Aidan San Francisco —1982 Green Tears

Aidan spends his nights prowling the streets, a peripatetic flower in search of a mate. He can smell vampires. Not, oddly enough, the scent of blood, but its absence. San Francisco has a wealth of vampires. The city calls to them. Perhaps it is the early morning fog that keeps the sun from their flesh a bit longer than most places. Perhaps it is the night life. Perhaps it is the dearth of werewolves who tend toward more rural haunts. Or maybe they just feel at home in the cool, grey city of love.

Aidan’s very being summons his mother’s people. They are drawn to him as moth to flame, soft bodies drawn to his beauty as to light. Perhaps it is the scent of danger that emanates from him; perhaps it is the aroma of mortality.