Another One Bites the Dust

A cursed love story with bad luck, morbid humor, and one show-stopping, leather-clad ass that changed everything. This death-kissed tale was written in one week for a 2,000-word faerie story challenge. Enjoy at your own risk—contents may bite.

When Siobhan showed up at the bar that fateful summer night, she figured it would be the same old end-of-month ritual, but she would soon find out that nothing was quite as it seemed.

"Rock beats scissors!" Cecile threw her clawed hands in the air. "Yes!"

"Not again!" Julian groaned, adding, "No offense, Siobhan."

"None taken," Siobhan replied as she slid into the sticky booth next to Julian.

The harpy and angel played this game every time the trio met at their favorite dive bar for ceremonial pre-show drinks. Winner got to spread their wings. Literally. Loser had to share their side of the booth with the banshee. The angel almost always lost. 

In an almost comical sequence, Siobhan’s fishnets snagged on a tear in the cracked vinyl seat cover. She jerked her knee and bumped the underside of the table, knocking a half-full beer directly into Julian’s lap. 

"Shit, sorry!" She winced, grabbing a handful of cocktail napkins. 

Julian sighed and lifted his wings out of the splash zone.

"This is the worst outfit to spill beer on, Sio…" His golden spandex booty shorts were soaked. "I look like I pissed myself," he grumbled as he patted them dry. 

In the commotion, no one noticed the empty glass rolling in slow-motion toward the edge of the uneven table until it was too late. Glass struck the concrete floor and exploded into glittering shame confetti.

Cecile gestured with a clawed finger for a busboy to help them clean up the crystalline mess on the floor.

They settled back into the booth with Julian on the outside and Siobhan tucked safely into the corner. Cecile spread her wings across her side with a self-satisfied smirk, smugly flattening out the apron of her french maid costume. 

"Well… I won't let wet Spanx ruin my night," Julian said, collecting three tube shots of something electric blue from the tray of a passing cocktail waitress. 

She paused to collect payment, and Julian eyed Siobhan. "These are on you, babe!"

"That makes sense," she said, handing the waitress a few bills.

"To all of Siobhan’s fallen lovers!" Julian proclaimed, lifting his neon tube shot in a toast.

"Another one bites the dust…" Cecile shook her head as she clinked her tube against his. "What are we up to now, Sio? Three?"

Siobhan groaned. "Four."

"This year," Julian reminded them. 

"I dropped hints, but you know the deal… I can’t interfere!" Siobhan laughed. Her love life was cursed. If she didn’t laugh about it, she’d cry. "At least the scooter incident made for an exciting addition to the obits."

"Silver lining?" Cecile offered.

"Silver lining!" Siobhan agreed, finally adding her tube to the group cheers. 

They downed their drinks, slammed one more round, then crossed the street for the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Benisson—a tiny old theater fondly referred to as the "Penis On" by regulars due to the perpetually broken signage above the marquee.

Inside, the lobby was packed with fishnets, leather, and sequins galore. 

Siobhan said, "I’ll grab the popcorn, if you guys want to go save—"

Her brain short-circuited when she saw the most drop-dead gorgeous Frank-N-Furter impersonator across the room—and promptly walked straight into a cardboard cutout of Tim Curry, sending it tumbling into a stacked display of popcorn buckets. 

"Fuck!"

"At least they’re empty," Cecile muttered, beckoning a concession worker to come to Siobhan’s aid. "You’ve done worse damage."

"Although… poor Dr. Frank-N-Furter didn’t fare so well…" Julian lifted the decapitated head of the cutout, and they all burst into laughter.

Siobhan was almost too embarrassed to look back at Sexy Frank, but when she did, he was wearing a devilish grin. He definitely witnessed her blundering misstep, but for some reason, he was summoning her with a seductive finger motion.

Me? Siobhan mouthed. 

He simply nodded.

He was tall, dark, and alluring in an androgynous, vaguely murdery way. He had sharp cheekbones, blood red lipstick, and a leather-clad ass that kept her frozen on the lobby floor for a full ten seconds.

She put her sequined top hat back on her head and forced herself upright—a challenge, because her legs were suddenly made of jello. 

Their chemistry was instantaneous.

They sat together for the movie, yelling lines, throwing props, and stealing glances at each other the whole time. 

When the end credits rolled, they exchanged numbers and agreed to meet for a drink the following night.

***

Sexy Frank, or Remy, picked a cozy, candlelit wine bar called Message in a Bottle for their first official date.

The only problem was: Siobhan didn’t actually like wine. But Remy was even more attractive out of drag, so she let it slide. 

She inspected the menu, which was full of cleverly named drinks like the SOS Sangria, Chardonnay Communiqué, and—

"Ooh! Farewell Frosé!" she said. "That’s how I prefer my wine—with a side of brain freeze!"

Remy laughed, low and genuine. "You’re adorable, you know that?" 

She hadn’t even had a sip yet, but she was already intoxicated by his presence. He was devastatingly handsome in his tight, dark jeans and black leather jacket. 

Her cheeks reddened when he caught her staring.

But he studied her right back while swirling a deep, full-bodied red around his glass. 

That must be the Missive Merlot, Siobhan thought. 

When her frozen concoction arrived, Siobhan reached for it a little too eagerly, elbowing Remy’s wine. In her frantic attempt to rescue his glass, she made the whole thing worse, somehow catapulting both drinks straight off the table.

With unearthly speed, Remy snatched the glasses midair and returned them to the table, unfazed.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Siobhan asked, awestruck.

"I’m quick," Remy replied with a shrug, then winked, adding, "But don’t worry, darling, I take it nice and slow where it counts."

Siobhan looked away, her cheeks turning hot.

The rest of the night, their banter was easy. When Remy confessed he hadn’t had much luck dating because of his job—a mortician—Siobhan nearly spat out her frosé.

"I knew it…" he said with a resigned sigh. "I’ll pay the tab."

"What? No!" she said. "I’m just surprised. I have the same problem!"

"You’re… also a mortician?" Remy eyed her suspiciously.

"No," she laughed and shook her head. "I write obituaries."

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

Remy’s low, gravelly laugh sent shivers up Siobhan’s spine. It wasn’t every day she found someone who shared her dark sense of humor.

"I guess I just have a keen gift for narrating goodbyes," she added with a melancholy half-smile.

As the night progressed, she couldn’t help but notice that her banshee sense hadn’t gone off once with him. No throat-tightening, no ache in her chest. Nothing.

But she wouldn’t get her hopes up. Her type was "near-death," and her love life was basically dead on arrival. It never failed. She was drawn to them like some kind of morbid magnet.

From the bar bathroom, she texted Cecile and Julian: HELP!! I think I’m starting to really like this one!

Julian sent a skull emoji. Cecile sent a coffin. 

Awesome, she thought. She was determined to soak up every second with Remy before his inevitable expiration date. 

When he said goodnight and didn’t invite her back to his place, Siobhan was confused, but almost... relieved. Because if she spent the night with him, she knew he’d be as good as dead.

***

The following week was a whirlwind of perfectly strange dates. A taxidermy museum grand opening party. Midnight stargazing in a cemetery. A classic horror movie trivia night. 

They were so perfectly in sync with one another, it almost seemed too good to be true. Siobhan’s banshee instincts stayed silent every night, but it only made her more suspicious. 

Something's off. Maybe my abilities are getting rusty with age, she thought. She was nearly 200, after all.

But after nearly two centuries heralding endings, she knew that a happily ever after just wasn’t in the cards for her. It was only a matter of time.

***

The feelings Siobhan had for Remy were growing, but she wondered if she was overinflating what was going on between them… 

They were about to have their fifth date, sixth if you counted Rocky Horror. He still hadn’t asked her to come to his place, and he always kissed her goodnight just short of her door when the night was through. A perfect gentleman… 

She wondered if she was putting off "just friends" vibes. 

Siobhan won tickets to see a comedian—a burnt-out grim reaper turned nihilistic open mic regular whose jokes were apparently pretty killer. 

She was supposed to meet Remy in front of the comedy club, but the flashing lights of an ambulance greeted her instead.

Dread threatened to consume her, an all-too-familiar sensation. Oh no.

She dialed Remy’s number on her phone, pleading with the universe to be wrong. She pushed past the gawkers, following the ringing. 

And then she saw him. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Panic gripped her throat.

He lay limp on the ground, with one young fae healer EMT at his side, another frantically gathering supplies.

He was so pale. There was so much blood…

Siobhan’s banshee cry stirred deep and violent, an ancient song clawing up her chest, begging to be released.

"Remy!" she wailed, a piercing, horrible sound.

Several onlookers screamed and ran.

"Please… Please, save him!" Siobhan cried as they loaded him onto the stretcher and into the ambulance.

The minutes stretched cruelly. When the EMT finally stepped out, his face was blanched.

"No, no, no, no, no…" 

He reached out and put a comforting hand on Siobhan’s shoulder. "It was close, but he’s stable. You can ride with him if you want. He’s lucky—it just missed the heart."

Siobhan’s knees buckled with relief. She steadied herself and climbed into the ambulance.

Remy was shirtless and bandaged, grinning woozily at her through cracked lips. 

"Not exactly the wood I wanted to show off tonight…" he said, his voice like sandpaper. 

Siobhan blinked. "Excuse me?"

He motioned toward the splintered, bloodstained wooden stake on the tray table next to him.

"So… I’m a vampire," Remy rasped. "Some people don’t like my kind… hence the wood." 

Siobhan stared, mouth agape. Then she burst out laughing.

Remy’s brows pinched together. 

"I keened for you," she said, wiping her eyes. "I really thought you were going to die! Yet here you are… all broody, and immortal, and fine!" She punched him on the shoulder on the last word.

"Ow!" He rubbed his arm, and then a lightbulb went off in his head. "Wait, keened? Are you…?"

"A banshee. Yeah. It’s a whole thing." She dismissed him with a wave. 

Remy took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "So… we’re both cursed?" 

"I guess so," she said, then rested her head in the spot between his neck and shoulder. Remy brushed a strand of cherry red hair off her face. He met Siobhan’s green gaze with his dark stare.

Suddenly it all made so much sense. All the "red wine" he drank. How they only ever met up at night. She realized she’d never actually seen him eat. 

He lowered his guard—and his fangs—with her for the first time. "I should warn you, darling…" he growled into her ear, "I bite."

Suddenly, Siobhan heard Janet’s voice in her head…

"Thrill me, chill me, fulfil me, creature of the night," she whispered back with a wink.

He let out a husky laugh as their lips crashed together in a kiss that was as wild as it was tender.

The banshee and the vampire. How perfectly they fit together… She’d have a partner who’d save them a fortune on glassware and groceries, and he could always count on her to help plan his next "meal."

Siobhan thought her love life was doomed to be a love death—but nothing was quite as it seemed, and she’d never been more glad to be wrong.