Vampire Kisses: Love At First Bite

Chapter One - Bloodlust

Have you ever met your true love?

Are you together, or apart?

Is he the same as you?

Or are you opposites attract?

Was it love at first sight?

Or love at first

bite.

What if Alexander was a dark, trouble young vampire, and Raven an angry, teenage girl? What if instead of them meeting sweetly and falling in love at first sight, it was love at first bite? Alexander bites Raven when she's in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Upon seeing how beautiful she is, and feeling remorseful, Alexander carries her back to the mansion and tends to her. Sparks fly as Raven settles into her new lifestyle. RxA

Don't think there's much else to say, except I'd loooove you for reading and reviewing!!!! (Hint, hint!!)

It was sheer purgatory being stuck in this mansion. A gaudy prison of creaky floorboards, worn down wallpaper and bats. The bats he didn't mind, in fact they made a great model to paint, but it wasn't the sort of place he was used to staying in. Back in Romania, he'd been at the height of his social curve, he'd went to lavish parties everyday, dated the most beautiful girls, had the craziest friends. But he'd still felt out of place, still felt as if something was missing. He'd been born into that glamorous world, part of the ancient blood-line of the Sterling's – and yet, he never felt like he belonged. There was always something missing, a thirst that blood and parties could never quell. It always seemed like there was something more, he could almost taste it – cool and metallic, sweeter than anything, it felt like it was a something more that he could never reach. Whatever it was. Alexander roamed his mansion by night, painting and playing maudlin music, hoping that the pounding guitars and thrashing drums would make some of his edgy thoughts flicker away. By day, he slept in his coffin, black and sleek, dreaming of a world he dearly missed and wished to return to. When his parents had told him he was being sent away to this small town, the personification of the word 'dull', he'd been distraught. He'd stayed up all day, moping and tossing in his coffin, unable to settle, by night he'd spent hours scouring the internet, desperate to find out about his new home, or to find some laws that said parents couldn't send there children away to small towns like this one. Of course, his search for fruitless, the town was so small it had no reasonably sized website, or many pictures to look at. All he knew was that his grandmother had built a house here, fleeing to escape persecution. All he knew was that he was being sent to this house, so faraway from his love and his life because he refused to marry Luna. Marrying Luna was never something he wanted, nor agreed to – but since it had been decided all those years ago when it was discovered that Luna was in fact, mortal – he'd had no say in it. He very nearly married her, turning her into a vampire on the ancient burial ground, bonding them forever, but he stopped at the last moment, inches from her pulsating neck.

"I can't," he said, clear as anything. "I don't love you. I don't want you." He should have chosen better words, telling someone you don't love them or want them is never easy, or nice. Luna ran from him, tearful and wailing, completely distraught at the idea that the boy she loved, the boy she fantasized about – didn't love her. Jagger, her brother and his best friend, had hated him ever since, especially because it had been decided all those years ago. The Maxwell's had tried to force Alexander's parents into making him agree to turn her, telling them that bad things would happen lest they force Alexander. But they wouldn't, his parents were good, honest people, and they wouldn't force their only son to be bonded to a girl he scarcely liked, let alone love, despite it being sworn all those years ago.

He'd travelled extensively with his parents, but they'd all settled in their homeland of Romania, which he had to be sent away from, to live alone, in some remedial, small town where his grandmother had built a grand house, when her family had been persecuted many years ago. Unhappy as he was in his new house, he supposed it was for the best, but he yearned to be back with his parents, who were now travelling again, without him. Being seventeen and being locked away in your room in a town so tiny it wasn't even on any maps, made him quiver and shake with anger. He was very angry, an angry, bored young man. If he'd been unable to find satisfaction when he was in Romania – the place where his kind thrived and loved – then how would he find it here? It seemed impossible.

"Jameson," Alexander called out, grabbing his black coat from the rack. "I'm going out." It was completely black outside, and beautiful, with all the stars and swooping bats. A perfect night.

"Out?" Jameson, his creepy, bald butler asked, Romania accent thick. "Where to, Master Sterling? I can get the car if you-""

"No, not needed Jameson. I can handle myself.," Alexander replied, opening the door and stepping out onto the patio. "It's such an eerily perfect night, great for walking around. I may visit my great grandmother's grave, or take a walk in the woods. I'll decide once I'm out there." Jameson nodded, turning back and walking down to the kitchen. Alexander proceeded to go outside, feeling the welcomed sharp breeze of the wind in his hair, closing his eyes.

He'd been walking for awhile, when he felt it. A fiery sensation in his throat, veins, stomach, he felt thirsty and drained, and he realised suddenly. Blood. He was thirsty, and he couldn't remember when he'd last drank. It must have been a few days ago – back in Romania. He'd had bloody stakes since then, but he hadn't had fresh, human blood from a throat for days. How unusual, he'd normally have it three times a day, sometimes more often when there was a party going on – it was how they felt intoxicated – taking blood. Drink didn't do anything for them, but blood did many things. It made the blood in his veins sing, made him feel light and heady, kept him full and strong, quelled his thirsts, made him want to sing and dance and die because he was this happy. Blood was wonderful. He decided he'd have to find some – any kind – he was that thirsty. Normally he restricted it to young people, the younger the blood the fresher and meatier, he thought, only he knew his friend (or former friend) Jagger, liked older. He said that blood was like wine, it bettered with age and became more flavoursome. Alexander disagreed. He never took too much, or enough to cause any damage. The victim would wake up about an hour after he'd drank, feeling light-headed and wobbly, with no recollection of his deed, otherwise, they'd be fine. Find someone, anyone, his throat sang, I won't be choosy tonight.

He cut around a corner, the sleepy town near deserted. He had passed barely anyone.

Try the cemetery, his throat responded to his doubtful thoughts, maybe you'll find one of your kind – kind enough to offer a sip . . .

He doubted it. Not many of his kind were kind enough to offer him anything, let alone a drink of their precious blood. Still, worth a shot, he wasn't having any luck here. He trampled through streets until he saw some grave stones and some mist, masking them, face lighting up into a smile. Beautiful, just find someone! He walked through the small, rickety gate, his boots mashing up dead leaves as he walked. There was something beautiful about death, about an end, it was so final, so sudden, a perfect excuse to wear black more often. Not that that was a problem for him, he wore black whatever the occasion. He heard someone muttering something, and his ears perked up, he was sure it was a girl – muttering something under her breath – kicking at leaves. He saw her, sitting beside a grave stone, whispering angry little thoughts, shifting leaves with her combat boots. She didn't have time to do anything else, for he'd flown over the rest of the grave stones, landing beside her in one swift drop. She didn't scream, or spring back, instead she looked at him blankly, blinking her sooty black lashes and cocking an eyebrow to the heavens. She was very beautiful, with black hair, black lipstick, black eye make-up, and an attire of black clothing. She reminded him of his mother, or one of his friends back home, only she was more beautiful. If he hadn't been so thirsty he would have stopped to woo her, wishing to have her for his own.

"What are you, Dracula?" she laughed at him, showing more interest than she'd care to admit. That was all the words that got past her black lips before Alexander had swooped in and plunged two fangs into the veins in her slender, swan-like neck, drinking her in fully, a scream dying at her lips. When he took a drink, the victim was unconscious of it, they felt a little pain – like a pin prick – but they weren't fully aware of what he was doing. Her face had taking on that placid, glassy-eyed look that they all did, mouth falling open just a little, looking like she was in the middle of something wonderful. He noticed desire and lust flashing in her eyes, but he didn't pay those much emotion, it was expected, after all. Taking blood felt wonderful for both the vampire and the victim, even if they were human. When a vampire took blood from a human, that human felt some kind of love for them, almost as if they were having an orgasm from the act. Humans thought drinking blood was a vile, vicious, painful thing, but for a vampire, sharing blood was an act of love and lust, it was their food, their life, their love. Couples performed it after sex, or during. It showed that you loved one another enough to want them inside of you, their blood as your own, in your veins, all around your heart. It showed real love. Of course now-a-days it wasn't exclusively for feeding or for love, it was a party favourite, one that Alexander often partook in. Blood kicked things up a notch and kept the party alive. He was careful not to take too much, but her blood was sweeter than most peoples, utterly delicious, and he found himself taking more than he should have, but he couldn't stop. His mind was telling him STOP, but his teeth kept going, drinking her. He had to be careful, as he pulled out his fangs, only to plunge them in the other side of her neck, sipping at more sweet nectar. One more bite and she'd be like him, just one more. He had to STOP. But he didn't, he absent-mindedly moved his lips, biting her a third time, tasting her almost fully. He stopped. Not only had he bitten her three times, but he'd drank so much of her blood. She might not even make the transformation with that much blood missing. He let her limp body go, her eyes closed by now, three visible puncture wounds on her neck. He felt at her neck, a pulse going slowly, she was still alive, she would make it. He let a sigh of relief slip through his lips, but then he stopped, noticing how beautiful she really was. It wasn't just the pale, luminous skin and dark hair, but the curve of her lips, the gentle dip of her nose, the slender, swan-like neck. She was beautiful everywhere and his heart swelled with remorse. What had he done? A girl as beautiful as she warranted consent. He looked at her limp body, lying across the fallen dead leaves and he stopped himself. Can't leave her here, like this. Pick her up, take her with you. Jameson will care for her. He felt sticky and dirty, and wrong. He shouldn't have done that. He could easily have gotten blood, Jameson would have went to the bank for him if he'd only asked – and he needn't take so much that he took her life. He leaned into her chest, still hearing her heart beating, thrashing in his ears. It would stop soon. In an hour or so her heart wouldn't beat any more, and she'd be like him. A creature of the night. He cried out, angry at himself. She would have a family, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a boyfriend, a best friend . . . and he'd taken it all from her. He didn't even know her name! Why hadn't he thought? He was being reckless and crazy, acting more like the hideous creature that humans thought they all were. He gingerly lifted her little, tense body into his arms, soaring over the graves, whirling them both all the way to his house.

"Why?" Alexander growled for the hundredth time, while Jameson patted a cold compress onto the girls head. She was more beautiful in the candle light, her hair rippling with colour – violet and cobalt, shining in the light – her lips pursed upwards, as if in a smile. She was still unconscious, he'd taken too much, he knew it. Her body had felt scarily light when he'd carried her in his arms, gently placing her on the chaise lounge, fingers lingering over her parted lips. He could already feel her canines becoming more pointed, grazing the skin on his fingertips a little. The change was coming, no way to stop it, she'd be like him soon. How was he going to explain it? That he got a little hungry and wanted a snack? He shook his head. It wasn't the sort of thing you could explain to anyone. How do you say, 'Hey, sorry, I kinda sucked your blood and caused you to retire to a lifetime of darkness and vampires, but I'm really sorry, I hope we can be friends?' Yeah, he couldn't imagine that being one easy, fluid conversation.

"How's she doing?" he asked Jameson, coming over to her stirring body, the eyelids fluttering. You'd expect that she was just sleeping, instead of undergoing the transformation that would turn her from the vulnerable, timid girl she once was, into the blood-thirsty demon of the night.

"Well," Jameson replied gravely, but then he does everything gravely, so it was nothing new. "She's holding up, all right, I'm confident the change will be complete in a matter of hours."
"Hours?" Alexander gulped, preparing to give himself a pep talk on how to break the fact that he'd turned her into one of the undead easily. "Ah, very good Jameson," at that moment the bell pealed out and Alexander gulped. Jameson was much calmer, however, handing him the towel and telling him it would probably be a delivery. He went off to answer the door, while Alexander collapsed on a seat near the girl, dangling the slightly damp linen towel over her forehead. He found himself gently stroking her cheeks and along her jawline, fingernails just touching her plump lips. The black lipstick had come off, along with her eye make-up and chalky pale foundation. She looked more vulnerable, and much younger, but glowed even more radiant. He found himself wondering what her name was, annoyed that he'd never stopped to find out. Why hadn't he just stopped himself and talked with her first? He was certain if they'd talked he wouldn't have bitten her, in fact, he was sure of it.

Jameson came back in, carrying a small, silver package, looking pleased with himself. He set it down on the table, pulling it open and producing two smaller black containers. Alexander looked on, confused.

"What are those?" he wondered aloud, watching Jameson carefully stack them, taking out several more.

"For the girl," he gestured to her limp body. "I imagined when she woke she'd be thirsty, or hungry, or whatever it is you get. I wouldn't want her taking a bite out of either of us, so it seemed best to bring in some of your regular dose early . . ." Alexander understood at once. Blood. Blood. He had some sent in every month or so, from the blood bank. It was easy to obtain, and it made sense to have some waiting for the girl. She'd awake hungry, Alexander had no doubt of that, and for the first couple of months regular food wouldn't completely satisfy her, until she learnt proper control. It was wise of Jameson to bring in some blood, just in case. They wouldn't know how anyone was supposed to react to the change, everyone reacted differently. But this girl, she looked so fragile and vulnerable, Alexander couldn't imagine her as a bloodthirsty vampire. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, wishing for the hundredth time that he'd just let her be. He'd taken everything from this girl, it wasn't fair. He wouldn't chose this life for himself, why force it upon someone else?

"Ah, good thinking Jameson," he complimented the butler as the girl stirring, making a soft sighing sound. "I didn't think of that."

"Thank you, Alexander," Jameson looked pleased, his Romanian accent thick and more pronounced. "Is there anything you require, or should I just go and prepare dinner?"
"Dinner would be lovely," he replied, nodding curtly. Jameson smiled and gathered the packets of blood, in his thin arms, walking from the door, shoes clicking along the corridor. Alexander didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't do anything for the girl, who was now thrashing about, in a deep sleep. He decided the best thing to do was to go off and paint. Whenever his thoughts became weighted and heavy, he painted. It was almost like therapy. If he picked up a brush, applied some paint, and grazed it along a canvas, creating shapes and tones, everything seemed better. His thoughts smoothed themselves out and he found clarity. Painting was his way of coping, the only way he knew how. He'd been painting a lot recently, with the fiasco with the Maxwell's, he'd needed some clarity in his almost constant world of haze. The good thing about painting was that it was solid and constant, it never let you down. Sure, you could make mistakes and botch up a painting, but there was always several chances out there waiting for you. Unlike people, it was relatively easy to work with, and the relationship that you formed was never rocky and aggressive. It was always kind of placid and content, easy, even.

He went to his room, with the bed, swathed in a thick black duvet, purely for show, the main focus of the room. He had a few posters up, mainly of Gothic, punky rock bands that he adored, and a few paintings that he'd drawn of his friends and parents. In his world, photographs weren't an option, so a beautiful, delicate painter like Alexander was much in demand. But his father didn't necessarily take him seriously. He thought it was just a hobby, however good his little oil paintings were, they'd never be good enough for his art dealer father. There was a stereo sitting on the chest of drawers, CDs spilling out around it. He carefully selected a CD, turning the volume up until near full, placing a brand-new, reassuring snow-white canvas on his frame, picking up his pallet, and loading it with gorgeously coloured blobs of paint. Right, that was sorted, now he needed a subject. He mused this, deep frown lines etching into his forehead whilst he thought, the music blaring around him. What could he paint? Not himself. He half-heartedly laughed. He'd only seen himself in the paintings that his parents had had commissioned. He knew he was handsome, he was a Sterling after all, his parents were beautiful looking people, it would defy nature if he wasn't. But he was careful not to be cocky about it. His ex-best friend, Jagger, was more than conscious that he was relatively handsome, to the stage where he was arrogant and far too confident. Alexander had always been a little shy, more sensitive than most, and quite self-conscious. He had confidence, of course, but he never had much confidence in himself. He relied on others to do most of the talking for him, whilst he hung back, in the background. He was sure if he wasn't who he was, he'd never have been able to be friends with all the people he was friends with. Certainly not Jagger. Jagger didn't have meek, mouse-like friends. He brought out the confidence in Alexander, purely because they'd known one another from infancy, and there was no point being bumbling and self-conscious around Jagger. Alexander was cool and calm on the surface, almost aloof and uncaring to people that didn't know him, even to some who did. He was respected, one of the rich and popular, a naturally well-liked person. But underneath it all, he wasn't like that at all. He hid behind his coolness, choosing not to show his emotions because he didn't know them himself. It was all just an act, and it was breaking down. He just didn't know how to be the real him, without being uncool and strange. To normal people, humans, he would be weird anyway. He knew that he would probably be described as Gothic, someone who was naturally an outcast, a loner. He'd never be that in his world, but this wasn't his world any more. He could never return to his world. He was even more of an outcast there, since he'd stood up Luna and completely wounded Jagger's pride. Jagger must loathe him by now, and a small part of Alexander told him that he should be concerned, but he wasn't. Good riddance, he huffed, still trying to work out who he could paint, but drawing up a blank. Normally painting came as easily to him as speaking, but today there was no fluency or ease. He was stilted and confused. He sighed, throwing his paint brush across the room and wiping the paint off the pallet. He shut off the music, mid chord change, feeling angrier than before. His thoughts had turned dark as he thought of Jagger, and he couldn't control them. He grabbed his strewn coat from the floor, pulling the dark leather around him and running frantic hands through his hair.

"I'm going out!" he shrieked to Jameson, angrily. He was angry and he didn't know why.

"Out? Alexander-"

"Yes. Out. Call me if anything happens." He slammed the door behind him, the cool night air welcome to his whirling mind. He knew how badly the walk had ended last time. It ended up with him having an unexpected, unwelcome girl on his couch, rapidly making the change from human to demon of the night. But, he needed this walk, more than he was aware of.

He walked down the path, leaping over the iron-gate with an almost superhuman ease. Well, he was a vampire after all, it did have some perks. He didn't know where he was going, his boots tearing into the uneven ground, a cross expression on his face. This time it wasn't blood he was after, it was answers, which were so much harder to come by.

It was in his hurry to reach an unknown destination that he noticed a small, shy-looking girl, nailing something into a lamp post. She had shiny, long brown hair, a timid, strewn smile, and light eyes emulating sadness. Normally he wouldn't look up at her, just stick to his boots, ignoring her completely, but there was something about the posters she had tucked in the crook of her arm, that were nailed all across the street, that intrigued him. She'd noticed him, biting her lip worriedly, staring at him with a wide-eyed horror. He didn't expect what she did next.

"Hi?" She sounded like she was questioning herself. She paused, chewing on her already badly cut lip, her eyes glassy. "Can you help me, by an chance?"

"Help? You?" he sounded just as unsure as her, as he watched her slowly nod, pale skin darkening slightly.

"Yes. You might know my friend . . ." she stuck a white sheet of paper under his nose, thrusting it into his hands. He perused the document carefully, eyes widening as he recognised the face, smiling brightly at the camera. It was a girl, with long, straight dark hair, wide, chocolate eyes, black lips and black clothes. She looked so happy and alive, he almost didn't make the connection between the girl on his couch and the girl in the picture. He felt himself shudder, trying hard to contain his emotions, for the first time in his life. He couldn't let anything slip, he had to stay cool, something that he'd practised over the years. He was able to feel a range of emotions, without even batting an eyelid.

"I don't think so," he allowed himself to whisper, glancing over the girls details, storing them carefully in his mind. Her name was Raven Madison, aged sixteen, living currently with foster parents. The last detail stunned him a little, he'd imagined a warm, loving family, desperate for her to get back to them. Instead, it appeared that she was a child in care. He wondered what had happened to her real family, and why a girl like her, who looked so happy in the photograph, was sitting alone in a cemetery.

"Are you sure?" the girl looked tired and frustrated. "OK, thanks for your help," she looked like she was about to turn away, and snatch the paper from his hands, but she kept speaking. "If you do see her, my numbers on the sheet, I'm Becky Miller," she looked worriedly at her watch, which was a thin sliver around her wrist. "Oh dear, I'll be late!" she said to no one at all. "Please call me if you see her, or hear anything. I've already contacted the police, but they aren't being helpful. I'm really worried, it's not like her," she bit into her now bleeding lip. Alexander felt the scent waft over to him, causing him to reel back a little. He knew his eyes would be flashing red, it was thankful Becky wasn't looking at his eyes, but rather at the sheet of paper. "Please do call. Thank you for all your help," she marched off, like a woman on a mission, leaving Alexander dumbfounded.

So there was people who cared about her, namely this Becky Miller. He didn't see her foster parents marching around putting up posters, or the police. He felt a wave of sympathy for this Becky Miller. He hoped some time soon he could make it up to her, and reveal that her friend was fine. He just couldn't do it yet, he had to make sure that she was fine first!

Having found out this new information, he found himself walking back the way he'd came, to the mansion, clutching onto the piece of paper as if his life depended on it. Becky Miller was a little way down the road, still gluing posters to lamp posts and gates, biting her lip. She nodded to him as he slipped past her, eyeing him up with confusion. He flat out ignored her, marching onwards, too deep in his thoughts to think about anything else. He had to try and work things out, he just didn't know how. He had to look after this girl, return her to her family, but how could he when she was now a demon of the night? Perhaps she'd have a large blood lust and she'd never be allowed out in society, perhaps they didn't want her, perhaps . . .

He found himself back at his wrought iron gates, still clutching onto the paper. He glanced at the photograph, slightly grainy and out of focus, he noticed a blonde head in the bottom corner, a quarter of an eye, half of a nose and almost all of some lips. It looked like a males features, and he frowned, feeling a wave of some unrecognisable emotion crash over him. He'd never considered this before. What if she'd have a . . . boyfriend? Why was this so hard to think? He felt his mind struggle as he hung onto the wrought iron gate, not leaping over it like before, but calmly, tranquilly opening and shutting it. Of course she might have a boyfriend. She was exceedingly beautiful after all, and any normal, ordinary sixteen-year-old normally did. He'd had a several girlfriends before he'd been forced to date Luna . . . Not that he'd ever felt much for them. They were just there, a necessary ingredient in his daily life, but not something he felt too strongly for. But this girl, well she made his heart beat almost uncontrollably, his blood thrashing in his veins, his mind so full of her, it almost left no space for anything else.

He banged his fist against his head, trying to push her right out, but of course it didn't work. Nothing did. It was almost as if she was a tattoo, permanently imprinted onto his mind, his brain, his heart . . . He shook his head. Enough of that. He'd better go and tell Jameson that he'd found out her name, age and that someone was looking for her. He hurried up the path, half gliding, half running, a graceful lope. He pushed open the front door, keeping his jacket on, and walking into the drawing room. There was Jameson, looking deathly pale, eyes rimmed with dark circles, but then he always looked like that, it wasn't any different. The girl was still lying there, in a deep dreamlike state. Wordlessly, Alexander tossed over the sheet of paper, a smile playing on his lips. Jameson smoothed down the corners, taking a long time to read the simple words, face contorting into confusion as he read on.

"Is this her?" he asked the minute he'd finished reading and handed the sheet back to Alexander. "The girl that's missing?"
"She's not missing, Jameson, she's here," Alexander said a little impatiently, indicating to the girl, face pallid, hair seeming to darken against her pale skin, a striking contrast. "There was a girl . . . Becky Miller. I take her to be a friend of Raven. She was looking for her, she though I might know something about her," he sighed, growing weary. "I ought to have told her that I knew something about Raven, but of course, I couldn't maintain my integrity with Raven lying on our couch, slowing turning into a vampire!" He cried the world like it was an evil, blasphemous thing, which it was to some people. The way Alexander had been carrying on, it was almost as if he didn't accept who he was, and who his people were. He had to be careful. He couldn't confuse his self-loathing of himself for turning her into a vampire with his feelings for actual vampires. "I mean, we don't know what she'll be like, right? And Becky Miller would certainly phone the police if she found her friend lying, dead to the world, on a strange couch with even stranger people. It'd look very suspicious . . . and, oh who am I kidding? It isn't right that we've got some harmless girl holed up in here! It's all my stupid fault! If I'd only left her alone!" Jameson looked at his master's son with a sinking feeling in his heart. Alexander had been unbelievably stupid for doing such a thing as biting a girl without even thinking straight. He may not be like Alexander, but surely, his blood lust couldn't be so great that it took over his mind completely and stopped all common sense? There was nothing else they could possibly do, except look after the girl in the only way they knew how, in their home. He hoped Alexander could teach her what to do with her new-found vampiric personality, and perhaps, in time, she'd be OK with it. He just hoped she didn't run to the police in fear, and get them locked up. He could only imagine what they'd do to Alexander. They'd find him an odd creature, that's right, a creature, not a person. He'd be experimented on, they'd do everything they could to work out why and how he was a vampire. They'd never stop until Alexander had poured out all his secrets of his world. No. He had a duty to his master, he would protect the boy at all costs. If that meant keeping this girl here for eternity, it would be done. No questions asked. Jameson wouldn't fail.

"Alexander, it's doing no one good you complaining about yourself, is it? You make a mistake, you're doing all you can to fix it. Problem solved-"
"But it isn't solved!" Alexander cried, shaking his head so hid fringe fell all over his eyes. "Becky Miller is looking for Raven, she's even phoned the police! Raven has family, a foster family, but family! And a friend who's looking for her! Raven-" He was stopped mid sentence by a breezy, beautiful voice saying something in cool, intrigued tones.

"Raven? Did you say my name?" Raven had sat up, black hair falling in her eyes, grin wide, from ear to ear. Her face turned from happiness to bemusement to confusion in seconds. "Wait, do I know you?" Alexander gulped. Whoa, this one was going to be difficult to explain. He sighed, opening his mouth to tell her everything she needed to know. No use missing things out. She'd know everything soon enough anyway.

Thank you very much for reading!!! You know what to do . . .

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