Lifetimes of You [Vampire POV]

(Asal Sarawak, 1800s)

I saw her first at the river.

She stood knee-deep in the water, washing clothes with the other women from her longhouse. The golden light of dusk shimmered on her skin, catching in her dark, damp hair. She laughed, a soft, carefree sound that sent ripples through the air, more intoxicating than the scent of fresh blood.

I stood at the edge of the rainforest, watching.

I had wandered for months, traveling through unfamiliar lands, seeking nothing in particular. I told myself I had left my coven to see the world, but the truth was simpler—I was tired. Tired of wars, of politics, of the endless cycle of bloodshed. My kind had spent centuries fighting the dhampirs and witches, all because a single love story had broken the natural order. A vampire and a witch had dared to create life, and their child had turned against us. A war that began with love and ended in vengeance.

But I was not interested in their battles.

I had already lost my own life a thousand years ago. My leader had stolen it from me, turning me into something unnatural. They say when a vampire dies, there is no salvation—our souls are dragged to hell, our bodies consumed by fire. If damnation awaited me, then I would at least live on my own terms.

Yet, standing at that riverbank, watching her, something stirred deep inside me.

A whisper of something lost. A memory I should not have.

I had seen her before.

And yes, I did meet her again.

Once, I saw her weaving mats on the longhouse veranda, her delicate hands moving with practiced ease. Another time, I watched her cooking with her mother, the scent of rice, meat and fresh herbs clinging to her skin. And many times, I followed her to the riverbank—to wash clothes, to fetch water. Sometimes she was with her friends, other times, she was alone.

I learned that she was from the House of Mayang. That was what they called their longhouse, named after their chief. Each time a leader passed, the name changed, a tradition that had carried on for generations.

I wished I could speak to her. Learn her name. Touch her skin, trace the lines of her face, the gentle slope of her collarbone.

But I could not.

To them, I was an outsider—a white foreigner lost in the depths of Borneo. If I stepped too close, I would be out of place. And if they suspected what I was, they would take my head and mount it as a trophy. Another thing I had learned about her people—they loved headhunting.

And so, I stayed in the shadows.

That night, as I hunted in the forest, I thought of her.

Vampires only need to feed once a month. Human blood sustains us, but I had long learned to be careful.

A few nights ago, I had killed several warriors from an enemy tribe, ones who had threatened the House of Mayang. They had tasted no different from the ones in Europe.

But the whispers had already begun. The villagers spoke of a blood-drinking monster lurking in the jungle. I could not risk frightening her.

Tonight, I would settle for deer.

Even monsters can learn restraint.

I followed the tracks of a deer deep into the forest. The night smelled damp, thick with the scent of earth and rain. The air carried traces of many creatures—wild boars, chickens, deer, even a tiger. But most of the sounds around me belonged to the smaller creatures—snakes slithering through the underbrush, frogs croaking in the distance, insects humming in a ceaseless symphony.