Vampire Hunt pt.3

Midnight in the Garden of Evil

Velvet soft, willing Jaime had awakened the monster.  The craving ran flame through my veins.  A few blocks down the road from her Maida Vale flat, I whipped the XKE to the curb, levitated to the sidewalk and stood motionless, scenting the air.  The cold starless night echoed my mood.  I was angry with the wannabe vampires for tempting me; with myself for succumbing to temptation and failing the test I'd set for myself tonight.

I turned up the collar of my coat against the chill mist, hurried down the street—a silent wraith in the fog.  I'd catch the Underground to some seamy back street, satisfy the raging fever.  When I'd fed and could think clearly, I'd return home to the solace of my piano.  Indeed most times music could soothe the savage beast.  Not now.   The hunger demanded death.

For a vampire to remember is to relive.  I slipped into memory, tasting the sweetness of innocent blood as a mortal life poured into me.  Drowning in sensations, I failed to hear the tap of high heels.  I snapped to awareness the instant before we collided.

The woman snapped, "Watch where you're going."

"Sorry."  Hunter sensing prey, I tensed. "I didn't see you."

The thud of her heart enchanted me.  Saliva broke beneath my tongue.  Her wooly scarf had drifted down her neck.  A rapid pulse in the jugular whispered an invitation.

"You weren't looking."  Raindrops glistened on a dowdy orange coat.  Beneath a funny hat, her face was plain and round, her cheeks flushed.

I smiled, closed lipped, hiding deadly fangs.  The spinster hurrying home to her cat frowned up at me.  Poor sad creature was alone, would always be alone.  Of all the emotions crowding in on me at that moment, I understood loneliness best.  Many late nights, the solitude of eternity ate at my soul.  I wished to end her pain.  And mine.

"I apologized."  My aristocratic voice and expensive clothes registered.

The hard lines of her face softened.  Bird-like, beak open, she cocked her head.  "Sorry Sir.  When you first appeared like, I feared you'd snag my purse.  But such as you wouldn't hurt the likes of me—" she shivered, "now would you, Sir?"

"You've nothing to fear."  Desire deepened my voice. "I shan't hurt you."

I felt my eyes changing from blue to red, the bloodlust rising like sap.   My victim's eyes widened, her mouth opening to scream but the cry became a sigh.  Jaime's face flashed before my eyes.  The spinster would pay the debt the redhead had made.

An image of Isabeau, streaky blonde hair whipping in a Southern breeze, blinded me. Soon I'd leave England, go to Charleston and the only woman I'd ever truly loved.  The years apart, the years of pretense would melt away and she would love me as she had when she was a child.  Isabeau, beloved of a monster.  The warmth stealing through me froze. She would love me, wouldn't she?

The woman's scent, her blood spiced with adrenaline, called me back to the moment.  A giant wave, hunger rolled over me, washing away all other thoughts.  Gazing into my victim's British blue eyes, I dropped the glamour of a normal man.  Under my spell, she smiled.  When I extended my hand, she linked her fingers in mine.  A vampire and a spinster disappeared into the misty tunnel between tired old buildings that hadn't been built when I was a mortal man.

The old brick walls watched the fatal drama.  If my victim were a lush and beautiful young woman, I'd indulge in a slow seduction.  No, the craving was too strong.   Lust for blood burned every cell of my body.  In fitful shadow, I turned her to face me.

            The death dance had begun, and we were both powerless in its sway.

"Sir," she whispered.

Cupping her chin between forefinger and thumb, I lifted her, smashing her head like a ripe melon on the bricks.  She jerked once then hung a limp carrot from my grip. Before she could die and her blood grow stale, I sucked her dry, licked the red rivulets mixing with rain off her face.  Violence and death had appeased the hunger but horror ran a cold hand down my neck when I gazed at my handiwork.  My fingers opened.  As she fell, blood from her shattered skull painted gory graffiti on the wall.

Dowdy orange Jill collapsed on the toe of my shoe.   I shuddered as I eased my foot from beneath her and stepped back, sickened by the brutality.  I wiped my hand over my spattered face, and one-by-one, I licked cool dead blood from my fingers.  Lyrics from Eleanor Rigby echoed in my head.  Died in an alley and lost her name.  Nobody came.

"What have I become?" My voice echoed down the alley.

No god, no devil answered.  I'd become no more, no less than I'd been for centuries. 

A hard rain began to fall, soaking my hair.  Rivulets streamed down my coat, washed the red painting my cheeks into the gutter.  When my catharsis was done, I focused the psychic energy Jill had given me in her blood on her body.  Electric power shot from my eyes.  A glow surrounded the empty husk.  Two, three heartbeats and Jill disappeared, without a trace.

Is it any wonder there are so many missing persons?
**
By midnight a fortnight later, the craving was burning a hole in my soul.  My obsession with—and estrangement from—Isabeau drove me to kill every night.  I was trying to run away from obsession but there was no escape.  Anyone who hasn't suffered Obsession should pray it never darkens his door.

Obsession strips one of control.

Pacing the floor, resisting the urge to hunt, I found myself at the window.  Since it was early evening the heavy drapes were still drawn, and behind them, the UV proof material in place.  As if my bedroom were a tomb, I felt stifled.  I jerked the curtains open and the protective material back, flung the window open to a cold, clear night.

A sudden longing for my country estate possessed me.  There was too much light pollution in the city to see the stars but a full moon cut a circle in the sky.

"An excellent night for vampires," I said wryly to no one.

When the phone rang, I started, staring at it while premonition capered down my back.  Where was Avery?  My manservant usually answered the phone.  On the final ring before voice mail took the call, I lifted the receiver.  "Morgan here."

Without fanfare, my friend Trevor from the Philharmonic said, "Brandy has been in an accident.  Car crash."

"Dear God," I pictured Brandy as I'd last seen her, laughing as she shot me a bird, "how is she?  Is she—"

"Not good."  He cleared his throat.  "She asked for you."

Brandy was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever met.  Her hair was curly dark, her skin caramel smooth and her eyes remarkable—gray flicked with black.

I'd always wished I could seduce Brandy but we often worked together.
**


Brandy Hamilton, first chair violin for the London Philharmonic, had been struck by a hit-and-run. Condition critical.

The sterile hospital corridor was empty.  Dinner rounds and visiting hours were long past.  With a quick glance at the nurse on duty, I glided by her station, unseen, unknown.  I paused to read the nameplate, listened inside.  I opened the door, closing it silently behind me.  The stench of drugs burnt my nostrils.  Brandy slept in a jungle of tubing.  I sat in a blue plastic chair by the bed and read the chart.  Broken legs.  Depression in skull causing brain to swell.  Substantial brain damage.  If beautiful Brandy survived, she'd be a vegetable.

Horrible to see her fine long legs sheathed in plaster rather than silky hose.  Sad to know that her brilliant career was over.  If I knew who'd struck her, I'd kill him without a second thought. Art is so vulnerable.  So mortal.

Minutes or hours, I don't know how long I watched the slow rise and fall of her chest.  I wasn't the only one at Brandy's bedside.  Death kept watch with me.  The senseless waste of it all ate at me.  Vivacious, talented, witty, Brandy was dying.  I could save her but, because I refused to bring anyone I loved into this life, I'd lost many friends.

"Wake up, Brandy."   I leaned over her and her eyes darted left to right behind her lids.


I eased her to consciousness, lifted her cold hand and pressed it to my cheek.  Brandy's eyes fluttered open, widened.

An angel.  She couldn't speak but her thoughts were clear to me.

"I'm not an angel."  I felt sorry for myself who'd live forever and for Brandy who'd die before sunrise.  A thrill passed through me.  I would tell her what I was.  "I'm a vampire."

Understanding flickered in the black-flecked eyes.  Her delicate, arched brows drew together as she struggled to speak.  Vampire.  Not real.

She couldn't wrap her mind around the truth.  Then I saw belief dawn in her eyes.  The dying possessed the ability to grasp fact, perhaps, because they are closer to the ultimate truth.  Unafraid, she studied my luminescent eyes, my too perfect skin.  I smiled, showing the trademark of my species.  She stared at the fangs.  No other reaction.

I kissed her fingertips, colder than mine, and she tried again to speak.  "You needn't talk, my dear.  I can hear your thoughts."

Her lack of fear made me bold.  I told her a story few mortals had ever known. Quietly, as befitted a death bed, I painted a portrait of the French noblewoman who'd seduced me, absorbed me to the core and finally awakened me to darkness.  I described the eternal night from my experience—its music, its mystery, its menace.

"I don't believe vampires are inherently evil," I concluded.

Then I whispered to her my dearest dream of Isabeau and our child.

Her eyes held mine like a lifeline as a hard spasm shook her.  Morgan!

I chafed her hand, easing her pain.

Hope lit a torch in her eyes.  Vampires are immortal.   Can you make me like you?  Please.  I'm dying.

Through the centuries, I'd seen that pleading look on many faces.  Pain squeezed my heart. "I cannot."

Cannot or will not?

I shook my head.  Becoming a serial killer was a high price to buy time.  We couldn’t randomly make other vampires.  Permission to perform the Arcanum must be obtained from Les Elus, the Vampyre Council.  I hated rules.  Rules were meant to be broken.

I couldn't look at her as I repeated the lie, "It's impossible." I swallowed hard and the half-truth slipped glibly from my tongue, "I was born a vampire."  Reborn to the Vampyre.
You drink blood.  You kill?  Put me out of my misery.  I don't want to live as a vegetable. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks.  My music, my hopes, the lost opportunities, the unkept promises.  Don't let me die.

Her chest rose and fell in erratic waves.  She managed a scarcely audible whisper.  "You were kind to me.  Be kind to me now."

"I'm sorry I can't make you immortal."  Tears burned my eyes as I stroked her cheek. "I'll take the pain away, my Brandy, and give you peace.  That I promise."

Her eyes began to vibrate left and right.  Convulsions racked her lovely body.  Her brain seemed to grow cold and her thoughts to solidify into one long sigh.  Despite my efforts, Brandy plummeted toward the final abyss.  Except for the rules—and my vow never to perform the Arcanum—I could save Brandy, but if Les Elus found out that I planned to break the most sacred rule and father a child on a mortal, they'd bring the curtain down on my sinners' opera.

When the muscles in my jaw began to ache, I realized I was clenching my teeth.  "I don't want to make this choice."

No one heard.  Brandy was well beyond hearing.

I had bitten into my lower lip, tasting feral Vampyre blood—the fountain of youth.


           
Holding my breath, I listened to the fresh hot elixir I craved flowing carelessly through Brandy's veins.  Why did I hesitate?  She'd asked me for rescue.  Her sublime young body was wrecked.  In minutes, my friend would die.  If I fed now, there'd be no need to hunt later.  Brandy, with her untimely death, could save another soul.  The craving drew my lips back from my teeth.  My eyes changed from blue through purple to cardinal sin.

"Care for a spot of Brandy, Morgan?"  I asked the silence.

Not Remy Martin.  Brandy blended from an African father and a Swedish mother.

"Don't mind if I do."

Plastic crackled as I folded back the tent.  Pure oxygen stung my nostrils, burned my eyes.  And I who'd killed legions hesitated.

Avoiding the tubes in her nose, I bent to run my tongue over her lips.  Her mouth was too alluring not to taste.  We'd always promised that one day we'd be lovers.  I hoped Brandy would feel the warmth of my smile and know that she was not alone.  I knew she feared dying alone.  Everyone does.

Reverently, I unbuttoned the hospital gown.  With deliberate precision at odds with my need, I planted my lips above her left breast, where the main artery exits the heart.  The hospital murmured.  Odors of sickness, of death lapped at my senses.  As I suckled, Brandy's heartbeat slowed and weakened.  Anticipation drew me rigid.  Death would alleviate Brandy's suffering. I would take the essence of her earthly being.  Pleasure so exquisite it tread a fine line with pain robbed me of awareness.  My heart expanded, contracted.  My body burned, froze, glowed.  As my friend fed me the last drop of her life, I ejaculated a soft cry of ecstasy against her skin.

"What the bloody hell!"  A shrill, nerve-rending cry snatched me down from heaven.

I lurched back, my hands hopelessly tangled in plastic vines.  Struggling to free myself, I ripped the tube from Brandy's nose and the I.V. from her hands.  Fluid spurted over the blanket.  No blood flowed from the needle wounds.  I'd emptied that sweet, rich bottle of brandy.

This all happened in the blink of an eye.  In one supple motion, I had gained my feet and whirled to face the intruder.  After my sojourn in red velvet darkness, the light seemed to shatter.  Shards of brilliance stabbed my eyes.  Cursing, I flung an arm over my face.  Deep in Blood Spell, I staggered into the chair, sending it crashing to the floor.  Shoes squeaked on tile, driving spikes into my ears, my brain.

"Morgan."  Horror edged a familiar voice.  "What in the name of heaven do you think you're doing?"

Brandy's blood and psychic energy washed bliss through me.  The shoes squeaked painfully closer.  When I managed to focus, Jaime's face was inches from mine.


"There's blood on your mouth."  Jaime was out of context.  She ran a fingertip along my lips, the blood staining my mouth reddening her finger. She glanced at the wrecked tent, the corpse.  "You killed her."

Wild-eyed, Jaime seized my shoulders and shook me.  Bliss sharpened every sensation and emotion.  I was furious with the intruder who'd interrupted me at the moment of greatest pleasure—the moment of death.  I didn't move or resist as she shook me again.  If I lifted a hand, I'd break the redhead's neck.

"You'll bring the coppers down on us for sure."  Jaime danced a jig of fear.  "We were on TV, saying we were vampires.  We're in for it now."  Then she did the most annoying thing.  She wiped my mouth with the hem of her sweater.

I flicked the offensive hands off me.  "You little twit.  She was my friend.  She was dying.  I rescued her from suffering."

"I knew you were real."  Jaime gazed at me in wonder.  "A real vampire."  Like a litany, she chanted real vampire until I thought I'd scream.


"Stop babbling or I'll strangle you."  I raised my hands as if I intended to do it.

Jaime fell back a step but her expression was that of an initiate worshiping at a shrine.  I should have expected the wannabe vampire's reaction but she'd caught me in the midst of a kill. Where I expected revulsion, I met reverence.  Did the fool not realize I fed on her kind?

"Why are you staring at me?"  Jaime's voluptuous whisper was like an intimate caress.

Lust and bloodlust blended as the girl undulated toward me.  I closed my eyes and sighed.  "What are you doing here?"


Desire stirred as she applied her slender body to mine, buried her face in my hair and kissed my neck. "I work at the hospital to pay for university."  She rubbed her sex on mine.  Hot breath stirred my hair. "Take me."

I disappeared from the heated embrace, turned my back on temptation.  "I'm going.  Don't follow me."

"Morgan," she begged.

I threw my hands up.  "I'll give you a ring tomorrow."

She molded her body to my back.  "Not tomorrow, tonight."

            Anger flourished, died, was reborn as she licked my neck.   "I want to be a vampire.  I want to share forever with you.  The first time I laid eyes on you, I knew I had to have you.  You're all I think about."

Though the blood and her bold seduction were working their magic on my libido, I made one last desperate attempt.  "Wait for me in the car," I groaned.

Her hand slid down, caressed my growing erection.


Slowly, I faced her.  With the soft glow of the light behind her, she looked like a Renaissance angel—like the first woman I'd killed as a newborn vampire. Some strange, garbled idea of resurrecting her, of atoning for the initial sin, swept through my mind.  My smile must have been tender.  Jaime sank her hands into my hair and kissed my blood-stained mouth hard, pushing her tongue between my teeth, exploring, my fangs lacerating.

"Take me," she breathed into me.

Excitement stood each nerve on end.  "I'll take you."  I watched my hand move through a fog of unreality.  I ripped the uniform down the front as easily as tearing tissue paper.