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It was horrible.

I left the house one afternoon- making sure, of course, that there were plenty of dark, stormy clouds- to tend the backyard for the week. It had been a beautifully wet day as well, with the smell of rain thick in the atmosphere and misty fog and cold chilly air and a smile on my face. Some bushes needed trimming, flowers needed planting. That was my favourite part. My boots squished in the dewy grass as I heaved the shovel and the cutters from the small shed, some feet from the house. Jovially I began to walk out across the property, my excellent eyesight guiding me through the fog. But something... something was not right. A smell I knew all too well filled my nose, metallic and sweet. Perhaps someone is hurt? However I learned the disturbing truth rather quickly. Twenty paces from the house, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Hiddleston lay before me in a most unnatural manner.

My beloved tabby rested on his back with his stomach gaping open, eyes completely black, and bones broken through the skin. Now, I knew well what death looked like. I had become accustomed to the smell, the sight of blood and the gagging in my throat. I did not even cry when I learned of my mother's passing. But now I felt the sobs building in my throat like an unstoppable avalanche. I knelt in the soft, wet grass, not caring for my jeans. I've had him for only four years, but he was one of my favourites. And to die like this?

"Baby," I whispered, rubbing his head gently. It hurt to see him so defiled. I sniffled and wiped away tears that had started to run down my face. He was a stray I'd rescued- ribcage visible, his nails in need of trimming, paws bleeding, dying of thirst, geriatric. He was so close to the end of his life... This is not fair.

I was crying so hard that I barely noticed and certainly didn't care that someone was approaching me from the small forested part of our property. He smelled of dog. But I just couldn't bring myself to even do anything about it. I have to bury my new friend. He died in so much pain.

Next thing I know, the air has been forced from my lungs as I collide with the ground. Something warm, and rather smelly, growls over me, pinning me to the ground. His breath is hot against my tearstained face. I just continue crying, rubbing at my eyes. Hiddleston's lifeless black eyes haunt my mind. He looked so afraid, so fragile. The warm body huddled close over me, and I could smell the anger radiating off him, but he was the closest living thing. So I hugged him and sobbed into his shoulder. "My cat-"

I was quickly pushed away, but nothing mattered anymore. Hiddleston's been murdered. "What's your problem?" The voice cut clear through my ringing ears. Deep and gruff.

My tears slowed enough that I could take a glance of my attacker. He sat on his heels, wearing some type of running shorts and a t-shirt, with short black hair and tanned skin. And deep brown eyes. Somewhat captivating. For a moment I almost- almost, forgot why I was crying. But behind him I caught sight of Hiddleston, and then the shaky breaths and gulped sobs returned. I pointed in the cat's direction without looking, afraid that if I did I would begin to hyperventilate. "My cat..." Deep breaths. "My cat's been murdered, sir."

He glanced back at the cat, and his cold expression softened into a slightly confused one. "Your cat?"

I nodded tearfully. Memories flooded to mind, of other cats' deaths as well. Hundreds filtered through my head, too many for a single generation. My first in 1834, some time before I'd been changed. He reminded me very much of Hiddleston. I wonder if he had been very aware of all the pain. Maybe it was quick- maybe that damage was done after his death.

Dog-man sat still for a moment, just watching me cry. I knew he was a werewolf. Now that I had calmed down a bit, I smelled it on him, like a wave of wet-dog. Why he wasn't killing me yet, I didn't know, but I wished he would. Anything was better than this feeling. I sniffed for a minute more, staring at the grass while he stared at me and everything was silent. He finally stood, pulled my shovel up off the ground, walked to the base of an elm at the edge of the sparse woods, and began digging. I watched solemnly, not questioning anything. Who cared? Hiddleston was getting a burial. He deserved so much more, though. Dog-man finished shoveling out a decent sized hole and gently lifted my beautiful tabby from the ground to place in the grave. Within minutes, the hole was refilled and my bloodied, tortured cat was gone forever.

He pulled me up by one arm with unexpected care. I let him, unable to do so myself, and focused on his hand. It was large and extremely warm against my upper arm, almost too hot. He sniffed the air and started for the house with me in tow. On the way there, I thought how today was so completely deceiving, as though someone prepared me for something amazing, then taken pleasure in seeing me emotionally destroyed. Poor Hiddleston...

"I'm sorry about your cat." We stood before my door, shoes side by side, fog so thick it nearly concealed them. I looked up through glassy eyes to observe my attacker(/savior?), not really comprehending his statements. He did not stand much higher than myself. "I'm also sorry for pouncing on you earlier. It was rude. I thought I would have to... I thought the scenario was different."

We stood together in an uncomfortable silence. I knew what he had planned to do.

"...My name is Ivan."

"Vincent," I answered, void of emotion. I heard Harim and Jacob moving swiftly through the house. Most likely they smelled the unusual visitor. Their eyes burned into my body as they peered through windows to spy, unsure if I required assistance. "Thank you for helping."

He stood there a moment longer. Then his large form wrapped around mine in a truly meant hug. It started a fire in my stomach that I hadn't ever experienced before. His unique scent filled my nose and his arms squeezed the life out of me. Then he was gone. Just like Hiddleston.

"Are you OK?" The door flew open and Jacob just about pulled my arm off while yanking me inside. His crystal blue eyes were wide with curiosity and excitement and he checked me all over, making sure I was not hurt. "Who was that? Why are you crying? Did he try to hurt you?" All I could think of was my poor cat's decimated body. The pain in my chest ached with longing and sorrow. When he decided I was in good condition, he pulled me into him- not waiting for any answers to his questions- and ran his fingers through my hair comfortingly. "Shh, baby, it's gonna be OK..." My sobs had started up again. I whimpered into his shoulder and hugged him close. Sometimes his position as the elder brother bothered me, since he was only changed twenty years ago. But now it was exactly what I needed.

I let him wipe some new tears from my face, his brow furrowed and lips pursed as I blubbered out the whole situation between shallow, shaky breaths. Mainly skipping over Ivan and concentrating on the real issue, Hiddleston's mistreatment and gruesome death. Harim lingered by the staircase to listen quietly, concern etched in his face pale face hidden behind deep brown hair. It was well-known that I cared greatly for my cats. Jacob sweet-talked me up the dim stairway to the bathroom where he washed my face, then led me into the bedroom and lay with me until I stopped crying and just stared sadly at the wall.

The week passed by sullenly. I tried my best not to obsess over my lost friend. But every morning when I went out to garden, I tended to the irises I had planted by his grave. Today I did the same, trimming weeds and watering well when I passed his tree. For a moment I stood in the mist and stared down at it, remembering when he had once sat on an open ketchup packet and had to receive a bath. A small smile graced my lips.

"I have a present for you."

I jumped at his voice and turned to look at him. He wore jeans and a coat this time, a backpack slung over his shoulders. The past week I hadn't been feeding or sleeping properly. I suppose it weakened my senses quite a bit, so much that I hadn't heard or smelled him approach. Not waiting for a response, he knelt and slipped his bag off to open it. He reached in and pulled out two large squirming balls of fluffy grey fur. One yowled hopelessly and tried wriggling from Ivan's careful fingers. "I got them from the shelter in the next town. They were found in a street drain three months ago, and no one's taken them yet. You want to name them? They're both girls." He leaned so close that our breaths mingled to hand me the cats. He was so incredibly warm.

They struggled in my arms for a few minutes, and then quieted into the crevice of my neck to nap. I couldn't believe Ivan- a werewolf- was performing a nice deed for a vampire. Most vampires didn't care one way or another for the wolfmen, but almost all wolfmen sought to kill any vampire they sensed. Certainly that's what Ivan had been set to do when we met. What stopped him? Why is he so kind to me all of a sudden?

"You name one," I whispered as I examined them, curling them close. "This one is Erin."

He thought for a moment, glancing around for ideas, I assume. What ideas for names would you find in a forest? "Renn." I noticed he was still quite close. My skin heated up at the short distance. "I hope you like them. Could... could I maybe come by again? To see them and... and to see you."

I smiled genuinely at him. It would be nice to have a new friend. His expression looked confused as I did, however, which in turn confused me. Perhaps he doesn't really want to be friends? Perhaps his pack wants him to gather information about us? Whatever it is, I did not care. We could escape easily if needed. "I've never been on friendly terms with a werewolf before," I managed to whisper. This would be interesting at the least. Hopefully very fun.

"Are you sick?" His voice interrupted me from my childish thoughts. I stepped back from him to increase the space between us. He was radiated too much warmth for my liking. "Sore throat or something? You were sick last week too."

I cleared my throat to begin, careful not to disturb the cats. "My voice has not been strong since I had been attacked by a werewolf who had ripped at my throat in an attempt to remove me of my head. Luckily Hamir- my master- had been there to save me. But I healed slowly, even with surgery from a human friend aware of vampires, and my vocal chords remain a tangled, unusable mess. That's how he described it, in any case." I chuckled silently to myself. "That was near 150 years ago."

He stared at my throat, noticing for the first time a series of short scars across it, and then at my face in wonder. "How old are you?" he asked quietly.

"I am perpetually 17," I answered. "In lifetime, I am 184. However I don't act my age in either number. That is something my family makes sure to remind me of often." I smiled again at the thought of Jacob and what he would say when I told him of this conversation.

Ivan's awed face tensed into one of listening. I heard nothing. Maybe he is speaking with pack members? But I tensed as well to listen, just in case. He relaxed and looked back at me in disappointment. "I have to go now," he said, jerking a thumb in the direction behind him. "Stuff to do back at the pack. But I'll come back. Is that OK?"

I just nodded. Renn snuggled further into my neck, tickling me with her long fur.

He smiled happily at me. Then he ran back into the mist.