"Another way?" Mary's voice held a mixture of skepticism and hope as she paused in her work, the cleaning cloth still in her hand. "What exactly do you mean?"

"To escape this life," Nathaniel said, his pale fingers tracing patterns on the weathered bar top. "To start anew."

The church bell tolled ten times, its deep resonance echoing through the village. Mary glanced apologetically at the few remaining patrons. "Last orders, gentlemen," she called out, then turned back to Nathaniel. "I'm sorry, but father's strict about closing time. The licensing magistrate's been watching us closely since the new act passed."

Nathaniel stood, adjusting his coat. "Tomorrow night then," he promised. "I'll explain everything. There's... much we need to discuss."

"I'll be here," Mary said, curiosity burning in her green eyes as she began collecting empty glasses from nearby tables. "Though perhaps come earlier? Most nights are quieter before nine."

The following evening, Nathaniel arrived outside The Stag and Vine earlier than usual. His mind was made up, but anxiety gnawed at him. He watched from across the village green as Mary bustled about the tavern, her auburn hair catching the lamplight as she moved. She looked particularly radiant tonight, her cheeks flushed from exertion and her eyes bright with laughter as she bantered with the local farmers. Nathaniel felt an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his cold body as he observed her.

As the hours ticked by and the patrons gradually filtered out—farmers heading home to their warm beds, the blacksmith and his apprentice stumbling slightly after one too many ales—Nathaniel steeled himself for what was to come. He entered the tavern just as Mary was wiping down the last of the tables, her movements graceful in the dying firelight.

"Nathaniel!" she said, her face lighting up. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming tonight."

He managed a small smile, his eyes involuntarily tracing the curve of her neck where it disappeared beneath her collar. "I wouldn't miss it, Mary. I... I actually wanted to talk to you about something important."

Mary's brow furrowed slightly, but her smile remained. "Of course. Just let me finish up here, and we can chat."

Nathaniel nodded, settling into his usual spot at the bar. He watched as Mary completed her closing duties, his enhanced senses picking up the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the subtle scent of her skin beneath the lingering odors of ale and hearth smoke. The sound of her pulse was almost hypnotic, drawing him in like a siren's song.

Finally, Mary hung up her apron and came around to join him. "Alright, Nathaniel. What's on your mind?"

He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent—lavender soap, fresh bread, and something uniquely her.  "Do you remember what we talked about last night? About finding another way?"

Mary nodded slowly, her green eyes searching his face. "I do. You were rather mysterious about it, though."

"What if I told you," Nathaniel began, his voice gentle, yet firm, leaning in closer, "that I could give you everything you've ever dreamed of? The freedom to travel, to live without constraints, to see all the wonders of the world?"

Mary's eyes widened, a mix of confusion and excitement dancing across her face. Her pulse quickened, the sound thundering in Nathaniel's ears like war drums. "Nathaniel, what are you talking about? How could you possibly...?"

He reached out, carefully taking her hand in his. She gasped at the coldness of his touch, but didn't pull away. Instead, she seemed to lean into it, her warmth seeping into his skin like sunlight he could no longer feel. "I'm not what I seem, Mary," he said. "I have… gifts that allow me to live beyond human means. And I can share those gifts with you."

"I don't understand," she whispered, her breath catching. "What do you mean, 'gifts'?"

Nathaniel stood, still holding her hand, and guided her towards the back door of the tavern. "Let me show you," he murmured, his voice husky with anticipation.

They stepped out into the tavern's herb garden, where Mary's mother had once grown rosemary and thyme. The harvest moon painted everything in shades of silver and shadow, and the bubbling of a nearby stream could be heard. Mary shivered, pressing closer to Nathaniel's body.

He turned to face her, cupping her cheek with his free hand. Mary's skin was smooth and warm under his touch, and he could feel the blood rushing just beneath the surface, singing to him. "Mary," he said, his voice hushed, "I can offer you eternity. A life free from the constraints of time, from illness, from death itself."

Mary's breath hitched in her throat. "Nathaniel, you're scaring me," she said, but there was a note of fascination in her voice. Her eyes were locked onto his, her pupils dilated with excitement and fear. 

"I'm saying," Nathaniel replied, leaning in close, his lips almost touching hers, "that I can make you like me. Immortal. Powerful. Free."

He brushed his lips against her neck, feeling the pulse of blood just beneath the surface. Mary tilted her head, a soft gasp escaping her lips, granting him better access. "How?" she breathed, her hands gripping his shoulders.

Nathaniel's control began to slip. The scent of her blood, the warmth radiating from her body, and the sound of her racing heart—it was all too much. His fangs extended, pressing against his lower lip. "Like this," he murmured against her skin.

In one swift motion, Nathaniel sank his fangs into Mary's neck. She gasped, her body arching against his, but she didn't scream. Her blood flowed into his mouth, hot and rich and intoxicating. It tasted of life, of dreams, of summer afternoons spent reading borrowed books and nights spent yearning for something more than a meager village life could offer.

Nathaniel drank deeply, lost in the rush of sensation. Her potent life force, it strengthened him, awakening hunger he had been trying to suppress for so long. Her heartbeat, so strong at first, began to slow. Mary's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close, as if she too were lost in the dark intimacy of the moment.

Nathaniel knew he should stop. He had intended to turn Mary into a vampire, not drain her completely. But the taste of her blood was overwhelming, clouding his judgment, drowning out the voice of reason in his mind. It was ecstasy, a pleasure more intense than anything he had ever experienced as a human. Each fresh drop brought with it flashes of her memories—running through wildflower meadows as a child, her mother teaching her to bake bread, stolen glances at him across the tavern these past weeks.

Mary's legs buckled, and Nathaniel lowered them both to the damp earth, never breaking his connection to her neck. Her hands, which had been gripping his shoulders, began to loosen their hold. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, each one a warm puff against his ear, carrying the scent of the mint leaves she'd been chewing.

"Nath... Nathaniel," she managed to whisper, her voice weak and confused, yet tinged with something akin to pleasure. "I see... I see everything now..."

Her words snapped Nathaniel back to reality. He wrenched himself away, horror dawning as he saw Mary's pale face, her half-lidded eyes struggling to focus on him. Blood trickled from the puncture wounds on her neck, staining the collar of her dress—the blue one she'd told him her mother had made for her eighteenth birthday.

"No," Nathaniel gasped, cradling Mary in his arms. "No, no, no. This wasn't supposed to happen."

Mary's lips moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes, once so full of life and dreams, began to glaze over. Nathaniel felt her heartbeat falter, then stop altogether. Above them, the moon seemed to dim, as if turning away from the tragedy unfolding within its purview.

"Mary?" he whispered, shaking her gently. "Mary, please. Wake up. You have to wake up."

But Mary didn't wake up. She lay still and silent in his arms, another victim of his lack of control, his impulsive nature that he couldn't seem to overcome. The herbs around them—Mary's mother's carefully tended garden—were crushed beneath their bodies, releasing their dying fragrance into the night air.

Nathaniel sat there in the moonlit garden, holding Mary's lifeless body, for what felt like hours. Grief and self-loathing washed over him in waves. He had done it again—taken a life he had meant to transform, snuffed out a bright future in a moment of weakness.

A stray dog barked in the distance, and Nathaniel knew he had to move. He couldn't leave Mary here to be found by her father in the morning. With a heavy heart, he lifted her body and made his way towards the stream that ran behind the village.

The water was shrouded in a light fog as Nathaniel approached the bank. He looked down at Mary's face, peaceful in death, and felt a surge of remorse so strong it nearly brought him to his knees. In death, she looked like a fairy tale princess waiting for true love's first kiss—but this was no fairy tale, and he was no prince.