Twilight is my favorite time. Those moments that sit between day and night. Since I do not partake in the sunshine, twilight has served as my dawn. I love the way the city comes alive at twilight. I suppose not all cities are like this, but Los Angeles is special in just about anyone's eyes. It is either Hollywood, or sunny beaches, or a den of iniquity, or some such view. But to me, it's simply... home.
Though after four centuries, even home can feel empty.
My name is Terrence Harold. But no one dares to call me that, even if they are among the few who might know my given name. Everyone calls me "Trip." How I came to bear that moniker is a long story involving a bad batch of blood from someone who neither looked nor smelled like a junkie. It took me by surprise. The rest is history.
I've lived here for the past fifty-some-odd glorious years. I have danced with Ms. Charisse and laughed with Mr. Gleason. I have shared bourbon with Dino and sensimilla with Jimi. It's been a wonderful time to be Valensi.
At least, that's what I tell myself. The truth is, after enough decades, even the most glittering parties begin to blur together. Even the most fascinating people become predictable. The ache of true companionship—someone who truly understands the weight of centuries—grows sharper with each passing year. Perhaps that's why I've grown reckless lately, seeking out situations that would have made my younger self proud. The old Trip would have appreciated the irony—that age hadn't mellowed me so much as made me hunger for the intensity I once took for granted.
I'll most likely get into trouble for using that word, by the way. The Hierarchy hates it when we get lumped into the fictitious world of myth and legend. We're simply a more robust version of humans and not even close to the characters described in Mr. Stoker's novel.
Although quite a large number of us live among the humans of this city and this country, we have our own type of government—the Hierarchy—consisting of a Council of six senior Valensi and their leader, Magistrate Winceslao Gaithersburg. More a tribunal than anything else, they maintain order through swift and vicious justice. Consider your own life of seventy to eighty years and how harsh having that life cut short by a death sentence would be. Now, consider one of us—who age at about one sixtieth the rate of humans—at the prime of our lives, say, three hundred years old, having that expansive future life cut off abruptly.
But I digress from the tale I am here to tell.
Two months ago, I was enjoying myself at a party thrown by a Hollywood mainstay. There were several others of us there—easy enough to spot if you know what to look for. The flawless complexion that comes from accelerated healing, the fluid way we move through crowds with our enhanced agility. But this particular night, there was one who caught my attention in a way that surprised me.
She moved differently than the rest of us. Where we typically glided with predatory confidence, she had a careful, almost hesitant quality to her steps. Her bright blue hair should have screamed for attention, but something in her posture suggested someone trying very hard not to be seen by the right—or wrong—people.
Her name, she claimed, was Greta. Most of us have aliases out of boredom if nothing else. Hers felt different—born of necessity rather than whim. I could tell, as she swept through the crowd of movie moguls, stars and hangers-on, that she was scanning them with the focused intensity of someone searching for either a lover or a victim.
When she caught my eye, I felt that familiar stirring of genuine intrigue—so rare these days. What I didn't expect was the way she paused, just for a moment, when our gazes met. There was something in her expression—a flicker of recognition that had nothing to do with knowing my face.
"Hi, I'm Greta," she said, approaching with that half-smile we give when we haven't filed our fangs down recently. Those of us who remain among humans tend to groom ourselves to look as human-like as possible. One-and-a-half-inch-long incisors are far from normal.
"Hello," I replied, wary but intrigued. Since she clearly knew I was Valensi, I was curious about her intentions. She extended her hand and I accepted it with proper decorum, placing my lips softly against the warm skin.
"Do you have a name?" She was careful not to smile any wider.
"Trip."
"Trip? That's it, huh? Hmm." Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "I wonder how you got that one?"
"Long story, I'm afraid." I wasn't offering anything more than necessary, though something about her made me want to.
"I have time," she responded. When I shrugged, her smile began to fade. "Want to go somewhere quieter? To talk?"
"Just talk?" I peered into her crystal blue eyes, noting how they almost matched her hair. She held my gaze and nodded toward the crowd.
"They're not really very interesting, are they?"
"Depends on how much bourbon I've had." She laughed—genuinely this time, not just politeness.
There was something in that laugh that suggested she understood the peculiar loneliness of being surrounded by people who could never truly know you.
"I'll be at Pink's later. If you decide you'd like to finish this conversation." Her touch on my arm lingered deliberately before she melted back into the crowd.
I should have let it go. When you're four hundred years old, however, curiosity can be overwhelming—especially when genuine intrigue is so rare. This was one of those times.
I stood on the corner of Melrose and La Brea at just past midnight, watching Greta work the crowd outside Pink's. Even from fifteen yards away, I could see her natural grace—the way she moved just slightly too smoothly for a human. She hugged and conversed with several patrons before noticing me. Several people waved farewell as she approached, and I caught sight of a man in sunglasses sitting at one of the outdoor tables.
Sunglasses at midnight. Only in L.A., I thought, though something nagged at me about him.
"You came," she said, reaching for my hand. "Walk with me?"
The simple touch sent an unexpected jolt through me. It had been decades since such casual contact felt meaningful.
"Sure," I said, allowing curiosity to override caution.
We strolled along La Brea toward Sunset, her voice carrying easily in the night air as she talked about Los Angeles. I found myself studying her profile, noting the precise way she stepped—like someone who had learned to control incredible strength. The faint luminescence of her skin under the streetlights confirmed what I already knew.
As we turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, she asked, "So, how long have you lived here?"
"A little over fifty years."
"Oh, wow. You must have some stories." There was genuine interest in her voice.
"A few. It's been... educational." I looked at her more closely. "You haven't been out in public long, have you?" Her laugh died instantly. "Your fangs," I explained. "Full length. Only those at the Citadel keep them."
The Citadel—seat of our government, home of the Magistrate and Hierarchy. Haven for those who could no longer move safely among humans.
"And that means?" Her eyes searched my face with startling intensity.
"What are you doing here?"
The question hung between us as we walked past Highland, the silence stretching almost to Vine. I could see her internal struggle, and when I noticed the small scar by her right eye, I was startled to see tears beginning to form.
"I'm sorry," she said, brushing at her eyes.
"Perhaps I was rude. I apologize."
"You were just being Valensi—paranoid and careful. The question just... brings up things I'd rather not remember." She managed a sad smile. "We all have our skeletons, don't we?"
When she stopped walking and turned to face me, I could see her gathering courage. "I used to be a nice person. Then I became Valensi and I let the hunger take over. For decades, I reveled in it—the power, the hunt, the absolute control over life and death. I told myself it was just our nature." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I became everything the worst stories say about us."
"That happens," I said gently, taking her hand. "The transformation is overwhelming. If we're lucky, we find our way through it."
"It took me almost sixty years." Her tears began flowing freely now. "There was this girl—barely eighteen, living on the streets of Amsterdam. Natalya. Russian refugee, sweet as could be. I'd been... feeding regularly in that area, and she'd started leaving me little drawings, thinking I was just another homeless person who needed kindness." Elizabeth's voice broke. "I didn't know. I was so lost in the bloodlust that I didn't even recognize her when I... when she became my next meal."
I felt my chest tighten. I knew this story—not hers specifically, but the shape of it. The moment when you realize what you've become.
"But something happened. As I held her dying, she looked at me and smiled. She said, 'I hoped you'd find somewhere warm tonight.' Even then, even as I was killing her, she was worried about me." Elizabeth was sobbing now. "That's when I truly saw what I'd become. What I'd been doing to innocent people for decades. I haven't taken a human life since."
The raw pain in her voice hit me like a physical blow. How long had it been since someone had shared such devastating honesty with me?
"I understand now why you seemed out of place at that party," I said. "The fear of being recognized, the loneliness of carrying that kind of guilt."
"I'm not hiding anymore, Trip. I decided I'd rather live as well as I could for as long as I could. But I had to leave San Diego when things got complicated."
"How so?"
"There was a Hunter killing us off. Some of our people turned the tables, started hunting him back. He kidnapped one of us, and her lover was a Protector." I inhaled sharply. Protectors—the Hierarchy's brutal enforcers, operating alone, answering only to the Council and Magistrate Gaithersburg. "I couldn't join the fight. If the Protector had recognized me..."
"What did you do that made you a fugitive?"
She squeezed my hand tighter. "August 1926. Amsterdam. I was trying to make amends, helping the homeless, when I came across another Valensi feeding. It was the same area where I'd killed Natalya, and when I saw him drop her lifeless body like trash..." She shuddered. "I couldn't let it happen again. I tried to stop him."
"Self-defense isn't a crime."
"It is when you kill a Protector."
The words hit me like ice water. Killing a Protector wasn't just murder—it was an attack on the Hierarchy itself.
We found a transit bench and sat as Elizabeth composed herself. I checked my watch: nearly four AM. Dawn was approaching—we'd need shelter soon. Even with my decades of building tolerance to sunlight, I wasn't eager to test it without proper protection.
"That's not my real name," she said suddenly. "I'm Elizabeth. Elizabeth Townsend."
"Elizabeth." I smiled, squeezing her hand. "Thank you for trusting me."
Something nagged at the edge of my consciousness—a persistent feeling I was missing something obvious. The man in sunglasses flashed through my mind again. Pink's. Walking away from us. Always at the periphery...
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth asked, but her question was answered by another voice.
"His senses are failing him, I would say." The man in sunglasses emerged from the shadows behind us, moving with the fluid silence that marked him as Valensi. How had I missed the signs? "Though perhaps age is finally catching up with the infamous Trip."
"You've been following us," I said, already knowing the answer.
"You've been a very bad girl, Elizabeth." The Protector's smile revealed unmodified fangs. British accent, close-cropped black hair, 'London Calling' T-shirt. "You killed one of our own. We don't forget."
I stepped protectively in front of Elizabeth. "She was defending herself. You'll have to go through me first."
"Terrence Harold," he said, clearly relishing my real name. "Your European reputation precedes you. All those lovely decades of chaos and hedonism. Bodies scattered across three countries before you learned... discretion." His eyes gleamed with something like admiration. "I am Alexei. And I've been looking forward to this."
My past—the centuries of reckless adventure, of treating humans as playthings, of reveling in power without consequence. I'd thought those days were buried, but apparently some reputations never fade.
"You know what I'm capable of," I said.
"Indeed. You were quite the artist of mayhem. I find you... challenging. We don't get many worthy opponents." He glanced at Elizabeth. "She got lucky once, killing Dmitri. Beginner's fortune."
Dmitri. The Protector she'd killed had a name, a history. Alexei hadn't just tracked her down out of duty—this was personal.
The attack came faster than I expected. I managed an uppercut to his solar plexus, using his momentum against him, but the impact sent shockwaves through both of us. Blood seeped through his shirt as we separated, circling each other.
"This is my fight," Elizabeth said, but I didn't take my eyes off Alexei.
"Are you kidding?" I grinned at him. "At least I'm not bored anymore."
For the first time in decades, I felt truly alive. The danger cut through the numbness that had become my existence.
He leaped. I tried to block but he was faster, his fist connecting with my skull. I staggered left, barely avoiding his follow-up. We measured each other, predator to predator.
"I should tell you my name," he panted, "so you'll know who ended the great Trip's legend."
"Such arrogance." I'd met his type before—Protectors who lived for the hunt. But his confidence worried me. If he knew my history and still felt this sure of himself...
I feinted and kicked hard into his ribs, enough to wind him but not slow him much. His responding kick to my knee nearly buckled me, but I was already moving. We traded blows, both of us bleeding now, the transit bench splintering under our impact.
"You really are annoying, Terr—" His words cut off, eyes widening. Elizabeth stood behind him, a jagged piece of wood from the broken bench protruding from his back.
He spun with inhuman speed, grabbing her throat and hurling her into the street. She hit the asphalt hard, not moving. By the time I reached them, he had her neck in his hands.
I grabbed the wooden stake and drove it deeper, angling for his heart. The natural chemicals in the wood would poison his system, but only a direct heart strike would kill him. His convulsion told me I'd found the mark.
Elizabeth collapsed, unconscious but breathing. Alexei turned on me one last time, leaping with his full weight. My head cracked against the pavement, and darkness took me.
Elizabeth's bruised face swam into focus, her blue hair catching the moonlight. "You did it," she whispered hoarsely. "He's dead."
I sat up, the world spinning. Street people watched from a safe distance as I got to my feet. All that remained of Alexei was a greasy ash stain on the asphalt—the wood's poison had done its work.
"We should go," Elizabeth said. "Dawn's coming."
She was right. The eastern sky showed the faintest hint of gray. Even with my built-up tolerance, I'd need sunblock and protective clothing to function in daylight. Elizabeth, without such preparation, would be in agony within minutes of sunrise.
"Will the Hierarchy come after us?" she asked.
I looked at the dissipating ashes. "From what Alexei said, this sounds like his personal vendetta, not an official assignment. They might not even know he was tracking you. But eventually, when they notice he's missing..." I shrugged. "We'll deal with that when it comes."
"Haven't you done enough?" she whispered, managing a smile despite her injuries.
I looked back at the ashes, then at the street people still staring after us. For the first time in decades, I felt the possibility of genuine companionship. Someone who understood the weight of our existence, the burden of our past mistakes. The loneliness that had been my constant companion finally had competition.
"Hey," I said, offering her my arm as we walked into the fading night, "it's just another night in Hollywood."
Though as we moved together through the empty streets, I knew it had been anything but ordinary. We were both fugitives now, both carrying the weight of Protector blood on our hands. But perhaps that was exactly what we needed—someone who understood not just the centuries of existence, but the cost of the choices that defined us.
The Hierarchy would come eventually. But for now, in these last precious moments before dawn, we had found something neither of us had expected: each other.