A Vampire's Tale

He felt her claw like fingers scratching at his chest, “Drink of me my love, join me in immortality.” She laid back pulling him onto her and guided him down past her belly, taking a razor sharp nail she opened the fragile flesh of her inner thigh, creating a stream of dark blood. She guided his mouth to the stream; instinctively he lapped up the blood, no longer aware of his desire for her.

Her blood raced through his empty veins filling them with fire. He drank deeply of her, clumsily gulping her blood. She could feel herself growing weaker with every swallow, she pushed him away barely able to form the words, “No more, lover.”

He awoke in his room, the draperies closed shut against the outside world. His head was pounding, his body ached, his stomach rolled like a ship in a stormy sea, he mussed he had way too much wine last night; he tried to remember last night, but could not. Gingerly, he peeked around the drapes and saw that nightfall had surrounded the chateau. Weak, he returned to bed. He dozed in a light slumber awakened by his bedchamber door being flung open. “My love sleeps,” she said as she entered the room and flopped on the bed, the bounce of the bed set waves of nausea flowing over him. “Come, come, I have something that will make you feel much better.” She grabbed his hand firmly and roused him from the bed. Hand in hand she led him down the hall, opening a door, she guided him into a bedchamber. “She is for you,” she said pointing to a young peasant girl sleeping on the bed. Giggling she shoved him in the room, “Lover, you’ll figure out what to do,” she said as she shut the door tightly.

He contemplated what she meant as he stared at the young girl sleeping fitfully, her tiny body dwarfed by the immensity of the bed. He watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically; she stirred in her sleep, her mouth slightly open. Tresses of blonde wavy hair peeked out from under her cap, her breasts confined by the tight, coarse, wool peasant dress; he watched them rise and fall. He could hear her heart beat in the rhythm of sleep and innocence; he inhaled deeply of her scent. She smelled of the sweat of hard work and of the harvest, the pungent earthy scent of her caused sensations to rumble deep within him. He approached her, these new sensations roaring within him; suddenly he knew what to do.

He lowered himself on top of her, startled she awoke, he could smell her fear as the weight of his body pinned her against the bed. He whispered words to her in her peasant language, the words seemed to calm her, and she reached up to touch his face. The scent of her, the heat of her body, the thumping of her heart against his chest drove his instincts on. He lowered his head, driving his fangs deep into the soft, fragile flesh of her neck causing a river of blood to flow. He drank deeply, the fluid was sweet and fresh, more intoxicating than the best wine he had ever tasted. He knew her thoughts; he knew her life, her birth, and her kin; now he knew her death. Her heart beat a last few terrible beats; he stopped just before her heart slid into the abyss of death.

He felt her life as it surged through him, he felt invigorated, alive. He could hear things he had never heard before; thoughts from miles away came to him like whispers. The rustling of the leaves of the trees and of the grasses of the field created a symphony. He saw colors he had never seen before, the brilliant crimson of the silk bedding seemed to glow, the brown of her dress, he could see every thread of in the weave, every dimple in the stone wall of the bed chamber stood out, the fire in it’s brilliant red-gold danced as if it had a life of its own, the hissing and popping of the wood as it burned added melody to his symphony. He was bedazzled by the newness and awe of the ordinary, he wondered to himself, how could I not of seen all of this before?

The girl’s body grew cold under him; he could smell the scent of decay already beginning to consume her form. Another wave of sensation rolled over him, he was appalled at what he had done. He was beginning to understand what the price of his gifts truly was. Horrified he backed away from the girl, in death, she was still beautiful, and she reminded him of a wildflower which grows in the middle of a field only to be trampled by warring armies, the fragile beauty of the flower never appreciated. “Sometimes, a taste is enough, darling,” she said from behind him pulling him out of his revere. He turned to face her, he had questions, and she held the answers. “You will learn,” she said as she wiped a stray trickle of dried blood off his chin. Taking his hand she led him downstairs, closing the door to the bedchamber she stated, “Needn’t worry about that, it will be taken care of.” She was referring to the girl.

She sat him down on a Persian rug in front of a great roaring fireplace, he had never been in this room before, and it appeared to be a music room. Velvety blue draperies hung, covering immense spaces of window, a harp rested in the middle of the floor, taking a seat, she began to play. The sweet sounds coming from the harp soothed him, he basked in the warmth of the fire, lying back on the plush colorful rug, and he drifted. He waited for her answers although he had asked no questions. “I was like you, long ago,” she said, her voice floating above the melody of the harp. “My music drew her to me, she gave me this gift, this life, I gave it to you.” She continued to play, gazing intently into the fire. “None of us is truly immortal, we exist in this plane of shadow and dark, living through the lives of others, awaiting our own demise,” her fingers flew over the strings of the harp, creating ethereal sounds. He pondered what she had said, mussing at its meaning.

“We can die?” he asked turning to face her. He was torn away, distracted by the gleam of the firelight as it danced, reflected in the folds of her skirt. She nodded her head yes. He could sense her sadness, it reflected off of her as the firelight reflected off her skirts. “Is that what happened to the one who gave you this?” he asked making a broad gesture with his hands. Again, she nodded her head yes. Sighing, she lowered the harp, rising from her seat, she took his hand, “Enough of this, “ she said leading him from the room.

Arm in arm they walked the banks of the mighty river. He reveled at the moonlight as it shone in the black waters. He reeled in the symphony created by the beings of the night, crickets, frogs, owls, and other forms of life. He listened intently to her as she recited the dogma of this new life he had been given. One rule was simple enough, be as a shadow, and leave no trace. He listened as she talked on. He stopped her and turned her to face him, kissing her on the forehead, he whispered to her in her own tongue, pledging to remain at her side for all time. His beauty, his mother, his companion, his love, his Marguerite.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, she played her music, he painted; together they hunted and pondered the mysteries of their existence. They visited the little burgs that dotted the countryside, choosing their dinner and leaving no trace. One night they were visiting a little villa, she had chosen a strong lad who had, much to his misfortune fallen asleep on his watch in the fields. The white curly backs of the sheep could be seen wandering in the tall grasses, he watched as she stealthily crept up on her prey. He loved to watch her hunt, she possessed a grace and skill, which he doubted that he ever would. He was still clumsy, sometimes taking too much, sometimes spilling more than he tasted. There was no danger of him creating more of his kind, in order to do that his own blood had to be spilled and tasted. She forgave him for his mistakes, dutifully erasing every trace, waving him off as he apologized for his clumsiness.

She slid her fangs into the tender flesh of the sleeping youth; he stirred beneath her. He felt his hunger mount, raising her head, she invited him over for a taste. Eagerly, he accepted her invitation. Driving his fangs deep into the boy’s wrist, he drank. Together, they exhausted the boy, draining him completely. They were roused by the sound of approaching footsteps, still some distance away. The footsteps were loud and numerous, surrounding them on all sides. She shot him a look of panic, grabbing his hand she led him away from their supper, no time to erase their traces. Together they fled, only to be encountered by the rush of footsteps from all sides. The dawn was fast approaching them, they could exist in daylight, but it weakened them, leaving them defenseless.

They were greeted by the onslaught of the angry mob, pitchforks and torches waving high in the golden-yellow light of dawn. She saw a small gap in the encroaching mass; she pushed him toward it, instructing him to seek a place to hide. He refused to let go of her hand, she pushed him away stating “I can take care of myself, you need to take care of yourself now, it is time for my fledgling love to leave the nest.” He ran quickly becoming lost to the mob in a thicket of brush and tall trees still shrouded by darkness and mist.

He could hear her cries as the mob rose to a fevered pitch, bearing down on her. She was quickly over powered, he felt the bite of the ropes as her hands and feet were bound, he shared her fear as she was tied to the stake, he felt her agony as the flames licked her flesh, smelled the stench of her burning flesh as they greedily consumed her. He heard the roar of the crowd as her body turned to ash. He cried for his lost love, his creator, unable to withstand the golden light of day, he slid into unconsciousness, dreaming dark vampire dreams of his lost Marguerite.

At nightfall when he awoke, he could hear the sounds of a great celebration taking place, he smelled the burning wood of their fires, the stench of cooking meat, the clumsy strum of their instruments, laughter and joy from the villagers permeated his sensitive hearing. He timidly approached the gravesite of his love, charred bulks of wood still steamed in the cool night air. Of his love, not a trace, no bone, no unclaimed piece of fabric, nothing, and it was as if she had never been.

He traveled the miles back to the chateau as if the very hounds of hell were on his heels he was shocked by what he returned to. His home was no more, the servants had suffered the same fate as his love, windows were broken, the stone walls were all that remained, the rest was smoldering ash. He sifted through the rubble, gathering small remnants of their life together, a hair pin, a small jewel encrusted goblet, nothing of value to the villagers, but very significant to him. In a smoldering pile of ash, he saw what remained of her portrait, the burning massive oak frame. He had no time for grief now, she had sacrificed herself to save him, and he meant to survive.

For weeks he traveled on foot guided by the light of the moon, dining on the lesser forms of life, cats, rats, birds, anything that crossed his path that wasn’t human. He shied away from civilization, avoiding the welcoming warmth of a fire, avoiding the alluring scent of humanity and human flesh. He wasn’t sure where he was, only that he followed the path of the moon away from his cursed past. He tucked himself safely away from the light of day, preferring an overgrown cemetery as his temporary home. The living didn’t disturb the dead as they slept, rotting in crypts and mausoleums. He would chuckle to himself when he entered such a place to find it filled with toys for the undead, strings of garlic, crosses and other religious symbols, yard after yard of rope tightly tied into tiny knots, meant to keep the undead contained and busy for an eternity. Idly he would untie the knots, not that anyone would ever bother to check, but it kept his mind off of Marguerite.

He slept very little; when he did his mind was full of dreams of Marguerite. He could hear her laughter, her whispers, he heard her as she played an unknown melody on her harp, and he saw her skirts swirl around her as she danced in the moonlight. He could feel the softness of her hair, the cool smoothness of her skin, the muskiness of her alluring scent. His sweet dreams would turn into nightmares as he recalled her screams of agony as she burned.

He was amazed at his new physical abilities, he could move faster than a mortal man could see, he could travel miles in a matter of minutes, he could hear the thoughts of others, he could see color in the dark, even in the midst of his pain and loneliness, he was awe struck by the gifts she had bestowed upon him. In the distance he saw the din of the lights of Paris, his heart was lifted, how long had it been since he had been in Paris? He could not recall, time has little meaning to an immortal. His pace quickened.

As he approached the city, he looked at his disheveled appearance, his clothes hung in tatters and rags, his body was soiled and unkempt, he had no money. He crouched down low in the bushes and waited for a lone rider; he was about to take his first taste of human blood since that fateful night. In the distance, he heard the clop of a horse’s hoof, a gentleman approached on a midnight black steed. As the rider passed him, he bounded out from behind the bushes, taking him easily. The blood was thick and sweet, bringing him new life as he drank deeply. The horse munched happily on grasses that grew along the road, seemingly unaware of its rider’s fate. After he had disposed of the body, relieving it of clothing and its purse, he took the reins of the horse leading it to a nearby stream. He bathed ridding himself of months of grime; the clothes of the rider fit him quite well. The silky smoothness of the white shirt, the grip of fine breeches tight on his thighs, the snugness of the shoes as he slid them on; running his fingers through his hair, he gathered it back into a ponytail tying it with a stray piece of silk string. He counted the money in the purse, enough to rent a room. Unsaddling the horse, he set it free, it trotted down the road away from the great city. Whistling to himself he followed the road toward Paris.

He roamed the streets, discovering how much the city had changed in his absence. He had been gone a great many years, buildings had been torn down, companions had died or moved, new artists had come, taking his place, he did not belong here any longer, he was a foreigner in foreign streets. He searched galleries looking for some sign of his former self, finding none; his work was unknown and obscure. The longer he stayed in the city, the lesser he could tolerate it. The city was crowded and the stench of people drove him mad. Their thoughts, once mere whispers were shouts, he could barely control the onslaught. He left the city as quietly as he had come, leaving his native France bound for England.

He found comfort in the fresh air of the English countryside, gentle rolling meadows, tall grasses which in the cool northern breezes made waves like those of the sea. He purchased a small simple country home, in time, he began to paint. He relished his imposed isolation, for years he hid away painting portraits of his long lost Margaruite. The small towns around him grew becoming cities, a new world was discovered, steam ships replaced sails, railways were carved into the countryside, electricity and indoor plumbing made the misery of human existence more tolerable. Everything around him changed, but he did not. He did not age, his hair did not grow, his memories did not fade, in his prime for all eternity.

Occasionally, he would walk to a near by town to purchase art supplies and to have a light meal, he had not killed since his stay in Paris. He was careful not to speak to anyone, simply collecting his supplies and retreating to the sanctity of his solitude. The store clerk watched him intently as he gathered his art supplies and made his way to the counter. She was a young girl, judging by her thoughts; which she made no attempt to hide, today was her twenty-first birthday. She smiled at him as he laid his selections on the counter, her cheeks were rosy red and full of life, her cherub like face and great round blue eyes, told the story of her youth. Her hair, red and cropped short, shone and glimmered reminding him of the life force which flowed within her.

She began to speak, “I remember you, and you’ve been coming here since I was a little girl.” She smiled as she added up his purchases. “You never seem to change, not even your clothes,” she said pointing to his worn shoes. He stared at her coldly, not saying a word. Shocked, she put her hand to her mouth “Oh, I’ve offended you. I am so sorry, daddy always says my big mouth gets me into trouble and I’ll never find a husband with this mouth of mine.” Her face was ablaze with embarrassment. Her cheeks were as red as the fabric of her sweater. Shocked at himself, he replied.

“Perhaps you could help me select some new clothing, miss.” He shot her a warm alluring smile; she was stirring feelings in him that he had not felt in centuries. He looked around the room, finding a calendar, the early twentieth century; he had been in England for well over a century, an eternity of solitude. She shot out from behind the counter, her daddy would be so proud of her, her big mouth may have landed them a big sale, the little shop was in danger of closing, this could be her big day. Hurriedly, she sized him up, guessing, she gathered trousers, shirts, and ties. Holding them up to him, she selected the most flattering colors; browns, navy blues, and blacks, highlighting the pale blond of his hair and the glowing green of his eyes. She selected matching argyle socks and sturdy black oxfords, grabbing his foot out from underneath of him, she almost toppled them both over. He could feel her warmth; he smelled her sweet perfume, lavender oil. He felt a stirring in his loins, a yearning barely controllable.

“Would you like to try them on?” she asked pointing to the shoes. “Shall I ring them up?” she asked piling the clothing on the countertop. He nodded his head yes as he reached in his pocket for his purse, the coins jingling from its depths. She rang up item after item, carefully folding his newly acquired garb. She gleefully took his money, her fingers brushing against his hand as she gave him the change; he took her hand, holding it in his icy grasp. “You keep the change, for your birthday,” he said carefully avoiding her eyes. Elated, she obliged. He left the store, the moonlight lighting the dirt road to his home, he tried to get her out of his mind, her scent clung on him like the mists clung to the fields, her essence had begun to thaw the ice which surrounded his heart.

That night, after his meager meal of wild goat, he sat by the flickering of an oil light, thinking of her, her name Elise. The hour was late, the tiny town slumbered, in the coolness of the autumn night; he stood in the shadows of an alleyway across from her bedroom window. Silent as mist he slipped through the open window, he watched her sleep, the rise and fall of her chest, and he listened to her heartbeat, hearing the whoosh of blood as it traveled through her veins. He whispered to her, bidding her to be silent, freeing her from pain, yielding her to his will as he slid the rough linen of her bed sheets down, revealing her form clad in a white satin nightdress. Her body told the tale of her youth, narrow hips, and small breasts, virginal and pure. He longed to taste of her innocence.

Through round open eyes she watched him, the moonlight causing her eyes to glow like two dark sapphires on a white silk pillow. He watched her, whispering to her. She slid her nightdress up over her thighs, pulling it up over her head she cast it carelessly onto the floor, she slid her panties down, abandoning them in the same manner. Her sparse, curly, rose colored pubic hair hid her purity. Gently he parted her thighs, whispering now in his own tongue. He slid his fingers into her wetness, she moaned rising against him in desire. These sensations were new to her, as foreign as his tongue, more desired than the gold he paid her with earlier that night. She spread her legs wider bidding him entrance. He found the evidence of her innocence, gently pushing through the fragile tissues. Pulling out his fingers, he sucked the blood off, cleansing them. The taste of her flesh aroused needs in him, his need for her body, and his need for her blood.