A Vampire's Tale

Regenerated, the pair sped eastbound on the Arizona freeway. “Dominicus, how did you know I was in trouble?” he asked, as he stared out the window, watching the landscape whiz by. Dominicus tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, not taking his eyes off the freeway as he pondered his response.

“You called, I came.” Was Dominicus’ reply. “We are bound through the sharing of blood, I always know you, and you always know me.” Lucian mulled over Dominicus’ reply, not knowing what to say next but wondering. The din of an approaching city loomed before them.

“What about the ones who fed off me Dominicus?” Lucian asked the question with a foreboding dread; he already knew the answer to his question. It was an unfortunate reality, those who had fed off him would always know him, and they would be locked together in a psychic brotherhood until either he or they no longer existed. No matter where he went, no matter where he hid, they would find him, they could seek him out. “Dominicus, I have to go back, I have to end this.” Dominicus turned the car around on the freeway with a reckless abandon for traffic laws, together they sped back to where he had come from. The coven knew they were coming, coming for them.

They arrived to the crux of the small town, at Lucian’s home at the rising of the dawn, sleeping lightly, they thought of what sundown held in store for them. When the moon rose high on the horizon, they set out. Cutting electrical lines, snapping phone poles like twigs, they cut the coven off from the rest of the world. When they arrived at the main house, Natallia was waiting for them. Grinning she leaned against the doorframe, Kristoff at her side. “Come meet your beautiful children Lucien,” she jeered faking reverence. Lucien and Dominicus pushed her aside as they entered. Lucien was assaulted by an onslaught of the thoughts of the supernatural, so strong, he was almost knocked back. Dominicus steadied him, pulling him further into the great house. Natallia close on their heels. Dominicus slid into the basement of the house leaving Lucien to handle Kristoff and Natallia.

“Have you ever seen a vampire die, Lucien?” she asked him. “Yes of course you have, your beautiful Marguerite, you stood by and let her die didn’t you?” she said as she pointed to an easel holding Marguerite’s portrait. Taking a candle, Natallia set the portrait a flame laughing, Lucien could smell the stench of lighter fluid as it engaged the flame, he shuddered at the scent of burning canvas and oil paint. Lucien charged for her only to be intercepted by Kristoff. With brutish strength, Kristoff knocked him to the floor falling upon him, Lucien slid a sharp hunting knife out of his boot, ramming it into Kristoff’s ribs, feeling his flesh give under the blade of the knife. Kristoff looked at her in shock ripping the blade free of his ribcage and dropping it onto the floor. Lucian wasted not a moment, in a lightening fast move, he gripped the knife, freeing Kristoff’s head from its perch on ogre like shoulders, it fell to the floor with a resounding thud rolling before it came to rest at her feet. The body teetered for a few moments before it collapsed, the sound of its fall echoed through the silent room.

The fire she had started was spreading, having captured the draperies in its grasp, lapping at them greedily. Natallia, flung herself at him, digging her claw like fingers into his flesh, ramming her needle sharp fangs into his chest. Grappling with her, he jerked and twisted freeing himself from her fangs. The pair struggled like two lovers in a passionate embrace, he dipped and rolled freeing himself from her, mustering all his strength, he threw her into the bulk of the fire which now raged consuming paneling, draperies and furnishings. Writhing in agony she rolled, the fire tearing through her flesh as easily as it would through dry parchment. She cried out, begging him for help, assaulting him with images of her pain and torment. He shook them off blocking her from his mind as he set out to find the others.

In the cool darkness of the basement, Dominicus found the infant vampires still dozing in the dimness of sunset, he easily dispatched them, cutting through them like a sickle cuts through a field of wheat. The elders were upon him, tearing at his flesh, gnashing at him with their great fangs. He struggled beneath them, casting one than another to the side then separating their heads from their necks with the sickle he wielded. He smelled the smoke of the fire, smelled burning flesh, and heard screams as the fire ripped through the rooms above him. He didn’t have much time to complete his task. He charged for the basement door, fighting his way through the onslaught.

Lucian bounded up the staircase; he was searching out mortals, waking them and guiding them to safety. “Father,” a voice said from behind him, turning he saw Justin standing before him. Justin walked closer and closer to him, weary of his blade. “Father, take me with you.” Justin held his hands behind his back as he approached Lucien. Lucien sensed that he was in danger from this impetuous imp who had stolen his blood. He felt no kinship for Justin, only distain. Justin charged Lucien, attempting to jam the blade of a dagger into his throat, the very dagger used to open his flesh for Justin to drink of his blood. Deftly, Lucien tossed him to the floor, using that same blade; he cut Justin deeply and began drinking from him, repossessing his stolen bounty in gulps. The fire inched its way up the staircase, dangerously close to the pair. Lucien lifted Justin easily, renewed by Justin’s offering of blood, tossing him to the fire watching as the flames charred his fragile, pale flesh.

The upstairs rooms were devoid of life, human or otherwise. With a bounding leap, Lucian descended from an upstairs window, free from the danger of the fire. He could sense that Dominicus was safe already some distance from the home, eager to be free from the terror he had witnessed, the terror he had inflicted, he readily joined him. Once together, he asked Dominicus an alarming question, “How many more coven houses are there?”

Dominicus, not looking him in the eye responded, “More than either you or I know of, this was the only one that concerned us though. Do not interfere.” Dominicus lowered his head to his dinner, a voluptuous brunette with drowsy brown eyes. Glancing up, Dominicus asked Lucien, “You want some?” grinning, Lucien dove in, sipping on their delicate morsel.

The pair wandered from place to place, careful not to engage conversation with those of their kind, shielding themselves from the curious minds of the others. Neither one of them made a mention of the coven house or of Marguerite again, both topics lost to never ending memory. This time, it was Dominicus who left; he wished to return to his home, wished to return to his art gallery, which was becoming quite the success. Lucien was comforted by the fact that no matter how far apart the pair was, they would always be bound together psychically. He bid Dominicus goodbye, knowing he would see him again, sometime, someplace, some century.

Lucian, alone again, traveled the country, never staying long in one place, city-to-city, town-to-town, year after year, careful never to leave a trace. His current home was a large metropolitan city; he hunted by night and slept by day. This was a special night for him; it was his birthday, and the day he was delivered into the arms of darkness by Marguerite. He purchased a solitary ticket to the symphony; quietly he took his seat, in the middle of human warmth and comfort. The thoughts of the symphony patrons around him created a symphony of their own; happiness, anger, hate, love, plans for the future, lust; the whole of human experience blended into one splendid song. He sat in his seat waiting for the performance to begin, heady, listening to the melody created by the crowd.

The lights of the house dropped, the curtain was lifted, and the music began. Flute, violin, trombone, drums mixed playing a harmonious melody; he drifted listening to the mix of the music from the instruments as it combined with the music from the heads of the crowd. His experience was almost otherworldly as he took it all in. He was listening to the soloist, a golden harp rested in the lap of a slender, blonde haired, beauty. Her hair, golden ringlets, bounced in rhythm to her rocking body as she gently strummed the harp, for a moment, it was the moment of his birth, the harp played by Marguerite. He could see her, her dark skin and raven black hair swaying to the music of the harp as she made it sing its ethereal melodies. He was brought back to this world, this time by an encore from the crowd as the house lights went up, the crimson curtain sliding back into place. He had to meet this angel, the reincarnate of Marguerite’s talent and beauty. He pushed through the crowd to the stage, and slid invisibly behind the velvety fabric of the curtain.

He saw her standing in the midst of a mass of her peers; laughing, hugging, joking, congratulating; he stood in the shadows watching. She was wearing a black silk dress, it clung to her seductive curves, her pouty red shaded mouth, its corners bent up in a smile. She was perfect, in form, and in her craft. He mussed, he must make her immortal, her music, her gift, her talent should live for all time. He stayed in the shadows long after the crowd had dissipated. He mulled over his thoughts, he knew her name, her past, her present, her future flowed through his veins. He left the theater, seeking her out.

He walked through the rain soaked streets of the city; cars passed him spraying him with gentle sprays of mist from the road. He stood below the window of her apartment, listening. He heard the whisper of a brush as it passed through her golden locks. He heard the groan of the ancient bed as she crawled in, he heard the sheets slide against the cool, slick, satin of her nightgown. He felt that old familiar desire rise within him; he waited for her to slip into slumber. When he read her thoughts and found her dreaming, he slipped silently into the apartment building and let him self into her home.

Her apartment provided him with glimpses of her personality. The living room was carpeted in a lush, soft, burgundy carpet. Leather furniture complemented the tiny living space, photographs, candles, and houseplants decorated the room. He crept past the kitchen, decorated in glimmering white, nothing out of place. He slid past the bathroom door, decorated in the same white, flawless. Her bedroom door was half open, inviting him in. He slipped through the doorway and watched her as she slept.

Her bed was an ancient antique bed, the headboard tall and stout, made of dark maple with ornate tiny cherubs carved into it, reflected the light that filtered in through her bedroom window. The floor was hardwood and covered in scattered finely woven Persian rugs. The comforter on the immense bed that dwarfed her tiny frame, was pure white filled with goose down.

He stood within inches of her now, the hunger building within him, his desire barely controllable. He smelled her perfume, a blend of rose and musk, he felt the heat of her breath, and his wanting of her humanity and his desire to pass on his dark secret overcame him. Securing her firmly on her back, his fangs fluttered over the vessels of her neck. Softly he whispered commands to her, bidding her to sleep, ordering her to be free from pain, deftly with the experience of the ages he pressed his fangs deep into her neck.

He took tastes of her humanity, relishing its sweetness and vigor. She surrendered herself to him without fight, he loosened his grip on her, and she slid her arms around his shoulders pulling him closer urging him on. He eagerly partook of her offering, sliding the straps of her nightgown down past her shoulders, revealing round, full breasts, tanned brown from the summer sun. He lapped at her nipples, rising them to firm peaks, gently as though not to hurt her, he tore a nipple open with the tip of his needle sharp fang, he sipped the blood down, nuzzling her taking nourishment from her.

She rolled in passion underneath him, raising her body up to meet his, pressing him onward. He slid her nightgown down past her slender hips revealing her womanhood. He deeply inhaled of the scent, resting his cheek on her fluff of light, curly coarse hair. Sliding his tongue along her lips, he felt the warmth of her need for him, tasted the slick, salty, juice of her want. Hungry with need, she parted her thighs for him, welcoming him in. He took his time, teasing her, taunting her with his fingers and tongue till she could take no more. She rolled him on his back; resting her buttocks firmly on his bulging, firm, cock. He could feel her wetness as it dampened the front of his trousers. She teased and taunted him, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, nibbling on his chest, and sucking his nipples as he had suckled hers. She lowered her head down to the top button of his pants; with deft fingers she released him from his confines of cotton and wool. He groaned and cried out as she took the full length of his vampire cock into her mouth, sucking harder and faster until he begged her to stop before he lost himself to her.

She refused his request, pushing him on. Her tongue stroked the veins of his penis and with her own sharp mortal teeth; she ripped his soft, tender, flesh. He came with a rush, blood and cum spurting out of him in great waves. She sucked him, unknowing that she was drinking the blood of an immortal, partaking of an unholy communion. He was lost in his own universe, unable to stop her as she drank, his secrets revealed with each mouthful. He mustered what was left of his strength, sinking his great fangs into her flesh, already cooling losing its warmth to immortality. He shared in her secrets, the two of them locked in a blood lust, until they were both satiated.

She slid into the darkness of her immortal life; together they hunted the limitless tastes of the city, pondered the meaning of each other, and slept in the inky darkness of their day, blinded by the light of their night. He had his companion, she her teacher, together they roamed if only for the moment, leaving no trace.