Heath Lee & Alexander

Tomorrow, he will be a thousand years old.

He lives in an ancient castle in Valldemossa. The castle is separated from the Cartuja Monastery by only a grove of Italian cypress trees. As the saying goes: the most dangerous place is the safest place.

But he never feared God; if God exists, why has he lived peacefully for so long? Perhaps due to the Moors, the faith in this place has died several times over.

Winter. Valldemossa is cold and rainy, piercingly cold. He dismissed the servants and, after feasting for several days and nights, hid in the golden nanmu coffin in the cellar for a deep sleep.

Although the main structure of the castle had been renovated before he moved in, with an elevator installed to avoid the strain of stairs, he filled the walls of the attic bedroom with red velvet wallpaper and greatly reduced the size of the windows. The window frames were tightly sealed, and electric curtains were installed. Despite these changes, he still wasn't accustomed to living on the top floor. Subconsciously, he still feared sunlight. The instinct to survive made him forget. He once cherished the luxurious sunny days in the valley.

Summer. The island was noisy and bustling, with tourists from all over the world, braving the scorching sun, making pretentious exclamations of admiration. He stood by the attic window, unable to see their expressions, listening to different dialects saying the same things. His fingers traced circles on the sandstone window ledge, contemplating which nationality's flesh to savor that night.

Before dusk, he ordered the servants to open the castle doors, the footsteps on the spiral staircase fading into the prolonged creaking sound. Claudia poured him a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon as the monastery bells tolled. He sat at the piano in the hall, waiting for the last chime to fade before starting Chopin's Nocturne No. 13, Op. 48 No. 1.

He once gained fame through Chopin, until the mortal body died. He was a pianist. Everyone says pianists are noble. Who knew that at the age of thirty-one, he began his "cultivation" of nocturnal hauntings? Who knows what such cultivation entails? What benefits does it bring? Who knows? His greatest suffering was no longer the betrayal by his lover. Already a thousand years old, he still had to keep cultivating. He could escape the fate of losing his lover, but he could never escape the cycle of life and death.

By the way, his name is Heath Lee.

Like all vampires, he is a descendant of Dracula.

In his youth, he indulged in wild pursuits, and love nearly claimed his life. Now, his desires are spent; he no longer seeks the pleasures of human affairs, instead indulging in the early years of the 21st century. With his mental power, he twists time and stops the calendar in those years. The people around him live similar days unconsciously, except for his lover, who has disappeared without a trace. Knowing the outcome, he has no intention of searching for him again. Although the zodiac remains the same, only he understands the profound changes around him.

As the last chord settled, Claudia clapped rhythmically, making him both laugh and cry. He placed his palm on Claudia's headscarf.

"That's enough for today."

Claudia nodded in acknowledgment, glanced around, and the few attendants in the room understood. They all dispersed.

He looked up at the stained glass window on the dome. The last ray of sunlight shone on the prismatic colored glass, reflecting on his alabaster-like face, which soon turned dark and somber. Dinner time had arrived. He lowered his forehead slightly, a few curls brushing his eyelashes. His black pupils suddenly turned blood-red. His crimson lips sipped the last drop of red wine, swallowing it.

Suddenly, his shadow floated away.

The full moon cast its light on the tower of the Church of Sant Bartomeu, softening its hard outline. Looking up, a silhouette stood at the top. Heath Lee's red eyes glowed faintly between his hair. In the night, they became even sharper.

At the foot of the mountain, he caught a glimpse of a moving shadow. He glided swiftly, spreading his tailcoat, his forehead hair flying, yet his movements were elegant and restrained. The shadow was instantly enveloped by his black tailcoat. The next second, he, along with his prey, landed safely in the castle hall.

He never rushed to eat. The delicacy only became more tempting when scrutinized. Under the crystal chandelier of the castle, his prey became clear and appealing. He was three inches taller, wearing washed jeans and a black jacket. Heath Lee's gaze moved to the man's face. He showed no fear at all.

Perhaps due to the strange lighting, the man's eyes turned a deep blue. The elusive blue evoked Heath Lee's memories, reminiscent of sorrows from over nine hundred years ago. Heath Lee felt a wave of fear. Startled, he calmed himself.

The man exhaled softly, and Heath Lee's fear dissipated like a phantom with the breath.

Heath Lee gazed into the man's eyes, such a deep blue that they were almost black, like an abyss with no bottom.

The man spoke first:

"Not tonight. I must leave now."

He ran quickly, leaving behind a flickering smile and a single sentence.

"Until we meet again, Heath Lee."

The moonlight grew brighter, the stars became sparse. Clouds drifted in with a gust of wind, obscuring the entire night sky. Carried by the wind was a faint, indistinct cry, long and mournful, like a lament.

Heath Lee leaned against the massive wooden door frame, dazed and numb.

If he possessed such skill, he could not be human. A thousand years, and he had never encountered such a formidable adversary. Heath Lee, stomach empty, opened the door to the library and began to sift through ancient texts. He finally had some clues and confirmed that the earlier sound was likely that of a wolf. Wolves never travel alone. What could it mean for such a lone wolf to visit on a full moon night?

In summer, not eating past midnight was extremely dangerous. This unease made Heath Lee completely forget his hunger.

The midnight bell tolled, and crimson, web-like veins spread across his snow-white face, crawling over his collarbones, neck, jaw, cheekbones, and up to his forehead. This situation had only occurred twice in a thousand years. He clearly remembered it was the seventh year of the millennium when, on a midnight hunt, he unexpectedly caught a Circe. Over the years, he thought he had learned from his experiences, believing that in the certain flow of time, wisdom would prevail. He was all too familiar with what had happened. Avoiding that curse should have been simple.

The wolf had come and gone. That wolf, too, was a remnant of the millennial slip.

The more Heath Lee thought about it, the more fearful he became. The cycles of time repeat, with slight variations in people and events. But this encounter with the lone wolf was truly bewildering. He clenched his fists, his eyes darkening from blood red to black.

Now was not the time for contemplation. If he didn't feed soon, a bloodbath would be inevitable.

Immediately, he swept his cloak and flew to a farmhouse on the edge of the valley and the sea. His gray-white hand grasped the old woman's wrist, and he bit down. Just as she was about to scream, his teeth sank into the artery beneath her wrinkled skin, crushing her vocal cords along with it. Within three seconds, the remnants of her voice died. The blood flowed into his stomach, and the web-like veins on his face receded, his cheeks returning to their alabaster smoothness.

A smear of red stretched from the corner of his mouth to his earlobe. He took out a white silk handkerchief, wiped away the bloodstain, and discarded it. It was that wolf who had caused him such disgrace, transforming his fear into anger.

The wolf clearly knew Dracula's weaknesses. He must be hiding in the cypress grove beside the church. Heath Lee went to find him. In the deep sky, a triumphant smile flashed. The wolf, though cunning, could still make mistakes. Heath Lee had no fear of crosses.

The wolf was climbing among the tallest cypress trees, gazing at the bone-chilling moonlight and the bats soaring together.

Heath Lee quickly located the wolf. Claws hidden in the base of his fingers extended, and with a powerful swipe, he left a row of gashes on the wolf's neck. Blood oozed from the wounds. The wolf howled in pain.

The wolf's green eyes lost their luster, and his massive body shrank back into human form. He gasped weakly... Heath Lee grabbed the wolf's arm, intending to ask him one question before he died.

"Who sent you? Answer me before you die."

"No one, it's just me."

"How much do you know?"

"Not much. I only learned about you just now, when I first saw you."

"You brought this trouble upon yourself. What are your intentions?"

Heath Lee's teeth grew longer, the sharp tips aimed at the wolf's carotid artery.

"I'll tear open your throat, and you won't be able to lie anymore."

"I want to live."

The wolf, half-asleep, muttered this as if it were a mantra.

"Still spouting nonsense? Your life is already in my hands."

The wolf's eyes opened slightly, the blue light reflecting off Heath Lee's face, making it glow white.

"You are beautiful."

Heath Lee recoiled to another cypress tree.

The cypress grove was a barrier stretching from south to north of Belfort Castle. The branches and leaves were dense and evergreen throughout the seasons. At the southern end of the grove, olive trees, almond trees, and pine trees continued the lush greenery. A natural spring flowed through the forest, its moonlit waters shimmering with a cold, eerie light. A summer night's breeze caused the water's surface to ripple delicately, carrying the mixed scents of pine and fruit. On this cool night in late summer, Heath Lee couldn't understand what heartfelt words a wolf could possibly have.

What nonsense!

What interest could a man possibly have in praising another man?

What nonsense.

A strange yet familiar pang of pain surged in Heath Lee's chest. This pang was born of pity. Yet he did not know if it was for himself or for this wolf.

Countless questions furrowed his brow, and he changed his mind. Curiosity may kill a cat, but it cannot kill a vampire. The wolf's body went limp, his grip on the branch loosening. As he slipped and fell into the dry leaves, Heath Lee caught him.

Thus, the wolf slept soundly on Heath Lee's mahogany bed.

The temptation of the wolf's blood, the threat of an old enemy, tormented Heath Lee's senses. Yes, even so, Heath Lee wanted this wolf to stay in his secret attic for the night. He sat in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, fingers interlaced under his chin, head slightly lowered.

When the rosy light of dawn seeped through the window, he felt a slight burning on his forehead.

The day had not yet fully broken, and the morning carried the scent of fresh grass. The wolf still slept soundly, unaware of the restless vampire before him.

In an hour, as the windows descended and the crystal lamps illuminated, the door swung open and Claudia entered the hall. She quickly closed it behind her.

"Good morning, Mr. Heath Lee. Would you like Pu'er or coffee this morning?" She called loudly from the foyer.

"Pu'er, please." A tuft of curly hair peered out from the circular archway of the attic.

"Were you staying in the attic last night?"

"Yes, reading and staying up late." He closed the attic door behind him and fished out a key from the collar of his white shirt to lock it.

"There's nothing urgent today, no need to clean the attic." He descended the stairs slowly, retracting the long claws hidden at the base of his fingers.

"Alright, any other instructions?"

"Never mind. Lead them to tidy up the library." He walked up to the piano, placing a hand on the lid. "Oh, and prepare a fruit tray at noon. Otherwise, you're free to do as you please. I'll be practicing in the basement and don't wish to be disturbed."

"Understood." Claudia nodded.

"If you hear anything unusual, you can knock on the basement door. I'll handle it myself." He crossed his arms over his chest, reflecting on how the wolf had lost much blood last night. Though it could heal itself, it would take some time.

With a bang, the nine-foot mahogany door closed shut.

The sound of rushing water bubbled and surged. Today, he was determined to play this piece—partly to hone his fingernails and partly to calm his mind amid chaos.

Within the castle were two Steinway pianos—one in the hall and another in the basement—both at his disposal. Claudia, understanding his temperament well, had prepared the Pu'er tea outside the basement door along with a small thermos. If he wanted to drink, he could simply open the door and find hot tea waiting.

Noon had passed, and the Pu'er tea and bone china platter of sliced fruits remained untouched.

He finished playing the twenty-seventh étude, stopping at the thirteenth.

"Claudia!" He called out loudly as he opened the door.

"What can I do for you, sir?" She was already waiting in the hallway.

"What time is it?"

"It's past two in the afternoon."

"Very well." He adjusted his collar with both hands and walked towards the hall, glancing back up at the attic. "I'll take a short nap now, please don't disturb."

At the entrance hall, his steps slowed. He glanced at "Paradise Lost," a painting he had long cherished in his collection. Initially, he had hoped to find clues about his own origins within it, but as time passed, it only confused him more, and he eventually gave up. Now, with the visit of the werewolf, he knew his peaceful days might be coming to an end on this millennium day.

"Alright then, his personal and ancient past gradually becomes blurred. Along with that sense of sorrow, it has become unfamiliar. This day-to-day life, aimless and seemingly endless.

What a remarkable werewolf, with clear features, a straight nose, and handsome cheeks. His jacket torn, jeans frayed. He mutters about unknown matters. But in that voice, single-minded, unwavering, deeply moving.

Before long, he distinctly hears a name.

'Alexander.'"