So this story was originally going to be a short one. But the creativity bug bit me and gave me too many ideas.

Beware, this may be kinda dark. And it might include some True Blood references that could be unfamiliar to those who don't watch the show... but those will be explained throughout.

Also, just want to mention, I might not follow the True Blood universe 'lore' to the letter. So if you are an expert on that stuff and you see me bending the rules, know that I'm just doing it for the sake of the story =)

Santana

Over two-hundred years old and where do I find myself sitting on a pathetic, self-loathing Friday night? In a damn redneck bar, somewhere in 'fuck knows' Louisiana.

How did I get here? That's a long story. One I can't even be bothered contemplating as I finish off my second Tru Blood for the evening and wipe the faint, crimson stain from the corner of my lip.

It doesn't help. Not even close.

I'm surrounded by the lowliest of the disgusting plague that calls itself 'humanity', the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat and overcooked cow-meat permeating my nostrils. Idiotic hicks are dancing in couples by the shoddy old jukebox, overweight truckers choking down beer and playing pool, the waitresses screeching orders across the bar. If I didn't still ache for the satisfaction that only human blood could give me, I might wish the whole lot of them never existed in the first place.

But then again, if they didn't, neither would I.

After all, I used to be one of them. A long, long time ago.

I cringe at the irrelevant memory.

Tonight, my patience is severely dwindling. I'm about a half-second away from sweet-talking the next pretty young girl I see, taking her out back and ripping into her jugular, just to quench the unbearable need to surrender to my animalistic side.

It has been so long since I fed on someone. As much as I'd like to pretend I want to mainstream for the good of us all, Tru Blood can only extinguish the thirst so much. Besides, I can always glamor the memory away. And then I can simply get on my bike and move on to the next town before anyone is the wiser.

I eye the throngs of bar patrons, trying to spot a worthy mark, but then a scent hits me. Strong. Perforating. Unlike anything I've ever experienced before.

It's syrupy and light. It's innocence and purity and sex all rolled into a single, sensory explosion. And somehow, it reminds me of what I think sunshine used to feel like.

My fangs instantly spring forth in hunger, fingers making grooves in the wood of the table in front of me as I force myself to remain seated. I don't even know where the heavenly scent is coming from.

I only have to wait a few moments to find out though.

With a sharp increase in intensity, the source of the aroma bursts through the bar door. She flicks her golden hair and sends a wave of ecstasy my way as she makes her way over to the counter. A low growl rumbles up into my throat and I feel the eyes of a few nearby hicks following me closely.

Her eyes are blue-gray, clear and wide, searching for assistance. Long fingers flex to hit the bell on the counter and a shiver runs up my spine at the sound.

"Excuse me?" A timid, sweet voice. "I'm having some car trouble and I was wondering if I could I use your phone?" She asks politely when the bartender steps up to her.

She can't be much older than 18. And although I feel the self-hatred already soaking what little remorse I still possess, I know I have to have her. The twitching of my tense muscles is a testament to that. Control is not an option. She smells too good. Far better than any human I've ever encountered.

First though, I have to get her alone. And knowing I can't give away my true motives just yet, I force my fangs back into hiding and I'm out of my seat and standing beside her, blurring the air with my speed before the bartender can even respond to her request.

"Maybe I can help you with that."

She turns, an oblivious smile gracing her gentle features. "Really?" There's a light dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks, the pale pink of her lips glistening slightly with gloss. Up close her scent is even more irresistible. I feel my nails piercing the skin of my palms despite their shortness. She's so naive. So sweet. So beautiful. The epitome of the small town country girl without any of the coarse, trashiness of the other occupants of the bar.

"Yes." I practically pant.

I don't know how much longer I can restrain the urge to tear into her creamy, supple flesh. The rhythmic beating of her pulse is taunting me, echoing loudly in my ears like a drum calling me to war. In complete opposition to my cool body temperature, my skin feels ablaze with want. She's all around me.

"I'm a mechanic." A blatant lie but a perfect opportunity to withdraw us both from prying eyes. I do know a thing or two about cars. I reason that it won't be hard to fake having such a menial job.

I watch her appraising me. I wonder if she can tell what I am by simply looking at me. The bartender seems anxious to warn her.

"I know I don't dress like it, but I am." I flash a charming smile - the first that I've managed in longer than I remember. I know it must be slightly pained with the force of my self-control. My head has begun to spin and weigh heavy on my shoulders. Never before have I felt such a felt deep, painful call to feed. Not even when I was first made.

She twists her thin lips in thought and pauses for a long moment. Her stare is both confused and curious. I impatiently glance over to the ever present, jumpy bartender, silently demanding he back away if he knows what's good for him.

Finally, she relents. "Okay, my car's just outside." With a carefree shrug, she spins on her heel and leads the way out.

I briefly entertain the thought that she's probably never even seen a vampire up close before. We've only been 'out' in public for about six months or so. And this is an incredibly small town. If another of my kind had ever set foot within a few yards of her, I'm sure she would have lost her throat long ago.

Although it's a warm evening, the atmosphere is much less suffocating once we're out in the parking lot alone. With the bar behind us, I have to fight even harder not to lunge forward and hold her down so viciously against the hood of the nearest car that the bones in her wrists shatter.

"It's this one here." She perks up brightly, gesturing towards a fully-restored, black, 1967, Ford Mustang GT.

I quirk one disbelieving eyebrow at her. "That's your car?"

She giggles - a tingling lullaby to my ears. "Well technically it's my Dad's."

"That explains it." I hum and take a step forward, clenching my jaw with the need to inhale deeply once I draw closer to her. "So what's the problem?"

"I'm not sure. There was smoke coming from under the hood while I was driving. Do you want me to pop it open for you?" She scrunches her nose in question.

I nod and trace every movement she makes as she glides gracefully over to the driver's door and opens it to reach inside. I feel my jaw and lips twitching at the way the lean, defined muscles in her legs flex beneath her cut-off denim shorts as she bends over, her perfect ass wiggling inadvertently when she drops down further to release the lock on the hood.

When she straightens back up, gaze expectant and sunny, I stalk over to the naked engine.

This is probably the part where I should tell her to turn on the ignition so I can try and determine what the problem is. But I have no intentions of fixing anything for her. There's nobody else outside. We're all alone. And when she sidles up next to me, curious eyes darting down to the place where my hands are absently fiddling with a meaningless screw, I know I have her exactly where I want her.

"My name's Brittany by the way." She rattles off, her tone somewhere between friendly banter and light flirting. She rests her elbows on the strip of metal lining the front side of the hood, watching patiently as I 'work' and giving me a pristine view of the cleavage peeking out from beneath her atypical white tank top.

Beneath my lips, my sharp canines jut out once more and stop me from responding. Everything about her is teasing me. I wait a beat, knowing I can't prolong this anymore. My stare is fixed to the large vein bobbing up and down on her neck. It mimics the itching of my fangs, the throbbing between my legs.

Her brief air of playfulness is wiped away when she senses the change. She suddenly flinches and levels her back. "Are you okay?"

I allow my lips to part just slightly.

Her eyes widen in recognition. "You're... You're a..."

I snarl and surge forward, unwilling to even let her finish her sentence. One of my arms wraps around her body, holding her close and pinning down her fighting limbs, while the other wrenches open the back door of her car. I throw her inside.

She looks absolutely terrified, sprawled out on the leather backseat. And she's starting to smell even better than before.

My eyes roll back into my head for a brief moment at the blissful fragrance and a delighted smirk crosses my lips.

Then I propel myself inside with her, slamming the door shut behind me before straddling her prone form. I deftly pinch her arms to her sides with my knees and waste not a second longer before sinking my teeth into her virgin neck like it was warm butter.

Her heavenly taste gushes into my mouth and I moan. It's so much better than I imagined. I'm swallowing mouthful upon mouthful and begging for more.

If I were paying attention, I might hear her fearful pleas for me to stop, but I don't. I can't focus on anything besides the warmth of her blood, the thick and sugary spurts, and that way it makes my tastebuds crackle. A furious tingle is making its way down my throat and heating my torso as I take all that she has to offer and make it a part of me.

I feel her hands twitching at her sides. Her legs are kicking at the door beneath me. But I just bite down harder, spurred on even more by her fighting.

Her alarmed struggling eventually dies down and she releases defeated moans of agony and rapture. I've heard it so many times. I know that being drained is simultaneously both an excruciating and euphoric experience. Yet her sounds are somehow different. They bring goosebumps to my arms and make me press my hips down in search of friction.

In my frenzied feeding, I surprisingly find it within myself to tear my mouth from the glory that is her jugular, to stare into her half-closed, doe eyes.

"What are you?" I groan, enchanted, and not really caring about the answer. She's too exhausted and overwhelmed to reply anyway.

I scratch over her exposed biceps appreciatively with my fingernails, licking at the fresh layer of blood coating my lips. She is even more beautiful like this. She knows I'm going to kill her but there is a strange flicker of trust in her face, like she too feels that unspoken connection that is tugging at the pit of my stomach. Like this is how it's meant to be. This is where it's supposed to end for her.

I can't dwell on it any longer though. I reattach my mouth to her neck, the other side this time, just to feel the thrill once again of piercing her previously untainted flesh. She whimpers loudly, her whole body jerking up in pain. I smile against her skin, sucking down every last drop she has to offer.

She tastes better than any love, any happiness, any paradise I've ever even dared to dream of. I feel her muscles uncoiling, giving in completely. I let go of where my hands hold down her shoulders and use them to hold her head. Her hair is soft as I tangle my fingers in it and smells like strawberries and cream.

Her heart slows as her breathing starts coming in desperate, pained gasps. The heavenly stream flowing into my mouth is thinning. I suck harder, unwilling for the pleasure end. Her sob is barely audible this time.

I ravage and consume and digest until nothing remains.

And then finally, everything stops.

I open my eyes, leisurely pull out my fangs from within her and lap at the area surrounding the deep puncture marks. I want to bask in every last remnant I can find. If her blood was spilt onto a filthy men's room floor, I would gladly fall to my knees and lick it up. That's how incredible it tastes.

Eventually though, there is none left and I sit back to observe my work. Her mouth hangs open in a silent scream and her fingernails are pressed so hard into the seat that her cuticles are tinged with red.

For a few moments, I'm content to stare at her lifeless form, a pleased smile on my face and a steady, satiated throb in my chest... but then my gaze falls on her still open eyes.

The vibrant blue is completely dulled. For some unknown reason, it physically hurts me to see them so devoid of life, and I can't help the panic that begins to rise like bile. Why does it feel like I've done something wrong?

I can easily cover up a murder. I've done it hundreds of times in the past. It's not like I've never gotten carried away while feeding before. So I know that it's not my survival instincts kicking in. It's something much more.

My heart, the useless muscle that lies limp in my chest and unable to beat, is aching. I want to see her eyes again.

No, I need it.

More than I needed to taste her. More than I needed to drain her life away.

I need to give it back - if only so that I can see the sparkling light that once dwelled in stormy blue.

I don't understand why she is so important or why I crave her presence so intensely now that it is gone. I can't even begin to comprehend this unfamiliar sense of shame and regret that is urging me to act.

So I just follow it blindly. My intuition has never steered me wrong before. And if it's telling me to make her, to bring her back to the waking world so that I can claim her as my own, I will relent.

She will be my first. My companion. My daughter. My progeny.

I break open the veins on my left wrist with my still erect fangs and gently lean forward to grasp her jaw. I hold my arm out over her tongue and allow the dark red droplets to land in her mouth. I stay in that position for perhaps longer than I need to, reopening the wound when it automatically heals itself. I want to be absolutely satisfied that she will return to me once I'm through.

When my body mends itself for the third time though, I realize I have done more than enough. I reverently close her eyes with my fingers, stopping for a moment to stroke along her cool, pale cheek. I let a faint smile creep onto my lips. When she wakes up, she will be mine. Forever.

But first, we need to sleep.

With an impatient grunt, I remove myself from her wondrous curves and open the door. If her car's engine was in better condition, I would really enjoy taking it for a spin. It is, after all, a beautiful machine. And it would make transporting her body to the nearest cemetery or vacant field that much easier. The alternative is my bike. I know it's going to be awkward at best to keep her balanced in front of me while I steer. Although it seems as if I have no other option at this point. I need to get out of here before the bar closes and patrons begin piling out, eager to gawk and protest as I carry off my young victim.

I wistfully wonder if maybe we can come back for her car another time.

A short time later, I am arranging her precariously on the seat of my dark platinum, Ducati Streetfighter – an excellent pickup from the garage of a pretentious businessman in Baton Rouge. That idiot had about as much clue as to how he lost his bike and about three-thousand dollars out of his safe as he did that his teenage daughter was a hardcore fangbanger.

Man that was a sweet deal.

But that's another story, and I have much more important things to focus on as I slide in behind her, her body flopping back into me, fair head lolling to the side. The whisk of hair against my neck tickles when I kick-start the engine. I push down the childish urge to bury my face in its softness and with a firm twist of my wrist, we roar from the gravel parking lot, leaving a trail of grey dust in our path when we peel onto the road.

It's only a few miles down the road when my night-trained eyes land on the perfect spot – a semi-secluded field, with ancient oaks framing the outskirts. I settle my bike behind the largest trunk I can find, ensuring it's not visible from the road.

And then I sigh deeply.

I don't have a shovel. Fuck.

I refuse to get dirt under my fingernails. And it occurs to me then that I can't do this by myself even if I wanted to. I'll need some help covering us once we're in the ground. I guess she won't be my little secret after all.

Draping Brittany over my shoulder, I take a few steps into the field and lie her down gently on the dead grass. Then, with several annoyed cracks of my neck, I reach into my pocket to retrieve my cell phone and jab two on the speed dial.

"Mike? I'm gonna need a hand."

My brother - not by blood, but joined through our maker - is all too ready to offer the assistance I need. Michael and I have always been there for each other in decades past, and though he is an enthusiastic advocate for mainstreaming and departed from his murderous ways long ago, he doesn't judge me too harshly for my indiscretion. He understands the compulsion to feed and the ongoing struggle to maintain control.

With an oddly proud nod and a promise to be on call should I need his help the following night, Mike buries us in the dirt with the care of a doting mother placing her tiny infant into a crib. He's eager to meet the new addition to our family. I can tell.

Once we are completely covered, I hold tightly to Brittany's corpse, smelling as the early morning sunlight begins to permeate the earth around us. I know my slumber will be a peaceful one. I will embrace the visions of her formerly brilliant blue eyes and the lingering memory of her muffled screams, because when I return to the conscious world, I will have her once more.

Brittany and I will be together. She will belong to me until the skies turn dark and the ocean is sucked dry. And we will embrace the end of time as one.

I am woken abruptly from my contented slumber by an incensed growl. Brittany claws out from our resting place, wasting no time in discovering her newfound speed and strength, and let's out an inhuman cry.

I'm not far behind her, springing to my feet and attempting to grasp her by the shoulders. She's pulling at her hair. Her fangs are bared and she's twisting and writhing violently. She's wild. Just like all newborns are at first. I remember the feeling well. The hunger, the rage, the blinding confusion.

"Brittany." I beckon firmly. I take her by the face and force her to look at me. "Calm down."

When her eyes find mine, I can't help the sudden relief that floods through me. That intoxicating spark is back. The connection is not lost.

But the sight of me only seems to anger her more.

"You!" She snarls. Her voice is nothing like that soft melody I recall from the previous night. "W-what's going on? Why do I feel so different? What am I?"

I stare into cloudy blue. "You know what you are." I say knowingly.

She glances down, eyes darting over my feet in disbelief. She can feel what she has become. It courses through her now stagnant veins. I permit her a few more moments of silent contemplation before I speak again.

"My name is Santana." I tilt my chin up proudly. "And I am your maker."

"Maker?" She looks back up and furrows her brow at me. "You... You turned me into... this?" She grits her teeth together. She must know she doesn't threaten me. I find it endearing that she tries regardless.

I nod once in confirmation.

I suspected this would happen. Young vampires rarely take well to the change. They begin their immortality with self-hatred and bitterness. They blame their creators for ripping away their humanity, for turning them into soulless creatures of darkness. And although she may resent me now, she will soon be grateful for the gift I have given her. Once she sees her power, her freedom, her strength, she will thank me. She will worship my very existence for granting her the opportunity to walk in a world that so many could only dream to set foot in.

"No." She shakes her head and thrashes in my hold. "I... I don't want it... You can't do this."

"It's done Brittany. I have given you a chance... a chance to become so much more than your mortal life could ever allow."

"But... my mom and dad... my little sister... my friends..." Crimson tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes.

I pull her head into my shoulder and make noises of comfort while I stroke some clumps of dirt from her hair. "I am your family now. You don't need anyone else."

She propels me back with a sharp push. "No! Leave me alone!" She screams.

Before I can say anything more, she has taken off at full speed, her blur weaving between the trees at the edge of the nearby road and carrying on into the distance.

I sigh and roll my eyes. What a stubborn girl. I know I'm going to like her already. With her glistening white fangs and deathly pale skin, she is somehow even more beautiful and graceful now than she was before.

Within about thirty seconds, I've caught up to her. I pounce, tackling her to the ground.

"The quicker you accept this and move on, the quicker I can show you how incredible it is to be a vampire." Being on top of her again reignites my feelings from last night and my own fangs extend forth impatiently. She is so enticing spread beneath me on the ground...

But there are much more pressing matters at hand. I don't have time for lustful cravings.

The brief moment of distraction enables her to make her move. She's flexible. I can tell by the way she twists her legs up and flips us over so she can straddle my shoulders. "I don't want to be a vampire."

"Come on, Brittany. You must be hungry." I smirk below her.

Her nose and lips twitch. "No."

My smirk only grows. "You can't lie to me. I know that you want nothing more than to rip into the veins of some feeble human's neck... Do you really think your so-called family and friends would understand you now? You can't go back to them. So why are you running?"

A flash of hurt and recognition crosses her features. She knows that I am right. "No." She shakes her head again, climbing off of me. "I... I can't."

Her voice wavers. I know her restraint is wearing thin. Despite the sadness of her loss, she can't deny her natural instincts.

"Just let me find someone for you to feed on." I sit up, casually fixing my hair. "Once you've eaten, things won't seem so dire. I promise."

She watches me for a long moment. Her thoughts are most likely a turbulent war of what she was previously taught to believe was right and wrong. She doesn't realize yet that none of that matters anymore.

"No!" She suddenly roars, turning in place to bolt off into the distance once more.

I'm not in the mood to chase her again though. We haven't got time for this little game. She needs to feed and I need to show her how. I need to guide her through these first difficult hours. And once she is no longer ravenous, and has taken a moment to accept her fate, things will be much easier for both of us.

"Brittany! As your maker, I command you to stop!"