No-Life Kid II

Dawn in the Pacific Northwest meant proper gray, the sort that settled into a man's bones and reminded him why the Empire had bothered conquering sunnier places. Three months of this particular routine, and Walter B. Dunham had developed what might charitably be called an appreciation for the Weatherell House, as distant as it was from home or the side of the country he had known for the last good decade.

Not that he'd grown comfortable with the bloody thing's peculiarities. Comfortable wasn't the word for a building that maintained its cedar siding like it had a personal valet, where morning mist pooled in identical patterns whether the sky was clear or clouded. Comfort required predictability based on natural law, not whatever arrangement this structure had negotiated with the fundamental forces of decay.

Built in 1911 by one Annalise Weatherell, the house was built with the architectural confidence that came with near-unlimited resources — for the time, at least — and rather deeply held convictions regarding the “imposition of man’s orderly hand upon the wild”.

At least, those were the words of the man that had it commissioned, according to the historical documents he'd researched upon their arrival. Monument to determination, more like. The sort of determination that said bugger the cost and practicality both, this is what home looks like and the forest can bloody well accommodate.

The locals, the older ones in the town of Forks specifically, had repeatedly insisted Annalise's husband had vanished within a year, chasing after a beautiful figure; an angel, a ghost, a fairy queen hidden in the forest. Soon after, his wife would follow behind, simply disappearing with her dress found in the woods, relatively unmarred. 

Stories varied, naturally. 

Wolves, witchcraft, simple abandonment. Typical American frontier nonsense, the sort of tales that sprouted like weeds wherever civilization met wilderness. 

Yet, the Weatherly house had become a thing out of those tall tales as the master had settled into his proper demense the way only one of his kind could. Not that Walter knew what his kind truly was. 

Cedar siding that should have borne some degree of rot decades ago in this climate showed no signs of moisture damage. Window frames that should have warped or split remained perfectly true. Paint that appeared freshly applied despite records indicating no maintenance crew had set foot on the property in living memory.

The house maintained itself with the same supernatural efficiency as its current master.

Naturally.

As he strode through large doors of solid, rich, and old wood, the entry hall welcomed him with familiar grandeur. Two stories of open-beamed ceiling, pale oak floors laid in planks that ran the hall's full length without visible joints. Antique sconces provided warm illumination that never required fuel, never burned out, never produced smoke or heat despite obvious flame.

Light pooled in exactly the right locations to guide movement, the architect from days past having understood rather well how people moved through domestic space, the slow meandering in which bodies shifted from public areas toward private ones. Professional work, that. 

The sitting room was no different, even with the new furniture the master had acquired for his home, all of it positioned to encourage either solitary reflection or intimate conversation, depending on occupancy.

The kitchen's modern appointments reflected more recent additions, and not a one of them cheap. Not that the master has care for money. Commercial-grade appliances that could serve a restaurant, knife collection that would make professional chefs envious, storage systems designed for someone who understood food as both sustenance and art.

A note hung on the refrigerator in script as ragged as any doctor he had ever seen: "Gone to market. Dinner preparations begin at 4. -A"

Miss Armstrong's dedication to culinary excellence remained one of the household's more conventional pleasures. As harsh a lass as she is.

Past the kitchen, duty called from below. The narrow hallway beneath the main staircase led to spaces Annalise Weatherell had never bloody well envisioned when her husband had commissioned the woman’s monument to proper civilization.

Temperature dropped with each step down. Halogen fixtures gave clean light without the warmth or flicker that might disturb what passed for sensitive operations in this household. Dark wood panels surrendered to more practical materials where aesthetics yielded to utility, which was how things should be done if you asked Walter. Function first, form when you could afford it.

The wine cellar held its fifty-two degrees with mechanical precision. Unlabeled bottles arranged according to criteria that had sod all to do with vintage or region. The secondary chamber housed furniture designed for comfort during extended observations. Leather that wouldn't creak under a man's weight, positioning that provided clear sightlines, ventilation that operated without so much as a whisper.

Professional work, that. Someone had thought this through properly.

Beyond that, the third space embraced function over form entirely. Concrete floors designed for easy cleaning. Fluorescent tubes that revealed every detail without romantic ambiguity. Metal lockers containing equipment that served purposes Annalise's generation couldn't have imagined, not that Walter was particularly keen on imagining them himself.

The drain running along the center led to disposal systems that had required considerable modification to accommodate their household's unique needs. Best not to dwell on the specifics. Some things a man accepted as part of his professional duties without asking for detailed explanations.

At the furthest end, the final door opened onto the chamber that had required the most significant structural work. Original foundation stones supported a raised dais holding furniture custom-crafted for one occupant's particular requirements.

The coffin rested in perfect horizontal alignment, black surface gleaming with intricate blue and silver trim that caught halogen light like scattered stars. Craftsmanship that belonged in museums, materials that had cost more than most people saw in a year. Proportions calculated for someone whose physical requirements differed significantly from standard human dimensions.

Which was putting it mildly.

Walter approached with measured steps, white gloves pristine despite the morning's various preparations. Military bearing governed his posture as he stopped before the dais, extending one carefully controlled hand toward the coffin's surface.

Three measured knocks, each separated by precisely two seconds. Timing mattered in this household.

"Master, it is time for school."

The response came with all the drama that the old man had come to expect. 

In front of his eyes, the lid rose on hinges that operated without sound, revealing an occupant who defied every natural law governing death, rest, and human limitation. The butler simply nodded calmly at the process, appreciation clear in his gaze. Three months of the same routine had a way of normalizing the impossible.

Slowly, impossibly, the figure rose at a perfect ninety-degree angle, eyes closed and hands folded across his chest with ceremonial dignity. Long dreadlocks hung loose and forward, partially obscuring features that belonged to someone barely past adolescence yet carried the authority of something far older and more dangerous.

Walter’s black-gloved hands remained at his sides as he stood at attention, his professional composure not shifting a whit. Part of the job description, wasn't it? 

Wake the master, prepare him a quick yet healthy breakfast and ensure a preparation of the day’s activities. That his new master happened to be undead rather than dying simply required slight adjustments to standard domestic protocol he’d been perfecting for the last ten years of his life.

Blue eyes opened with gradual precision, dawn breaking over dark water. Predatory awareness that acknowledged Walter's presence while cataloguing every detail of the chamber's current status. Professional recognition, vampire to butler. Each well aware of their role in this particular arrangement.

"Good morning, Walter," his vampiric master greeted, fangs showing as he smiled.

"Good morning, Master Cray."

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Morning routines were theater, and Zander had always been good at playing his part. Each little step in his daily preparedness ritual was very very important and the whole song and dance was very important in maintaining the masquerade (Ha!).

It was much less funny when that video game didn’t exist here, but the tabletop games did, so… that’s something at least.

The mirror in this stupid big bathroom showed him the same face as always, and yeahhhh, there was the face that kept fooling everyone. Baby cheeks that screamed seventeen and innocent, even with the locs doing their best to add some years. He patted his cheeks in the mirror, both palms drumming fast against the sides of his face with non-rhythm. Genetic lottery, my ass. 

He had no idea why women liked the idea of looking young forever, especially since undeath had frozen him just a hair past peak "aw, he's just a kid" territory. That was gonna be its own special hell if he couldn't figure out the shapeshifting game. 

Rolling his bright blue eyes, he picked up his toothbrush and went to work.

Did he need to brush his teeth? Nah…

Was it downright hilarious to pop out his fangs one by one and give them a little brushy-brush anyway? Absolutely.

The fangs slid out smooth, white as snow, sharp as fuck, and he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Two years of being a walking contradiction, and he still got a kick out of it... probably always would.

Dead but alive. Monster wearing human skin. 

Life's weird like that.

Shower next, because even if his body didn't technically need the hygiene anymore, his brain sure as hell did. Turns out dying and coming back as something else required some mental adjustments, and not all of them were pretty.

Water beat down on him, splattering off his head and shoulders, and Alexander Cray let his mind drift while his hands went through the motions. Soap, shampoo, rinse, repeat. Human things for a thing that wasn't human, but the routine kept him grounded. 

More than that, it kept him him, instead of whatever the bloodlust wanted him to become.

Out of the shower, towel around his waist, Zander walked his way back to the mirror for round two of morning self-assessment. The teenage vampire pinched both cheeks, feeling the not-so-slight give of baby fat that refused to disappear. Need to get rid of this. Looking seventeen forever was gonna be a special kind of torture, especially when he hit his mental thirties and still got carded at gas stations.

Assuming gas stations still existed when he hit his mental thirties.

The eye thing still bothered him, though. During his whole transformation scene, amid all the blood and chaos and refusing to die, his eyes had shifted from brown to blue. Glowing blue, because apparently his subconscious had a flair for the dramatic. Cool as hell, sure, but the change might be permanent, and he wasn't exactly eager to experiment with more advanced shapeshifting when the first attempt could've gone sideways.

"Alucard made this look so easy on the show," he grumbled, propping one hand under his chin to examine his reflection from different angles.

Which was a dumb complaint, and he knew it. Alucard was like seven hundred years old or something, right? Right? Hard to say, actually; his fault for only watching the abridged series and skimming wiki pages when he got confused about the lore.

How was I supposed to know this shit was gonna be relevant to my life?

Or unlife. Technically.

"Heheheh..." The giggle slipped out before he could stop it, and he shook his head firmly. "No giggling. You're a cool and collected vampire. A deadly vampire hunter, too. If you laugh, it's gotta be deep and evil sounding."

Speaking of evil, finding actual monstrous criminals in the Pacific Northwest was proving surprisingly difficult. Getting tired of running down South. Law and Order: SVU and Criminal Minds had convinced him that bad guys were everywhere, lurking behind every corner with dramatic backstories and twisted motivations. Apparently television had oversold the prevalence of dramatically evil behavior, because this corner of Washington was disappointingly law-abiding.

Couldn't even find any other vampires. Well, he knew where at least two different groups were hanging out in this weird sparkly world, but he was more focused on hunting the less vegetarian variety. The kind that actually deserved what he could do to them.

Time to get dressed, which was its own special challenge. Zander grinned at his full-length mirror while pulling on a black t-shirt, then paused as he reached for a denim jacket. The grin slid right off his face as he caught sight of himself.

"Yeah, I have no idea how to dress outside of vampire mode," he admitted to his reflection, taking in the jeans and denim combination with growing horror. "Look at this shit. I look Canadian."

The intercom crackled to life with Walter's crisp accent cutting through the mansion's acoustically perfect sound system. "Master Cray, the car is warmed up and waiting."

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming...." Now for the piece de resistance.

Zander clenched his right hand into a tight fist and raised it to his chest. This part always felt weird as hell. 

He drove his fist hard into his chest, wincing as the impact echoed out loud through the bathroom. Nnngh! A harsh cough burst out of his mouth, and he started counting. One... two... three...

THUM.

THUM-THUM.

THUM-THUM.

There it was. 

The steady rhythm of a heartbeat that shouldn't exist, muscle memory from when he'd been fully human. Blood started moving through his veins again, carrying warmth to limbs that had been cold and still. He let out a low wheeze as his chest rose and fell with actual breath, lungs working on autopilot as long as he remembered to keep the whole charade going.

It felt good, being alive. Even if it was temporary.

Zander picked up the black round sunglasses from beside the sink and slid them on, checking his reflection one last time.

He grinned. "Coming, Walter!"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

BMW leather had that rich smell that said money without having to flex about it, and Walter knew how to take these mountain curves smooth enough that Zander could close his eyes and just feel the road beneath them. January rain was doing its Pacific Northwest thing, turning the whole world into this gray-on-gray painting that never quite decided what season it wanted to be.

God, no wonder the vegetarians love this place. Looks like where Zack Snyder goes for inspiration.

Not that the director had dropped anything major yet, but Dawn of the Dead was a good enough watch. 

Zander rolled his shoulders as Walter pulled up to Forks High, enjoying the fact that he didn't have to deal with that prickly little bitch sunlight trying to make his day complicated. Sure, it didn't exactly hurt, but direct sun was still annoying as hell even after a year of supernatural existence.

Wonder how much blood I'll have to drink to get rid of that particular weakness.

Black sunglasses stayed put as he stepped out, despite the sky looking like someone had draped wet cotton over the whole town. No need to show off the bright blue peepers. His skin color already made him stand out in this overwhelmingly white little corner of nowhere, and explaining away bright blue eyes with this face with just colored contacts wouldn’t really work all that well.

"See ya, Walter!"

"Goodbye, Master Cray."

The BMW pulled away silent and smooth, leaving Zander grinning at the thought of Walter's afternoon plans. The man was so perfectly professional whenever they interacted, all "yes sir" and "certainly sir" and pressed uniforms. Did it really matter that he spent a good chunk of his free time climbing trees for hours? I don't think so. 

Man had hobbies. Who was he to judge?

… Zander’s lips turned down into a frown. I am his lord and master so… I’m the perfect person, actually… huh.

"Holy crap, your dad has a Beemer?"

Zander turned with that practiced smile, the one that said friendly but not too eager, as he came face-to-face with blonde enthusiasm wrapped in a seventeen-year-old package. Clean-cut, and slightly athletic, the guy in front of him looked exactly like the perfect boy-next-door that small towns mass-produced. Wholesome, friendly, and completely clueless that he was talking to something that could wipe out the whole school before second period.

"760li, yeah," Zander replied, shifting his backpack while his eyes catalogued the group forming around their little meet-and-greet. A skinny Asian kid with a swooping bowl cut that defied physics and good sense stood right next to a Black kid with a short afro that had never seen a shape-up. Poor guy. Right behind them were three girls. To the right was a pretty white girl with pale green eyes and blonde hair that caught light just right but with a look that was either too bitchy for eight AM or not bitchy enough, Zander honestly wasn’t sure. On the right was a thin brunette whose glasses screamed academic overachiever, and dead center in the middle was another blonde with a rounder face, watching him with the kind of interest that made teenage boys stupid.

I should have paid more attention reading Twilight. I don’t remember any of these guys. "And Walter's not my dad," he added, watching confusion spread across every face staring back at him.

It also wasn't Walter's car either, technically, but the man held operational authority over Zander's transportation, security, and basically everything that kept him functioning in the human world. For all practical purposes, Walter owned everything up here except the house itself.

"Who's Walter?" the Black kid asked, stepping up beside the blonde boy with an arm around his shoulder.

Zander raised an eyebrow, watching how the girls moved closer as the boys established their little formation. Ooooh, pack dynamics in real time. "Walter's my... manservant, I guess. Butler, really."

"You have a butler?" The question exploded from the blonde girl in the back as she pushed through the boys to plant herself directly in front of him. "Like, a butler, butler? British accent and all that?"

Oh... ohhhhh.

Whatever else she had to say got completely wiped from his brain as her scent hit him straight in the face, Zander's tongue almost flicking out to taste the air before he slammed his instincts back under control. Jesus Christ...

Pure sugar mixed with electricity and shoved right up his nose. Hot heartbeat wrapped in vanilla-flavored skin, citrus and honey and tangerines and ohsweetDraculainHellIgetit. His gums stung, mouth-flesh prickling as fangs twitched for freedom, desperate to drop right there in the school parking lot. Don’t you fuckin…  

Zander kept the smile on his face light as air, trying his hardest to look normal as he held his breathing steady while his dead heart tried to remember how to beat. Come on, c’mon, use your words. Use them.

"...Yeah, British accent and all that," Zander managed to talk without breathing in as the vampire tilted his head to the side. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to stop the short blond from stepping forward, her raw body heat radiating pure excitement and sugar and sweethoneyvanilladeliciousweetswee-. "...H-he kinda does everything f..."

"Bella!"

The blonde boy's shout cut through Zander's words as he caught the scent of teenage male hormones spiking and at least two different heartbeats picking up the pace. Competition anxiety mixed with hope, all wrapped up in that particular desperation that made high school boys predictable.

He turned as the main event approached their little circle, waving with that shy uncertainty that somehow made her more appealing to every straight teenage male nervous system in a fifty-foot radius. 

Basic psychology, really. People wanted what seemed just out of reach.

"Hi, guys."

Zander's gaze drifted back to Jessica, already talking a mile a minute about something while his eyes traced the line where her hair met her neck. I'm fucked... Not in any way that mattered to anyone else, but vampire instincts didn't give a damn about social convenience.

"H-hey."

The voice made him blink, Zander forcing himself to pull his attention away from Jessica's pulse point to meet a pair of brown eyes staring at him with sudden recognition. Interesting. "Uh... h-hey," she repeated, clearly not thinking this far ahead. "I'm Bella. You're new too, Alexander, right?"

His smile spread into a full grin. She knows my name. That was either very good or very bad, and Zander was betting on interesting either way. 

"You can actually just call me Z—"

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"—ander, you never told us about how you have a butler." Jessica Stanley's voice cut through the cafeteria noise, blonde energy maintaining that same curiosity she'd been radiating every free moment since this morning. Same curiosity that had her constantly in his personal space.

Constantly.

Constantly.

Enough to make a vampire boy cry tears of blood. I'm sorry for making fun of you, Edward Cullen.

Jessica didn't know her blood was liquid cocaine wrapped in vanilla skin, but that didn't make what she was doing any easier to handle. Girl moved closer every time she talked, leaning in for no reason, and Zander had to keep his breathing steady while her heartbeat hammered away six inches from his face.

Then again, who could fucking blame her?

A new kid in a town this size was guaranteed attention. Three thousand people before smartphones, YouTube, streaming, or any of that meant teenagers actually had to talk to people for entertainment.

Being a rich new kid with mysterious origins from across the country was basically social catnip to people whose biggest excitement usually involved hunting, fishing, or driving to a slightly bigger small town for dinner at Applebee's.

Which he'd expected, honestly.

Zander lifted his gaze from his bento box and thermos of tomato juice to smile at Jessica across from him, still mildly surprised she looked a little like Anna Kendrick despite the hair color difference. "How I have one?"

Giggle spilled from Jessica's mouth, Zander's eyes tracking the curve of her lips while her pulse jumped. "Yeah, li—"

"Like where do you even get one, you know?" Another voice interrupted with casual dismissiveness that said I control conversations here.

Zander nodded at Lauren Mallory, the other blonde at their table whose social positioning screamed main character until his arrival had shifted group dynamics. "Well, he kinda came with everything else I inherited."

"How did you get it..." Bella Swan's voice carried that careful hesitation that meant she was thinking too hard about her words. "...I mean, h... how did you get everything anyway?"

Why does she look like Anne Hathaway? Girl bore zero resemblance to Kristen Stewart despite occupying the same narrative slot, and Zander had to blink twice while processing that particular casting change. Mike Newton's glaring from two seats down wasn't helping his concentration either.

"...You know I'm an orphan, right?"

Bella blinked like he'd just spoken Mandarin, the palest Arizonan he’d ever seen clearly scrambling for appropriate words after his conversational brick to the face.

"Yeah, that rumor was going around," Jessica answered for her, giving the Swan girl time to recover.

Angela Weber cleared her throat with diplomatic precision, the taller girl with glasses sounding just as smart as she looked. "Yeah, nobody was just sure if it was true or not."

"Is it?" Tyler Crowley jumped in with morbid enthusiasm that made the actual vampire at the table give him an odd look.

Nigga, tone it down. "Yeah, I'm an orphan, but I found out I had a long-lost great-grandfather. He was about to die and he found me, left everything to me before he passed."

Their responses came in predictable teenage fashion:

Bella went quiet with a soft: "Oh."

Tyler: "Damn."

Mike: "That's… that’s crazy, man."

Lauren: "Right?"

Jessica: "That's so sad."

Zander nodded with appropriate solemnity. Really sad.

At least, it would have been if a single word was true. Harland Whittemore Kingsley hadn't been his great-grandfather. Wasn't even close to being related.

No, the old man had been some uber-rich Florida resident with no living relatives to contest will changes, not that it would have mattered anyway. All Zander had needed was to hypnotize the guy on his deathbed, convince him to sign everything over, and wait for nature to take its course. He might have felt worse about the whole thing, but Kingsley was the kind of dickhead who killed any sympathy you had for him in less than a single convo. If that wasn’t enough, the old guy had also done some very questionable things back when he was young, before DNA testing and modern criminology was a thing.

Just because of that, Zander hadn't just stopped at taking the guy's money.

He'd also taken the guy's butler.

Why? Because he'd wanted one, that's why.

He’d also taken the old man's personal chef, but Alexis Armstrong was her own complicated situation, no matter how exceptional and versatile her culinary skills proved to be.

The group continued their lunchtime conversation, Zander doing his best not to imagine Jessica feeding him her blood from a sliced finger as her smell drifted into his nose every time she moved. Focus on something else. Literally anything else.

Bella's gaze drifted toward the Cullen table, and Zander pretended ignorance when Jessica launched into gossip about the mysterious adopted family. He was aware all four vampires in attendance were sending discrete looks his way, wondering whether it was Alice's precognition or Jasper's empathy that had clued Emmett and Rosalie in on his nature.

Honestly, might just be the smell of dozens of people's blood on me. That was something he could never figure out how to quite get rid of just yet. No matter how many showers he took, the smell just kept sticking, like it was part of him. People couldn’t smell it and animals didn’t seem to either, but Zander couldn’t seem to get rid of what his nose could pick up..

His grip tightened around his warm tomato juice as he brought it to his face.

Yeah, the smell… that was probably it.

Or my food.

He glanced down at sashimi slices glazed with AB-negative medical pack blood, rice soaked in plasma-infused vinegar for texture. …damn. Wasn't trying to get figured out before my second day here.

Course, hiding what he was had never been the priority. Hiding what he could do was the important part. 

Jessica's voice pulled his attention back as she worked through her database of Cullen family dynamics, blonde enthusiasm making every piece of information breaking news. "Emmett's with Rosalie, and Alice is with Jasper, but Edward..." She paused, frowning slightly as her eyes tracked across their table. "No idea where he is, though."

Zander glanced back at Bella, brown eyes still fixed on the Cullen table with so much obvious longing that it made him want to laugh in her face. Girl’s so transparent it hurts. 

He was pretty sure Edward Cullen hadn’t even managed one conversation with her yet and she was already hooked, sitting there staring at his empty seat like it might manifest him through pure want. Poor kid doesn't even know what she's getting into.

Of course, neither did Edward, really. Vampire boy was about to get his whole world torn a-fucking-sunder by a human girl with boundary issues and a death wish, and he had no clue what was coming.

Zander's grin spread wider as he watched Bella's obvious disappointment. "Probably just taking a sick day."