is is an upmarket vampire story of time, hunger, love, and family.
It runs about 50,000 words, and I am currently looking for an agent to represent it.
Helen, age twenty-two, had known Vincent for eight months, and she was wildly in love with him. He was twenty-five—or 271, depending on who you asked—and he was going to show her the trick. Excitement burbled in her as she waited, her hands held in his.
The moon was high in the sky, and reddish September leaves drifted by on a warm breeze as Helen and Vincent sat, with folded legs, across from each other among the herbs, ferns, and succulents of his rooftop garden in Beacon Hill. Vincent closed his eyes. Helen smelled the ash of a distant fireplace and the floral tang of nearby lavender.
When Vincent opened his eyes, Helen saw his pupils had dilated so much that his irises—normally a forest of green with little flecks of sienna—had become a mere sliver around black discs. His face appeared serene and entranced at the same time.
He looks as though he’s seen something otherworldly, thought Helen. A vision of saints and angels? The ghost of his mother, returning to embrace him? Helen didn’t believe in ghosts any more than she believed in God, but Vincent’s face never lied.