Love’s Bite

by M.D. Smith

Detective Brent Pate had walked into plenty of dangerous rooms in his career, but none quite like the parlor of the Miles house, not too far south of downtown Richmond.

The old Virginia mansion loomed above the mossy oaks like a relic that had forgotten how to die. Its tall windows glowed amber in the midnight hour, and the air inside smelled faintly of old wood, candle smoke, and something coppery that Brent had learned to recognize in his line of work.

Blood.

Lady Miranda Miles glided ahead of him through the doorway, her pale hand lightly touching his sleeve as though guiding a guest to a ballroom rather than into the middle of a predator’s den.

Brent kept his expression relaxed. Friendly. A man from the lumber business who had met a charming woman at the Thirsty Turtle bar an hour earlier.

But beneath his shirt, taped carefully against his chest, a tiny microphone hummed softly.

Miranda turned to the gathering in the dimly lit parlor.

“Everyone,” she said brightly, “I’d like you to meet Brent Pate. We just met this evening at the Thirsty Turtle. Brent works in lumber.”

Brent forced a polite nod as a dozen pairs of eyes slowly turned toward him.

The room was filled with them.

The Family.

They sat around a long antique dining table like aristocrats from a long-ago century. Crystal glasses, silver trays, and candlelight gave the meal an almost elegant look—until Brent noticed what they were eating.

A platter of nearly raw rump roast glistened dark red.

Beside it sat small bowls filled with frogs’ eyes floating in a gelatinous brine.

Wheels of cheese had been sliced into delicate wedges, and several bottles of deep red port wine stood uncorked.

One of the elders rose slightly from his chair.

He was tall and thin, with snow-white hair and a tuxedo that looked older than Brent’s grandparents. When he smiled, two long canine teeth slid into view.

“Mr. Pate,” he said in a heavy European accent, “von’t you join us for a bite? Vee love company.”

Brent raised his hands politely.

“Uh… no thanks,” he said. “Had a lotta snacks earlier tonight.”

His eyes drifted around the table.

“Can’t help noticing all the protruding canine teeth around here.”

Several of them chuckled softly.

“Vel,” the white-haired elder said with a shrug, “eet runs in zee family.”

Brent nodded.

Inside, he was counting heads.

Ten. No—eleven, counting Miranda.

Every one of them matched the case files. Blood-drained victims. Bite marks on the neck. Bodies found in alleys, barns, and motel rooms across three counties.

His heart beat slow and steady. Training kept it that way.

Miranda slipped her arm around his.

“I think Brent and I will be retiring to my room now,” she said smoothly. “We need to get to know each other more… intimately.”

She winked at him.

Several vampires chuckled approvingly.

Brent smiled. “Sounds great.”

Miranda led him up the grand staircase, her movements graceful, almost floating. Brent noticed how the others watched them go—like wolves amused by a rabbit wandering deeper into the woods.

The bedroom upstairs was enormous, draped in velvet and candlelight. The moon shone through tall windows that overlooked the black woods behind the house.

Miranda turned toward him with a playful smile.

“I’ll just step into the bathroom,” she said. “Make myself more comfortable.”

The moment the door closed, Brent moved fast.

He tapped his chest lightly.

“They’re all here,” he whispered into the hidden microphone. “Whole family. Come now.”

He knew they were listening. Units were already moving.

Then the bathroom door opened.

Miranda stepped out completely nude, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight. She looked impossibly young and beautiful for someone who had probably walked the earth for eight centuries.

“What about coming?” she teased.

Brent blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just saying you’re beautiful, you’re—”

She pushed him onto the bed.

Miranda climbed on top of him, laughing softly, her hair falling like dark silk around his face.

Then she leaned down and kissed his neck, her tongue licking his skin like a cat cleaning herself.

“Wow,” Brent murmured.

For just a moment, he forgot the wire, the team outside, the case files stacked on his desk.

Her lips pressed harder. Her teeth followed. The bite was quick. Strangely numb.

Downstairs, the front door suddenly exploded inward.

“POLICE! DON’T MOVE!”

Gunshots thundered through the house.

Then came the sharp thwip–twang sounds Brent recognized from the tactical team’s specialized weapons.

Crossbows with ash-wood bolts designed for one purpose. Kill vampires.

Miranda’s head turned to listen.

Brent shoved her off the bed and rolled to his feet, reaching behind his back where a pointed ash-wood stake rested against his spine. He had mixed feelings about using it.

But Miranda had opened the window and was already changing.

Her body twisted and shrank, skin folding into wings, bones reshaping with a horrible cracking sound. Within seconds, a crow-sized black bat clung to the open window frame.

Her voice rose in pitch, echoing strangely.

“I love you, Brent!”

Brent froze.

“My love bite will make you immortal when you die,” she continued. “Until then… you have some of my blood in your veins.”

The bat fluttered into the night.

“I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Brent stood in the moonlit bedroom, the sounds of battle echoing through the mansion below. 

Slowly, he touched the numb spot on his neck. And wondered what, exactly, she had left behind, because he was missing her already.

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Author M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Spillwords, Flash Fiction Magazine, Flash Phantoms, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats. https://mdsmithiv.com/

Artist Basak Devrim Andreutti is a visual storyteller and oil painter with a BA in Communication. Having lived across three continents, she brings a global, human-centered perspective to her work. Her paintings explore memory, emotion, and the unspoken, translating inner states into visual form through layered, atmospheric compositions rooted in humanist values.