Love is hard. Being undead is harder … Dolly Alderton meets True Blood in this dark, funny hell of a story
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Aubrey Wants To Die by Pip Knight, which releases on March 3rd 2026.
Aubrey is not what she seems. She’s young, beautiful, romantic, obsessive and … a vampire. All she wants is to be human again, and failing that, she wants to die. But the problem is, she can’t. Not by stake through the heart or holy water or crucifix or garlic or fire. And she’d know, she’s tried every method … Twice.
So she’s stuck here on this earth, all alone. Even the vampire who made her this way – an aristocratic douchebag called Oscar – has abandoned her.
But everything changes when one fateful night, she meets Jonathan. He’s everything Aubrey’s ever dreamed of, and what’s more, he’s her soulmate. Her Bella-Edward story. For the first time in 150 years, she has a reason to hope – eternal life might be bearable after all. So when Jonathan unexpectedly breaks up with her, she’ll do anything to get him back.
But that’s the exact moment Oscar swoops back into her life. And he has other plans for her. Soon, she’s thrown into a world of glamour, glitter, blood and hedonism, a world that has her questioning everything she knows to be true-about life, but also about herself. A world where nothing is simple … And no-one is safe, either.
CHAPTER TWO
I woke up 150 years ago in a low-lit room, a gasolier hanging from the ceiling above me, my pale blue dress wet with blood. As my eyes flicked open, I knew nothing, but I could sense everything. A conversation taking place through the walls somewhere, the buzzing of a fly before it landed. And if I stared at it, zoomed in, I could see the veins on its wings, the green metallic sheen of its body.
Where am I?
I scanned the room. I was on a bed. There was a dark wood armoire, a free-standing wash basin, a dressing table with a brass vase and an oval mirror, and I was … hungry. Ravenous.
My jaw ached. My mouth watered.
I stumbled out into the hallway, my head throbbing, that hunger inside me growing. ‘Hello?’ I called, even though I didn’t know who I was calling to. All that came back was silence.
Holding onto the banister tightly, I made my way downstairs to the living room. There was a newspaper on the oblong coffee table: The London Evening Standard. May 5th, 1876.
As I stared at it, I tried to make sense of everything. I knew what a newspaper was. I knew the months of the year and the days of the week. I knew the fundamental working parts of the world. I just had no recollection of my place in it. I—the version I had been before—had been erased.
Who the hell am I?
‘Hello?’ I called out again as I surveyed the furniture in the room, searching for some memory of it.
It’s just me here. A twinge of fear rippled through me, but that hunger was getting stronger and stronger.
My nostrils flared as I picked up an intoxicating scent: rust and lust mingled together. Blood. An electric jolt rolled up my spine and I rushed towards the smell, into a kitchen, and scanned the shelves.
An icebox. In the corner.
I ran towards it, and wrenched open the door.
Now the scent was so strong I could almost taste the iron. I felt my upper jaw tingle, a strange sensation on my gums … What is that feeling?
But then I didn’t care what the feeling was, because: meat.
Raw meat. The hunger took over. I held it in both hands and sucked on it, but it was almost dry and made me gag.
I looked around wildly, searching for more. But there were just jars of grain and beans and bowls of fruit, and my head was throbbing now. I needed blood … blood … blood …
It rolled round my head like a mantra.
I ran to the front door and as I pulled it open, I was hit by the stench of horse dung, the sound of hoofs. A carriage was passing, and there were people walking up and down the darkened street. I wasn’t in a city, I was in a village. The people I could see were well dressed and none of them were covered in blood like me. Panic gripped me.
I’m different from these nice, normal people. And not in a good way. I can’t let anyone find out.
The panic grew stronger, and I shut the door.
I ran back up the stairs, searching for a clue, something that would help me make sense of this, tell me what to do, and then there, in the mirror at the dressing table, I saw myself for the first time. My golden hair was pinned up, but pieces had come loose, were red with blood and hanging in my face. And my dress … I’d known I was covered in blood, but I hadn’t realised how much blood until I saw myself. It was everywhere. Was I injured? I checked my body, but nothing hurt. I leaned in to inspect my face, searching it for memories. What the hell happened to me? There were golden rings around my irises that seemed to glow, and my skin was pale and translucent … But as I leaned in closer, my eyes caught on my mouth, on my teeth. I flinched.
Do I have … fangs?
A flicker of memory; that feeling in my gums when I saw the meat, smelt the blood, fed. Horror rolled through me as I traced the sharp tips with my finger. What was going on? I knew what a vampire was: a monster from books, from folklore. Not real.
Oh god.
I pressed against my fangs, trying to push them back into my gums, but they wouldn’t budge.
Frantically, my hands moved to my chest. Where the hell is my heartbeat? I raised my fingers to my neck to feel my pulse, my actions instinctive. But thank the lord, it was still there. Just very, very weak and slow.
How did this happen? Did someone do this to me? Where are they?
But the only thing I knew for certain was that whatever had happened, I needed to hide it.
I stripped off my clothes, found a sponge and cleaned the blood off myself as best I could. And when I reached for a towel to dry myself afterwards, there, embroidered onto it was the name Aubrey.
Is that my name? Or my family name?
It had a familiar ring to it. Either way, it was the only name I had, so I took it.
I went over to the armoire and pulled it open. It was full of shoe boxes, petticoats and dresses—bodices, skirts—some plain and made of cotton, others ornate and silk, decorated with embroidery and beads. Where did I wear these? I had no idea.
But there was a plain navy dress, so I put it on quickly, then some simple boots, and a bonnet to cover my hair, still damp from trying to get the blood out. I packed some underclothes into a small suitcase along with a second dress and my silver hairbrush from the dressing table.
I carried the case downstairs and stepped calmly outside— Keep your mouth closed, no smiling—then walked down the cobbled street and crept into a garden. I huddled on a bench out of sight, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. I was helpless. Alone. A tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away, then glanced at my finger and it was … blood. I was crying blood.
Honestly, could anything else go wrong?
And I was still hungry, so, so ravenously hungry. I licked the tear from my finger but it did nothing for me. What was I going to do? How would I survive? I knew I needed blood but what kind of blood? And how would I get it? It felt like I didn’t have a chance in hell.
Then a man appeared and sat down beside me.
I quickly wiped my face. My shoulders tightened as I took him in. Would he be able to tell? Should I run?
He was almost entirely bald with a dark beard, wearing a well-cut grey suit. His eyes were brown … as I studied him, my breath caught. There were golden rings around his irises, just like mine. And then he smiled, revealing pointy canines.
‘I’m Hans,’ he said. And I didn’t trust him, not at all, but in this world that made no sense, he was the only one holding out an olive branch. What else was I to do but take it?
I replied with the only name I had: ‘I’m Aubrey.’
***
We travelled to London that same night without so much as a backward glance.
The nights that followed were a smudge of waking up as grey dusk fell, catching glimpses of flower sellers with baskets and men in top hats driving carriages and buskers playing harpsichords in the street outside the window. Then the inky night would descend and we would make our way out into the dimly lit street, full of soot and smoke—a perfect setting for vampires like us.
Hans was kind—it seemed he was as relieved as I was to find another vampire. He helped me with the basics and answered my immediate questions.
Was he my sire? ‘No, but it was probably a man,’ he’d guessed. ‘A woman wouldn’t have abandoned you. Whoever he is, he must have been far older and more powerful than me to turn you.’
Why couldn’t I remember anything of my human-self? ‘That happens to all of us when we’re turned. It makes the transition easier.’
Soon, he’d given me my first fake birth certificate, and opened a bank account for me with a bank manager on Lombard Street. It was something I would have struggled to do without a man by my side. He’d also made my first sizeable deposit and then got me a job in a dressmaker’s shop. Luckily, it turned out I could sew.
And, of course, he’d taught me to feed.
Our first victims were all middle-aged men, for no reason other than there were a lot of them out alone at night. Drinking blood was addictive, it felt like glitter in my veins, like I was plugged into a wall and lit up from within. Colours were brighter, sounds were musical, and I felt almost weightless. Pure, undiluted euphoria.
Life was nothing but sparkle and bliss, until our fifth night together.
In the hour before dawn, we walked through a small street, Hans trying each door, gently rattling the handles. And then— click. One opened.
We crept inside. It felt fun, naughty, like we owned the night. Upstairs, we found a man in the master bedroom, sleeping alone. Hans leapt forward and attacked him in the darkness. As soon as I smelt the blood, I felt my gums tingle and my fangs emerge. I joined Hans, feeding eagerly.
With the taste of salt and rust came the electric lightness that I had come to crave. My senses sharpened, and I could hear everything, feel everything. Bliss pulsed through me … I never wanted it to stop.
I think I heard the footsteps a moment before Hans did, but I was too busy gorging myself to look.
Then came the sharp inhale of breath, a small whimper.
I swivelled towards the door.
Watching us was a small boy of maybe nine years old. He was clutching a stuffed bear, its legs dangling. And the look in his eyes was of absolute terror.
Hans let go of the man and grinned, blood dripping from his chin as he threw himself at the boy. I heard teeth puncture skin.
A harrowing yelp pierced the air.
It hit me in the chest like an arrow. And the moment it did, something hot burst inside me. I could almost hear it. My vision blanched for a moment—like I was staring at a bright white screen—my ears rang and a heat, a white-hot fury I’d never felt before, rushed through me. It was dizzying.
I had to save the child. It was an urge stronger than hunger or self-preservation. It was like a wildfire burning through my veins.
I lunged at Hans.
But he swatted me off—he was older and stronger and faster than me. I tried again, but he just held me back as I flailed against his grip. I clawed at his face.
‘Do NOT!’ he boomed.
He grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me across the room. I hit the wall and crumpled to the ground. He stood over me, the little boy laying in a pool of blood behind him. And all I could do was glare up at him.
‘How dare you,’ he growled, his eyes flaming. ‘You’re on your own.’ With that, he turned and stormed out.
I rushed to the boy and cradled him in my arms. As I carried him to the bed, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. My hair was a mess and I was covered in blood, so much blood. My eyes were wild, the rings around my own irises glowing like fire.
It was the first time I saw myself with total clarity. I was a monster.
When I looked back down at the boy, he was dead, all the light gone from his eyes.
The hunger that had consumed me just minutes before was nothing but an echo now, the spell broken. And in its place lay a deep sense of shame and self-loathing. And, for the first time, my conscience ignited.
As the nights passed, I couldn’t shake that image of myself, standing holding that child, stained black-red with blood. I was terrified. Terrified of my hunger, of becoming like Hans. Terrified of the searing rage that had come out of nowhere, that I didn’t understand, that I had no control over. Because when would it come out again? And what would I do? What if I lost control and attacked a child myself next time?
How bad would I become?
And also, I was all alone again. Hans had left me after just five nights, my sire had left me instantly. Everyone would leave me if they ever saw my rotten core. I was barely a vampire, no longer a human. And I could see exactly what kind of life I would have: always hiding, always running from my darkness, a monster that nobody could ever love.
That was the first time I tried to die.
I stood on Waterloo Bridge, staring down at the black water. I could smell wrought iron as tears gathered in my eyes and whatever was left of my threadbare soul realised this was it. The end. Soon I would be gone. As I peeled my fingers away from the railing one by one, my insides twisted and my head got light. I clenched my eyes shut as tears rolled down my cheeks. And then I … let go.
Icy air hit my face. My eyes flicked open—a blur of lights in the distance—and then crash.
The arctic water sucked me in and down, swirling me as though in a drain. I waited for the water to fill my lungs, for oblivion to find me … But oblivion did not come. Instead, I bobbed to the surface.
As I swam towards the shore, I thought: I must have done it wrong.
And then: Maybe it wasn’t high enough?
But I tried again and again and again—altering my methods each time—and still, it didn’t work. It dawned on me that there must be something I didn’t know.
There must be a specific way I needed to die, a vampire way, I thought. Without Hans around to ask, I turned to books. But, if there is a way for me to die, I’ve yet to find it. Which is why, after 150 years, I’m still here.
