A Vampire's Tale

He felt his prick grow hard, something it had not done for the better part of a century. Clumsily fumbling with the zippered front of his new trousers, he lowered them to the floor, the rough white cotton of his undergarments felt constrictive, he released his manhood from them abandoning them. He lowered himself upon her; her warmth, the scent of her blood, the pounding of her heart, the urgency of her desire creating an intoxicating brew of sensation and need. He lowered his head down between her legs, tonguing her softness, relishing the taste of her broken virgin blood as it trickled in tiny rivulets. She gasped in pleasure, wriggling underneath him, grasping at his hair, guiding him further in. When he could withstand his own need no longer, he entered her, causing her to gasp, her flesh yielding to his bulk. In unison they rocked in the archaic rhythm of passion and need until they were both exhausted and the gray of the dawn highlighted the buildings of the tiny town. Gently he slid his fangs into the tender flesh under her breast, taking a small sampling of her blood, its life giving sting burning in his veins. He whispered to her as he descended from the window “Sleep well child, remember nothing.” He left no traces.

She awoke late the next day, the morning sun high in the sky; sleepily she wandered down stairs greeted by her parents performing their morning chores. ‘Why did you let me sleep so late?” she asked pouring herself a cup of coffee. Sinking to the kitchen table she drank deeply of the dark liquid. She felt weak and dizzy as if she was coming down with the flu, the black liquid causing her stomach to churn.

“Oh, sweetie,” said her mother feeling her daughter’s forehead, “you’re as cold as ice, pale as cream, why don’t you go back to bed for a while.” She looked up at her mother, setting her cup down, she rose from her chair. Her father, a round redheaded burly Irishman entered the room depositing a pail of coal by the stove; he assessed her.

“Aye,” he said as he took her face in his burly, calloused hand, “Too much of the drink last night, eh?” He patted her on the butt as he ushered her up the stairs and into the bed. He pulled the covers high, tucking her tightly in. He sang an Irish tune to her as she drifted back into the world of dreams. She dreamt strange dark dreams of a pale man with piercing green eyes and a wide toothy grin.

For the first time in centuries, he sank into the darkness of his day, dreaming of the vivacious redhead with the sweet smile and the still sweeter blood. He had been in one place too long, mortals knew him now, and he booked passage to this new world, this America. The ship, the Britannia, the finest British steamer in the world, his passage to a new life would only take 4 days. He waited for the day of his departure, packing his meager belongings in a deep steamer trunk. He painted a portrait of his new passion, leaving it silently on her doorstep; he left for South Hampton, left the old for the new.

The ship was scheduled to depart at noon, the mid day sun left him weak, his body ached, his head throbbed, he was in sheer agony as he advanced through the throngs of well wishers making his way up the second class gangway. Once nestled inside of his cabin, well out of the reach of sunlight, his condition began to improve, he became consumed with a gnawing hunger, even though he had just fed, he would have to hunt again soon. It was once said that the sun never sets on the British empire, he felt as if the sun would never set on this cursed British ship, he waited in the confines of his room for darkness to fall. He dressed for dinner, silently descending to the third class portions of the ship, grabbing up rats for appetizers as he went along. He needed blood, human blood, the girl had awakened a need in him, which had lain dormant, and he needed more.

He watched the throngs of passengers in the third class compartment, immigrants like him traveling to the new world in pursuit of a better life, the crying of children, the mingling of many different tongues forming a kind of phonetic opus. He saw her, reading her thoughts, he discovered that she traveled alone, barely finding enough money to finance her journey. She ventured to the new world to join her French cousins. He approached her, speaking his native French, she smiled to him welcoming him to join her, grateful for someone to talk to, someone from her home soil amidst this onslaught of outsiders.

Guiding her by the chin, he raised her face, gazing deeply into her eyes, entrancing her. The voices of the others, an endless babble, dulled to whispers, wordlessly he navigated her to his cabin, this demanded privacy. He whispered to her of his desires, she understood complying with his whim. She unbuttoned her blouse and loosened her undergarments allowing him full view. Unbuttoning her skirts, she lowered them to the floor; he took in the portrait of her nudity. Kissing and caressing her, making little nips in her flesh and tasting of the minute trickles of blood, he deepened his desire for her. Her flesh, almost as pale white as his own, her tiny breasts adorned with small pink peaks, her ribs shone through her translucent skin, her narrow hips and protruding hip bones; her hair long, wavy, deep walnut, her eyes hazel, somewhat sunken in. She was a tiny, wraith of a girl.

Gently he took her, drinking shallowly of her blood. He was careful not to take too much, she was frail; he wanted no traces left behind. When he had had enough to satiate his thirst, he lay with her enjoying her warmth, her scent; his inhumane act making her seem all the more human and vulnerable. He could feel the dawning of a new day, his body began to ache, his head to throb, deftly he assisted the girl with her clothing, he instructed her to remember nothing, except to know that she had been loved by a most unusual stranger. He guided her down the stairwell to the third class compartment where he had found her; the dining hall was empty, devoid of life. He slid a measure of money into her tiny, pale, chilled hand and lowered her to a bench to sleep of his spell.

He returned to his cabin, carefully placing the do not disturb sign on the door handle. He dreamt dreams of the past; of Marguerite, Elise, and the nameless, countless others. The twentieth century, how many had there been? How much time had slipped away from him silently never to be reclaimed? Days, weeks, months, years, time meant nothing to him. He had the luxury of time, the curse of immortality. Nameless, faceless, immortality, he felt a longing for a new companion, to help him pass the meaninglessness of eternity.

The ship docked in New York Harbor on schedule, ah the predictable nature of the British, he mussed as he disembarked the hulking vessel. The glowing din of the city glimmered with the promise of a diamond in the starless night sky. He roamed the rough cobblestone streets; he heard the clomping hooves of masses of horses, the chugging of horseless carriages, the tromping of tiny human feet, a soup of voices one indiscernible from another. He inhaled the smoke from coal furnaces and cooking stoves, the stench of humanity was intoxicating to him. He rented a room in a luxurious hotel, settling in, and the sounds of the city at dawn lulling him to sleep.

He partook of everything the city had to offer, its bountiful life, its sounds, smells, endless onslaught of faces, nationalities, and tongues. He found a peaceful existence in the anonymity of the masses. He could walk amongst them, these strange people knew no fear, and the customs of the old country had been tossed aside. He could blend in with these strange masses, pretending to be one of them. He nodded his head as he passed gentlemen and ladies in the street, purchased the services of a divinely sweet whore from time to time, purchased goods from accommodating shop keeps. He had found a companion in the whole of the city, time passed quickly for him in his contented state.

The city around him expanded, bringing more and more people, new people to meet. He changed his name, so many names, he couldn’t recall them all. He roamed the endless supply of galleries and museums, took in live plays, ventured to the movies, he was happy in his quiet existence. His happiness was always temporary; he was always moving, abandoning acquaintances, and taking little drinks of life from the city. The only permanence in his life was the promise of immortality. He grew bored, he traveled the continent, searching for new experiences, new life.

She clamored up the iron grid work of the bridge, the roar of traffic far below her, unaware of her intentions. At long last, she reached the catwalk at the top of the bridge, the icy black midnight waters swirling beneath her. The cold gnawed at her as she stood on the narrow catwalk buffeted by chilling drafts of air. She stared into these cold, black, waters contemplating if she truly had the nerve to jump. In the shadows, he watched, her only witness.

She drank deeply of the fifth of Jack Daniels she had purchased on her way to the bridge, draining it dry; she cast the bottle down into the icy depths. The whisky warmed her, burning her stomach as it churned, the intoxicating liquid numbing her senses. It was now or never, she would make them suffer for their wrongs, they would realize how sorry they were once she was gone. She hefted herself over the guardrail, precariously perched upon it, her body swaying in the wind.

“Who wronged you?” he asked approaching her, skillfully navigating the narrow catwalk. If indeed this young woman wanted to end her life, he could help her out, she would fill a need of his, he a need of hers. In his embrace, her death would be quick, sweet, and painless; she would drift into the netherworld on the wings of a dream. Death in the river would not be so; she would struggle in the icy waters, her lungs filling with the black liquid, frightened with her lungs starving for air, she would claw her way to the underworld.

She held tightly to the iron girders as she looked up to face him. She didn’t need to reply; he could read her as easily as one would pick up a book and read it, knowing its contents. “Are the affections of a man really worth dieing for?” he asked, close enough to touch her now. He could see the girl clearly in the darkness; she was at the height of her beauty, at the zenith of her womanhood. Her shortly cropped brown hair danced in the breezes, her blue eyes were buried in the chubby, pale, white fleshy face, and her lips were thin and drawn. She wore old tattered jeans and a sweatshirt, her dirty tennis shoes dangled as she perched herself on the guardrail.

She had been jilted by a lover who left her for another, he could sense this man and knew that she would be better off alone, living a happy, fulfilled life, but if she truly wanted to die, he was willing to accommodate her wish. “It’s the only way he’ll ever see how much I loved him,” she said through tears and snivels. She stood on the guardrail, balanced on it with a loose grip on neighboring steel rails. He watched her, reading her, she meant to jump, and he meant to take full advantage of her sacrifice.

“There is another way,” he said offering her his hand. “The death you have planned is certainly to be full of pain and suffering. I can show you another way.” She contemplated his offer, not fully understanding how else she could accomplish her goal. “I promise you won’t have any pain, you’ll just drift away as if you were falling asleep. I promise you that your unintended will fully understand the dramatic sacrifice you have made for him.” His hand was still extended, she turned balancing herself on the tiny rail, looking down at him, she asked, “You promise me you’ll take care of everything, he will know what I gave up for him. He will understand how much I love him?” She was starting to climb down from the rail. He offered his hand to help her; steadying her he lowered her to the catwalk.

She was shivering in the cold night air, looking up at him. “You are safe in my hands, love. I will take care of everything,” he said shooting her a smile. “Let us go some place more private.” Taking her hand he guided her down the iron railings of the bridge.

She followed him through the streets of the town to the tiny set of rooms he had rented “Is this your place?” she asked as he led her inside. She inspected the apartment with curiosity, the white plaster walls, its’ sparse furnishings. He could sense that the effects of the whisky were wearing off; she was starting to become afraid. “What did you have in mind?” she asked. He read her thoughts, she was thinking about every homicidal maniac from every low budget horror movie she had ever seen.

Chuckling at her innocence he approached her, “Just a kiss my love, simply a kiss.” He encircled her body with one arm pinning her arms in his vice like grip, with the other hand he grabbed the back of her head firmly, pulling it back exposing the tender flesh of her neck. He felt her heart as it pounded against his chest, he smelled her fear; this excited him, driving him on. He plunged his fangs into her succulent, tender flesh, relishing her gasps of surprise and pain. He whispered to her between sips, urging her to sleep, instructing her to feel no pain; her body went limp in his arms, he could feel her drifting in the shaded land of dreams. He drank of her deeply, taking every last gulp that she had to offer; he felt her sweet life force as it raged through his veins. Thanking her, he lowered her lifeless corpse to the floor.

Holding up to his end of the bargain, he wrote a suicide note for her and shoved it in a pocket of her jeans. In his note, he accused the boyfriend, blaming him for her death. He took her cool, limp body back to the river, cutting her wrists with his fingernail before he tossed her in. She was quickly lost to the current, her body sinking below the black, murky waters. Humming a forgotten tune, he went about his business.

He walked through the teeming masses of humanity, wandering from nightclub to nightclub, watching, catching random thoughts; sometimes he found the thoughts of humans genuinely amusing. There was one he could not read. The man stood in a dark corner also watching the debauchery. The man was tall, almost two meters in height, his curly hair trimmed close to his scalp, his blue eyes shining against the dark. He was ominous looking, brown gleaming skin, adorned in dark garb. The man nodded in his direction, raising his drink to him but not partaking of it. He watched the man as he set down his drink and left the bar, casting him a casual backwards glance.

He followed the man out, to find him leaning against a light post waiting for him. Another of his kind, it had to be. He approached the man, waiting for an introduction. “I am known as Dominicus.” The man spoke, not extending his hand in greeting. He pondered the man, sizing him up, surely his thought could not be read. He sorted through his mental list of names choosing which one to give him, the man knew what he was, given this fact he revealed a name he had not used since his birth, his Christian name; Lucian.

Judging by the man’s thick accent, he was also European in descent, possibly from Spain. “Yes, you are right, I come from a little village in the south of Spain, a village which no longer exists, called by a name I no longer remember.” He could read his thoughts, Lucian pondered at what else the man had extracted from him. “I only see what you reveal to me.” Dominicus replied, grinning. Lucian became angered by the man’s flippant remark. “I have watched you for a long time,” Dominicus went on to say. “Very clever, a clever, clever vampire, never leaving a trace. Surviving the centuries in solitude. I have revealed myself to you to bring you into the light, in this day and age; science is king, our kind little more than a myth. The old tales are long since forgotten, there is no need to hide any longer.” They walked together in silence till the gray light of dawn approached, the city stirring in the final draughts of slumber.

“Let us dine together tonight,” Dominicus said turning away from him, “I trust you know how to find me,” with that remark he disappeared into the depths of the city leaving Lucian alone to his slumber. Lucian’s dreams were filled with thoughts of Marguerite, her life and her death. There were others like him, he knew that to be a fact, but he had never come across one before, Dominicus was an enigma to him.

Now aware of his existence, Dominicus was not hard to locate. Lucian found him in a back alley, taking a taste of a wayward, runaway youth. “Just an appetizer,” said Dominicus as he dabbed at his chin with a silk kerchief. Lowering the youth to the pavement, he led Lucian out onto the streets. “Let me show you my home,” said Dominicus as he guided him down a maze of streets leading to the heart of the city.

They stopped in front of an art gallery, Lucian thought he had patronized every gallery in the city, perhaps on the continent, but here was one he had missed. Dominicus unlocked the door, directing him inside. The gallery displayed works of sculpture and paint, photographs, and the mish-mash called modern art. The floors were made of highly polished white marble; the walls were painted the same brilliant white. Lucian wandered through the displays; he never tired of admiring art. “I have more to show you,” said Dominicus as he directed Lucian away from the main floor of the gallery and to the closed doors of a side room. “This is part of my private collection, “ he said as he opened the massive, ornately carved oak doors, guiding Lucian inside. He didn’t need light to appreciate the sight he beheld, but Dominicus flipped the lights on anyway.

His paintings, every piece of work ever created by him hung on the walls of this great gallery. He was speechless as we walked about the room, touching his art, feeling the roughness of the oil paint against his fingers, and feeling the cool, metal and wood of the frames. Lucian was immortal, his immortality hung on the walls before him for the entire world to see. Marguerite had made good on her promise. “Another gift for my new friend,” he said his voice echoing in the room as he gestured to a portrait, which rested on a gold easel, carefully covered by a black velvet cover. Lucian gingerly lifted the cover not sure what to expect, he sank to the floor in tears at what was revealed with the lifting of the cover.

Her seductive smile greeted him, his long lost portrait, his long lost Marguerite. He looked at Dominicus in wonder, how could this be, he saw the smoldering frame himself. “I’ve known you for a very long time, when you were young, I was very old.” He explained lowering himself to the floor to sit beside Lucian. “Marguerite was one of my children, I gave her this life, she in turn gave it to you. I couldn’t save her from the flames, but I was able to save her memory, I see her through your eyes. Take her, keep her near your heart,” he said gesturing to the portrait. He continued on, “I ask you a favor, let me know her as you did, give me your memories of my beautiful first born.” Lucien had little understanding of what Dominicus was asking, but agreed. Without a word, Dominicus led him to his apartment in the basement of the gallery.

The walls of the apartment were made of rough brick, painted in a variety of color, the furnishings were plush and soft, an aquarium bubbled in the background, creating a warm welcoming appeal to the domicile. Lucien sat beside him, unsure of what to do or say next. Dominicus unbuttoned the black silk of his dress shirt, with the razor sharp nail of his index finger; he cut a slit in the skin of his chest, above where his still heart rested. “Drink Lucien, share my life, know my secrets, partake of my strength.” Lucien grew heady, the scent of the dark blood, which flowed from his companion intoxicating him, he drank lapping up the blood in great mouthfuls.