A. W. Slack

The following is my submission to the Forest & Fawn’s Vampires and Werewolves Writing Challenge from October 2025. To learn more about this writing challenge, please click here.

A Con Begins by A. W. Slack

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Aurelia

The bell above the café door chimes delicately as Countess Aurelia de Veyrier picks nonexistent lint from the sleeve of her cream silk blouse. She barely casts a glance at the door, knowing it’s not her dining companion. She checks her watch – thirteen minutes late.

The café overlooking the Rhone is warm, its steamed windows blurring Geneva’s commotion. The scent of roasted beans and buttered croissants lulls Aurelia. Of her daily routines, her visit to Petite Suisse is most cherished.

Turning from her corner table, she observes her surroundings. Humans bustle outside the café’s door. There, they work and worry, laugh and love. There, they age.

Aurelia’s hands tighten on her mug slightly. She envies them a little.

When had life become so trite? Nearly five centuries of existence would sound like grandeur on the tongue of a mortal. Yet to Aurelia, that crown has been polished until no sharp edges remain — only the smooth boredom of witnessing everything the world has to offer.

A man sits two tables over. A soft leather briefcase with worn-in edges rests against his polished brown loafers. Aurelia cocks an eyebrow at the lack of socks, a trend crossing Europe that she does not fully welcome. Her eyes trail up navy trousers to a cotton shirt, collar structured and neatly pressed.

The man is American, if Aurelia isn’t mistaken, and she rarely is. Yet, one of good taste who has learned to blend in with the Swiss. She notes the silver starting to lighten the temples of his neatly combed dark hair. The stranger sips a demitasse while engrossed in a book. A side of sparkling water and a croissant wait patiently. Interesting, she thinks, a human who prefers ritual over rush.

The man’s amber eyes flick up to meet her own.

“Aurelia!” a voice chirps, startling the countess and spilling her drink. Dabbing at the ugly brown spot visible on her chest, the countess stands to kiss her friend on both cheeks. “You look exhausted, darling.”

Camille Durand remains radiant as ever, although both women have witnessed several centuries pass. Camille wears her age like art. Her hair is in a loose chignon, framing bold red lips and chic tortoiseshell glasses.

Aurelia arches a brow, “Yes, well, I have lived quite some time without a good scandal to keep me young.”

Camille laughs, flagging down the barista. “I’ve told you that scandal won’t find you. You must seek it! My gallery opening last night would have been the perfect opportunity.”

Aurelia scoffs. Humans spend millions on immortality painted in oils. “I’ve seen enough of eternity,” she murmurs as Camille stirs her coffee. The spoon chimes against porcelain. Rhythmic. Empty.

Camille leans in, “It’s not eternity that dulls you, but stagnation. You need to be reminded what it’s like to feel alive.”

“Like a new name, perhaps?”

When the women met, Camille went by Isolde de Montreux. Her fortune began in wine and art exports to royal courts, then evolved into art dealership and collection. Unfortunately, immortality and notability do not mix. She reinvents herself every few decades. Rumor is her latest persona, Camille Durand, brokers masterpieces that “disappeared” during the world wars. If only gossipers knew the art had never left her possession.

Eyes sparkling, Camille says, “I was thinking more along the lines of allowing someone to pamper you. Go to the spa at Lac & Lumière. Remember signing those tedious membership agreements years ago? I bet you have not taken advantage of your premium perks once! I have, though. Trust me, ma chère. Let the mortals fawn over you for a bit.”

Aurelia gives a dry smile. “A bath will not cure my apathy.”

Camille moves her eyes over her friend, stopping at the poignant stain, “No? Well, it might wash off a century or two of dust at least.”

The doorbell chimes again as the American leaves. City life buzzes into the café’s calm. Horns honk, electricity hums. Sounds have changed just as drastically as the rest of the world.

Aurelia sighs as she remembers the music of screams echoing through pines and the purr of torches flickering in the fog. Once, the Alps themselves trembled when she descended upon a village. Then, she was magnificent.

In those days, night belonged to shadows. Then the world was lit up. Darkness retreated as the glow of gas lamps and electricity spilled across streets. Humanity grew loud and careless, turning stories of nighttime creatures into folklore. With every invention, the world lost a bit of mystery.

Aurelia adapted, of course. Her people — la strige – must, or else be consumed by innovation. Most have traded their crypts for penthouses and hunts for museum galas. Society now calls Countess Aurelia de Veyrier a reclusive philanthropist, heiress to La Recette Secrète. But there was a time when humans revered her name, whispering it with chattering teeth – the Plague of Bern, the Lady of Ash, Aurelia Basarab.

Watching Camille tip a flask into her coffee, Aurelia inhales the scent. A hint of iron overpowered by preservatives, highlighting the simple truth: the world has become too easy. The hunt is gone, as is savoring fear in every heartbeat. Now, blood arrives at her door every Monday in sanitized vials labeled “premium O-negative, imported.”

Aurelia closes her eyes and sees the faces of her past looking back. They thought they saw death. How wrong they were. Death would have been merciful. Immortality without a thrill is just… waiting.

She waited centuries for something, someone, to make her feel alive again. Is a massage and facial the answer? Aurelia doubts it, but she has the time to find out.

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Marty

The spa at Lac & Lumière overlooks Lake Geneva. It’s sleek and modern; all glass and stone. Cold. Detached.

Marty readjusts his linen shirt, watching the countess step through the glass doors and glide to an open chair. The room is empty except for them. An ivory caftan skims her elegant figure as she reclines. She looks like she owns the sun that filters through floor-to-ceiling windows. Thank God she does not sparkle, he thinks.

Marty returns to the book in his lap. His finger slices a page edge, blood appearing along a delicate cut. He rests his finger pad against the blank page, and script slowly appears.

The Helsing Codex is both a blessing and a curse. Within it, Van Helsings and Harkers share generational secrets of their vampiric hunts. A mere thought and drop of blood give Martin “Marty” Harker detailed information on the lineage and legacy of every known vampire. Though each page turn requires more blood, and overuse leaves him with a throbbing migraine.

He’s obsessively researched Aurelia de Veyrier. Yet, he still revisits the notes he’s taken from the twenty-something pages regarding her past.

In Swiss history books, her family hails from Château du Lys Noir in Fribourg. The Veyrier name is well respected. Sometime in the late 1800s, her great-something-grandmother perfected a family fondue recipe. A hidden ratio of Gruyère and Vacherin Fribourgeois cheeses aged and combined with estate-made white wine, wild alpine herbs, and a secret ingredient. Or so the packaging reads on the family’s internationally acclaimed ready-to-melt fondue mix, La Recette Secrète.

Secret ingredient, Marty scoffs. He doubts the creature before him has ever stepped inside a kitchen.  

In truth, the brand’s reclusive CEO and creative director is Romanian-born. She fled with her family to Fribourg when Abraham Van Helsing sought her uncle, Vlad Dracul. Apparently, Mircea Basarab and his family rebranded themselves as Swiss nobility, and their fortune was built on the fondue empire.

She was one of the oldest vampires in Switzerland. And filthy rich.

He thinks of his ancestors who emigrated to Boston in 1823. There, the infamous hunters met many challenges, casting them into poverty. So, they adapted — learning it was easier to con vampires than kill them. He was groomed from infancy to seduce and deceive the bloodthirsty aristos.

And Aurelia de Veyrier was Marty’s next mark.

In his peripheral vision, he sees the countess scan the room. She notices him, brows creasing, the faintest flicker of curiosity crossing her face.  

Of course, you remember me. Marty smiles internally.

He looks up, meeting her gaze, and gives a small nod. No warmth, no charm. Just recognition. Her kind crave familiarity; it makes them trust faster.

He returns to his book, and she turns away.

An attendant brings the countess a glass of infused water. He waits for the girl to leave before approaching. Never interrupt service — that is how amateurs get noticed. He must belong in this world. He didn’t follow her here on purpose.

“Small world,” Marty says, smirking enough to make it seem like their meeting is mildly amusing, not strategic.

Aurelia blinks up at him with glacier-grey eyes.

“A client in Gstaad became ill, so I decided to splurge on some self-care.” He answers her silent question, lowering into the chair next to hers and sipping his tea. Men who pose a threat don’t drink detox tea. “Seems I have good instincts.”

She tilts her chin slightly toward him, inviting conversation.

He offers his hand. “I’m Martin Harper. But my friends call me Marty.”

“Aurelia,” she takes it, her hand surprisingly warm and soft. “Did you say Harker?”

“No, Harper.” He exaggerates the pah sound.

He attempts to release his hand, but she holds on, flipping it. “Oh dear, you’ve cut your finger.”

Marty reminds himself to steady his heartbeat as he smiles politely. She glances at the insignificant paper cut, nostrils flaring, but frees his hand. He leans back in his chair, letting the Alpine sun wash over him. Aurelia’s gaze lingers long enough to tell him she appreciates the sight.

“You don’t seem the type who needs a spa to relax,” she arches a brow. “Men like you tend to think the world bends for them.”

He grins, “Guilty. But even gods need temples.”

She laughs at that.

“I like the quiet here,” Aurelia remarks. “Everyone leaves their noise at the door.”

“A noise I deal in regularly,” he says lightly.

Her eyes appraise him. “Banker?”

Marty lifts a shoulder and chooses his bait deliberately. “In a sense. I help individuals move their fortunes in ways that give them more freedom. Quietly, with no mess.”

She nods and leans toward him. “And you just happened to book the chair next to mine?”

He meets her eyes without flinching, “I like good views.”

That earns him another laugh. Most men would mistake that look in her eye as enchantment. Marty knows it as something else: hunger.

She is beautiful, he will give her that. Unsettlingly perfect with midnight hair and those piercing eyes. An aura that many would find entrancing.

Marty wasn’t immune to it. He just plays a different game.

---

Aurelia

Aurelia smirks as Marty struts away, his invitation to dinner like the green flag of Le Mans. The poor man did not realize he’d stepped into a different type of hunt than he was attempting to set up.    

She saw the desperate shine in his eyes as soon as he sauntered towards her. That gleam honed from a life built on lies. He’s good, she relents. His pauses are just long enough. His smile perfectly weighted. A conman polished like a silver stake.

Her nose twitches. Van Helsing blood always smelled off. Faintly smoky, with a hint of stale lilac.

In honesty, she’d forgotten the smell. She hadn’t breathed it in years, but now a little thrill courses beneath the stillness of her skin.

He’s interesting, she thinks.

She accepted his dinner invitation for entertainment’s sake. He wants her fortune, that much was obvious. But how far is he willing to go? She’ll let him feel clever. Powerful. In control. Until she decides to checkmate.

Then, he would realize he was not the hunter, but the prey.

That thrill shivers down her spine. Finally, she feels alive.