Nite Bites
Nite Bites
“You know, Holmes,” I said, swirling the last drop of my lukewarm joe in the chipped mug, “not every bite mark in London is a vampire's love letter.”
“No,” he muttered, tapping the corpse’s neck with a pencil, “but when three Viscounts, a poet laureate, and the head of a tea syndicate are found with identical puncture wounds and posthumous euphoria—something’s nibbling beyond reason.”
We stood over Lord Penrose’s waxy corpse in his velvet drawing room. The man looked… pleased. Two perfect puncture wounds on his neck. Not a drop of blood left in him. His mouth curled in what I could only describe as post-mortem flirtation.
Holmes stood, pocketing the pencil. “Same bite radius. Same angle. Same post-drain grin. This isn’t murder, Watson. This is art.”
“That’s not comforting, Holmes.”
“Good. It’s not meant to be.”
“Remind me again why we’re here before the police?”
“Because Inspector Lestrade faints at the mention of ‘fangs.’”
A creak echoed down the corridor. I turned sharply, torch raised. Nothing but shadows... and the lingering scent of roses.
Chapter Two: The Woman in Crimson
I met her the following evening. Her. At a gala held in memory of the late Lord Penrose. Which was absurd, really—his body hadn’t even cooled before the caterers arrived.
She floated into the room in a deep crimson dress that looked like it had been stitched from the night itself. Dark curls framed her pale face. Her eyes… they knew things. Terrible, lovely things.
“Dr. Watson,” she said, and my name never sounded more like a sigh.
“Have we… met?” I managed. My knees briefly forgot how to be knees.
“Not yet,” she whispered, lips close enough to steal breath. “But I’ve read all your stories. Especially the ones where you bleed.”
Holmes appeared beside me like a judgmental shadow.
“Lady Camille Duvall,” he said, nodding stiffly. “Fascinating you would be here. Every place we investigate, you seem to arrive just before us. Or just after.”
She smiled, slow and feline. “Perhaps I’m simply drawn to tragedy.”
“Or causing it.”
“Now now, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I only bite the willing.”
I should’ve walked away then. But I didn’t. I was enchanted. I, Dr. John H. Watson, veteran of war, man of science… suddenly felt like an unattended neck at midnight.
Chapter Three: The Scarlet Trail
The next victim was found two nights later. A stage actor, draped over his dressing room chaise like a discarded poem. Same marks. Same grin. A single rose placed delicately on his chest.
Holmes stormed into 221B with an armload of case files and an air of fury.
“She’s playing with us, Watson! Leaving us breadcrumbs soaked in blood and perfume. And you—”
“What about me?”
“You’re infatuated.”
“I’m observant!”
“You’re bitten.”
He tore down my scarf. A faint red mark glared on my neck like a scarlet whisper.
“She kissed me,” I said, more defensive than I’d meant. “It was… a distraction.”
“It was a bite, Watson. She fed on you.”
“Well I’m still breathing!”
“For now.”
Chapter Four: Seduction and Stakeouts
We set a trap. An invitation sent to Camille under the guise of a masquerade ball—where Holmes would attend in disguise, and I’d play the foolish bait.
Which wasn’t far from the truth.
But when the torches dimmed and midnight struck, she didn’t show.
Instead, a note arrived. Written in deep red ink. Possibly not ink.
"Dear Sherlock,
You're clever, but you’ve never been delicious.
John, however… tastes like memory.
Don’t look for me tonight. Look behind you."
We did. And what we saw—
