feel her arm hair standing on end as the sound of a heart beat filled her head. Most girls would run. Most girls SHOULD run, but Frankie wasn't like most girls. Danger didn't exactly terrify her as much as it drew her in. Especially when there was a hint of blood in the air.

Her body knew where to go as her boots moved through the dirty slush towards the darkest corner of the alley. But like a cat, her eyes simply adjusted as she finally pinpointed the heartbeat. It was weak, but steady, thumping along determinedly. Behind a row of tall trash bins, she noticed a dark huddled form. At first it looked like a pile of rags; the fabric was dirty and shredded from what she could tell and hardly proper covering for this weather. Her eyes traveled up and down, noticing the shoes and the peak of a very pale ankle. There were equally pale hands with long tapered fingers that held red scratches, some deep enough that blood had sluggishly seeped up. When she finally got to the face, she couldn't help a small gasp.

It was a boy... Well not quite a boy. A young man, probably about her age. The age she once was; the age she looked, that is. He was clearly passed out, leaving Frankie to freely examine him. His hair was inky black and cut into a style that did very little for him. His features were sharp and angled. Handsome, yet just as beautiful even with the bleeding wound she could see on his forehead or the crack along the bridge of his nose. His lips were full, but drained of color, chalky while against his sickly pallor. Frankie breathed in deeply, smelling his blood along with the acidic stench of what had been his fear and rage. But there was something just off about it. Something she couldn't identify on him, in him. It made her stomach clench, but she wasn't sure it was wholly unpleasant. It was a scent she felt she she should know, but couldn't place for the life of her. Something was wrong with him, but even as that thought occurred to her, she felt the prick of her fangs against the bottom of her lip. Her hunger knew what it wanted, even if her mind wasn't so sure. No, no, it couldn't be him. Not this stranger who seemed to be on death's door. Not when he didn't smell right and looked so darkly cherubic.

Frankie clenched her hands, trembling as she tried to think. Even after all these years, she still found it hard to focus when she was hungry and blood sang in someone's veins. But no, if she could get home it'd be ok. There was food at home; this would not cut it. Yet she didn't want to just leave him here. She'd never been that cruel... Not on purpose anyways.

"What got you here?" She mumbled, her breath coiling in the thin, icy air. Of course she got no answer from the passed out man. He didn't even twitch. Should she take him to the hospital? Right, so she could explain how she found him outside a speakeasy like some bum who couldn't hold his liquor. Her gut told her this was an awful idea, plus the thought of dragging him to a no-maj hospital gave her the creeps. All that sickness, blood and death... No, she couldn't handle that right now. If ever. So she sighed, knowing what she had to do. Knowing she'd feel guilty if she didn't.

Moving the trash aside, Frankie bent down and awkwardly pulled the young man up. Dead weight was never easy to maneuver and she found herself huffing in annoyance now. Annoyance that she couldn't be the heartless monster people thought her kind to be. Hefting a grown man, thin or not, shouldn't have been possible. Yet there Frankie was, pulling up the man's body like he was actually just a pillow.

Her eyes started to dart around. Luckily in the late night, no one was really around. The alley provided good cover as she decided that tonight's walk home would turn out to be a sprint. She cradled him in her arms, squeezing him tightly as she darted off in a blink of inhuman speed. As a vampire, she could no longer apparate (something she didn't fully understand), but otherworldly speed sort of made up for that. It took her less than a minute to run the six blocks to her home. Her passenger didn't stir even as he head flopped a little with her movements.

A silent spell unlocked the front door and it swung open on well oiled hinges. It closed after the pair made it inside with a click of finality that had Frankie relaxing. In her home she was always safe, even if she now wasn't alone. She took her unexpected guest to the spare room she had on the second floor. It had a small bed, a desk and a few bookshelves that seem to buckle with the weight of too many books. "If I let you sleep here, you definitely can't die, alright?" She told the still unresponsive man. Laying him down, she was quick to tug off his shoes. Decency kept her from going for his clothes, though she did aim a drying spell followed by a cleaning spell his way. He was still icy cold to the touch and she wished she still kept potions around. Instead she covered him in a thick downy blanket and set about casting a fire near his bed that burned nothing, but warmed the room almost immediately.

For the first time that night, the man responded. He sighed in his sleep, seeming to relax as the heat seeped into his bones. Frankie went over to him bending over the bed as she started to check his visible wounds. They all seemed pretty minor and the scent of blood was getting old, meaning there was no freely bleeding injuries. It must be something deeper if he wasn't waking up. Must be something to do with his off scent. He wasn't a no-maj, but he wasn't exactly a wizard either. Frankie could tell this much. There was a magic in his boy, but it was nothing she ever came across. And like her, it was nothing that walked in the light. For now all she could was let him rest. For now he would be cared for.

For now Credence Barebone would be safe and warm.