Bloodsong Pt. 01

This story contains blood (obviously), violence, mentions of domestic violence/abuse, and mind control. It's a slow burn, so it'll be a while before we get to any real sex scenes, but I promise you they're coming!

Natalie was tired of hunting the lowest common denominator. She longed to return to the simple world of her youth, to stalk the shadows, free of worry and doubt. In those days there had been only the hunger. The seduction. The primal thrill as her prey's eyes went wide at the realization of what she was.

Natalie adored that expression.

Half terror and half betrayal. The realization that she was not the woman of their dreams come to save them, or a beautiful but naive serving girl, or whatever other guise she'd chosen that evening, but the harbinger of their death. Watching the light in their eyes sputter out as she drank her fill was absolute bliss.

"Can you believe that? He told me that twenty percent was unfair, so I said to him— Are you listening?"

Alan's deep, gruff voice pulled Natalie back to the present. To the dingy, smoke filled dive that was tonight's hunting ground. She replayed the past few minutes of their conversation in her head. Something about loan financing. It didn't matter. He wouldn't care what she thought, only that she was paying attention.

"Is twenty percent unfair?" she asked dryly. Get him talking again, and he would natter on unchecked for another half hour. Alan seemed the kind of man who ranked the quality of a conversation by how much he managed to speak.

He loosed a heavy guffaw. "Of course it is. But he didn't know that, he only thought he knew that." He articulated this point by thrusting a stubby finger at her. "Anyway, I said to him..."

Natalie tuned him out.

Alan Simmons was 47, divorced with no kids, and worked for a predatory loan service. He lived in a one bedroom apartment in Staten Island, drove a used pickup, and had a handful of loans himself. He was no one. Unimportant and uninteresting.

Savage hedonism had once been the star around which her unlife revolved, but times had changed and she'd changed with them. There was a reason she'd outlived most other kin she'd known. Natalie was careful. Disciplined. She had a system. A system that involved feeding on the Alans of the world. People no one would miss.

Each month, after thorough investigation, she selected her next meal. Then she met them in some dark, secluded bar, and seduced them. If one could call it that. There was no craft, no challenge. Time had worn away the armor of propriety and made the human populace shallow and eager.

Not that Natalie was one to clutch pearls; she enjoyed a blood drunk night of carnal indulgence as much as the next vampire, but she sometimes missed the process of wearing her prey down, peeling back layer after layer of chaste resolve, until they crumbled and gave in to their base instincts.

Alan had gotten one look at her, running his slimy eyes up and down her body, and she knew he was already hers. All that was left was to suffer his conversation, invite him to her home tomorrow, and —having secured a new source of sustenance— dispose of last month's prey, presently locked in her basement.

It would be the highlight of Natalie's night. A small taste of her former life. Her monthly treat. Natalie bit her thumb and smiled at him, harnessing the excitement.

"If you keep looking at me with those 'fuck me' eyes, I might get ideas babe."

Natalie pushed away her daydreams and forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Boredom was a poor excuse for sloppy work. She still needed to verify that her intel was correct, and lay the groundwork to lure Alan to her home without leaving any evidence.

"Oh?" she purred, "What sort of ideas?"

Her directness seemed to fluster him. He sucked on his teeth as he tried to formulate a suitably witty response. Natalie steeled herself to play along, and settled in for a long night.

"Ideas that would make you blush, pretty girl." He attempted to return her smile, but wore it like a grimace. Alan was a bull of a man, and it occurred to Natalie that were she a human, he would be quite intimidating. Perhaps he would put up more of a fight than Kim had.

Four drinks and an hour of conversation later, Natalie excused herself to the bathroom. She'd accomplished what she needed. Her info was accurate, and she had Alan thoroughly wrapped around her finger.

He was the kind of man who mistook the discomfort he instilled in women for dominance. As they drank he'd grown increasingly gesticulate, throwing his hands around and pounding the table. Luckily she'd chosen one in the back of the bar, tucked away in a dimly lit corner beneath a broken lamp. Anyone who turned at the noise would have trouble making out her features, and even if they had an especially keen eye, that's what the disguise was for.

Natalie dried her hands and gazed into the filthy mirror, half covered in stickers and vulgar messages penned in permanent marker. Her style served to play down her supernatural beauty, reducing her to an attractive, but otherwise unremarkable woman. She wore a cheap pant-suit and wide, thick rimmed glasses, subtly tinted to shift the hue of her irises from red to brown. Her raven hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and a generous layer of makeup served to round out her face and soften the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw.

Without the veil of her disguise, she was a lithe, strikingly handsome woman. Francesca had called her Volpe. Fox. And just like that, errant memories bubbled up through the cracks in her concentration.

Descending through the cloudless Tuscan sky to alight upon the ironwork railing of Francesca's balcony. Walking the deserted streets hand in hand, taking turns throwing one another into an alley or a darkened alcove to hide whenever they encountered a patrolling guard. Francesca's racing pulse as she carefully ran the tip of her finger along one of Natalie's fangs. Natalie had pretended to bite down, eliciting a yelp followed by a fit of giggles.

Cruel reminders of a better time. She buried them and focused on the present, frowning at her reflection.

She'd matched Alan drink for drink, but her body wouldn't process anything except blood and the alcohol had passed without effect. She could at least look the part, though. She pulled a few strands of hair loose from the ponytail and applied a crimson blush to her cheeks. Satisfied, she left with an appropriately unsteady gait. But when she reached the main room she pulled up short.

Feral anger flared to life deep in her chest, and climbed to her throat. Natalie swallowed it before it became a snarl. Dropping the drunken act, she stepped aside into an alcove with a dilapidated pay phone, and watched the table —her table— where Alan now sat with another woman.

*****

Natalie crossed her arms and closed her eyes, focusing. She sifted through the noise in the room. Clinking glasses, the din of conversation, a broadcaster commentating a baseball game, and then Alan's deep voice.

"If my girl comes back and sees you here we're both gonna have problems, doll." he said.

So she was his girl now, was she? Natalie dug her nails into her arm, imagining it was Alan's neck. It would be satisfying to watch him beg for mercy. Then the girl spoke, cutting off Natalie's train of thought.

"Just ditch her. We can go back to your place." Her voice was light and airy, but trembled slightly.

Natalie forced herself to release her tension, and opened her eyes. The girl leaned in, with a hand on Alan's shoulder. He didn't seem to know what to do with the attention besides beam stupidly, proud of his newly discovered allure. Natalie knew better. The girl had an ulterior motive. Why else would she single out a man like Alan sitting alone?

The girl wasn't kin, that much was obvious. Her skin was sun-kissed, and freckles dotted her cheeks. A prostitute, then? No... a bar like this wasn't the right venue, and that would make the hoodie and skin-tight jeans she wore an odd choice, even if she was pretty enough to stand out despite them.

Desire stirred within her. Forget pretty, the girl was gorgeous.

It was impossible to discern much of her upper body, obscured by baggy fabric as it was, but her legs were slender and lean, tapering into a pair of over-sized tennis shoes. Long blonde hair shined against the black fabric of her hoodie, falling mostly straight, but curving at the tips to wreath her shoulders in lazy curls. She gave Alan a smile that pressed her deliciously full lips together, and cut two tiny creases into her cheeks at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were big and bright. Green, Natalie thought, though the color was difficult to pick out through the haze of the bar, even with supernaturally sharp vision.

Now here was a meal she could enjoy.

Heat roared to life in Natalie's core, and raced through her veins until she was filled with an irresistible, desperate hunger. The bloodsong. She longed to give in. To throw caution to the winds and surrender herself its call.

Instead, she watched. Natalie was no slave to her instincts.

"So eager. What would we do there?" Alan wrapped a meaty arm around the girl and pulled her closer. He didn't notice her flinch.

No, Natalie chided herself and stepped from the alcove. Not this girl. She might not be a prostitute, but she was clearly desperate.

Freshly turned kin often struggled to shed their human morals. They refused to accept what they were, attempting to feed only on those who "deserved it," treating their meals as equals, or most bafflingly of all, feeding on the blood of animals .

Let the fledgelings fret over such trifles as morality. Natalie had no illusions about what she was. She was a monster. A killer. Natalie embraced these things. Exulted in them. Yet, even she had a code: No prostitutes, and no vagrants. None of the desperate multitudes abandoned by society.

They were easy targets, missed even less than men like Alan would be, but she couldn't lower herself to preying on the weakest and most vulnerable members of humanity. She had her pride. Besides, she knew all too well what it was like to be abandoned to the street, forced to debase oneself to survive.

Natalie marched to the table and thumped down her purse. "I see you managed to keep busy without me." The words were laced with venom.

Alan shoved the girl away and stammered, "Hey now, she came on to me!"

The girl looked away, no doubt realizing that she'd missed her window and trying to decide whether she should fight for Alan or move on to a new target.

Natalie helped make her decision by leaning over the table and hissing, "Fuck off."

The words were laced with a different sort of venom. The sort that would drive them, like a spear, into the mind of a mortal and compel them to obey. Compelling mortals with a geas was Natalie's specialty. Yet the girl didn't move.

She only blinked, eyes out of focus, and scrunched up her nose for a moment. Then she scoffed and said to Alan, "Come on you don't need this hag, lets get out of here." She tugged on his shirt for emphasis.

Natalie's anger surged. Who was this girl to ignore her command? To interfere in her hunt? To reduce her to arguing over a creature as pathetic as Alan Simmons?

"No need for a cat fight, ladies. There enough Alan to-"

"Stai jos și taci! " Natalie snapped at him. She'd slipped into Romanian, but this time the geas worked. Alan froze, clamping his mouth shut. Natalie leaned forward, and the girl recoiled. "This one is mine," Natalie snarled, "Find someone else."

The girl's eyes were indeed a vibrant green, but her inner iris was ringed with hazel. Small honeyed flecks that dissolved into an emerald sea burning with defiance.

For a moment, Natalie thought that the girl would decline. Part of her hoped for it, but the flames sputtered out, and the girl nodded before slinking away, hands balled into fists. As she passed, Natalie caught her scent. Cheap perfume couldn't hide the sweat or the mildew that clung to her clothing.

Suddenly, her anger felt petty .

Natalie watched the girl sidle into a seat at the bar next to a tall, balding man with a pang of jealousy. It was for the best. The safest course for the girl was to stay far away from hungry, nostalgic vampires.

She turned her attention back to Alan, a poor consolation prize for her good deed. He shifted in his seat. "You can speak."

"Listen, about that chick, I didn't-"

"It's fine," she said.

He furrowed his brow, "You sure? You seem kinda pissed."

"It's fine." Natalie put a hand on his leg and scooted closer, but the girl's existence tugged at her senses and Natalie kept one eye on her as her date resumed.

Soon, Alan was back to rambling on about himself as if nothing had happened, telling "stories" that were just mundane descriptions of every day events.

Natalie ignored him.

The girl had struck out at the bar and was now in a booth against the far wall where she was having better luck with two men closer to her own age. Whatever her motivations, she was persistent. She wasn't really after sex, that much was obvious, but she was desperate for something, and the men of this bar were her prey.

A huntress in her own right.

One of the girl's booth-mates bought her another drink —the third so far— and Natalie wondered if it was because she was too young to buy them herself. The girl was an adult, but only just. Twenty, then?

Alan cleared his throat, "So what do you do?"

The sudden question caught Natalie off guard. It was the first time he'd asked her about herself. Had he noticed her staring?

She reluctantly faced him and said, "I'm a writer."

"Oh, like a blogger?"

"No," she corrected, "Like an author."

"Oh that's great. I love to read." Natalie doubted that. "Send me some of your stuff and I'll let you know what I think."

"Sure." she said. "I'll do that." She leaned into him and laid her head on his shoulder, running a finger up his thigh. From this angle he wouldn't notice her staring. She should let it go, and focus on her own prey. Stick to the system. But she couldn't keep her eyes off the little huntress.

The men at the booth grew increasingly bold, and although the girl appeared to be having a good time, Natalie was certain that it was an act. One of the men had an arm around her, and his hands were beginning to wander.

"Hey, why don't we get out of here?" the little huntress said.

Patrons had been filtering in as the night drew on , and the bar had grown both crowded, and louder. Amidst the noise, Natalie could only catch bits and pieces of their conversation.

"What's the hurry?" the larger of the two asked. The one with his arm around the girl. He wore a brown beanie, and a puffy olive jacket mottled with grease stains. As he spoke, he ran his a hand through her hair.

The little huntress caught it in her own, and pushed it beneath the table, taking the initiative. "No hurry, I'm just-"

"So what kind of books do you write?" Alan whispered into her ear.

He gripped Natalie's thigh just above her knee and began to move upward under the hem of her blazer. She followed the girl's example and grabbed his hand, twisting it aside.

He hissed in pain, but she clamped a hand over his mouth and whispered into his ear, "Be quiet, or I'll take something very dear to you." She placed his hand between his legs for emphasis. "Understand?"

She didn't bother with a geas. He struggled, but she effortlessly kept his hand pinned between his legs. Finally realizing his predicament, he nodded vigorously.

Sometimes it was more rewarding to do things the simple way.

She let him go and turned her attention back to the girl, just in time to catch one of the two men slip something into her drink.

Fuck.

Her feet were moving before she realized she'd made a decision. Behind her, Alan slid from the booth and rushed for the exit. Natalie paid him no heed. She shouldn't be doing this. Her system didn't include sticking her neck out for naive, desperate girls, beautiful or not.

This sudden onset of nostalgia would be the death of her.

*****

Paige would do anything for a warm bed. Even if it meant going home with one of these two morons.

James —whose hands she'd been fending off for the past ten minutes— sounded like he'd been smoking since the womb and the smaller one, Frankie, leered from across the table as James fondled her. They were creeps, but she refused to sleep in the street again.

"Drink up." James rasped, nodding to her beer. The third so far.

Paige reached for it but hesitated. She'd scraped together enough cash for a hoagie today, but it was all she'd eaten and she was already drunk. She lowered her hand and pressed herself against him instead. He smelled like cigarettes and wet asphalt.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut and let herself drift away. Sounds of clinking glasses and the buzz of conversation faded as a familiar numbness enveloped her, suffocating her fear and worry. She'd always been able to distance herself from reality and do what needed to be done. To endure. It was her superpower.

When she opened her eyes, she fel t separate from h er body. Watching from a safe distance as a different Paige, fearless and invincible, gave James an adoring smile, and cooed, "Hey, why don't we get out of here?"

"What's the hurry?" he asked.

Fingers slithered along her scalp and as he ran a hand through her hair. The stand-in Paige didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Floating in the numbness, she was safe. She was in control.

"No hurry," her voice dropped to a husky timbre and she gripped his thigh. "I'm just eager for some attention."

"You're a little slut, aren't you?" Across the table, Frankie snickered. The words meant nothing to her.

She told him what he wanted to hear. "Get me in bed and I'll show you."

He groaned, and she felt the rumble in her fingertips. Men were so easy. Now all she had to do was endure his touch and get him off as quickly as possible, then she could finally get a good night's sleep.

"Alright, you win," James said, then tacked on another "slut."

Paige decided she would steal his wallet on her way out, just for good measure.

"Finish your beer though. I don't like wasting money."

Fine. One more beer wouldn't kill her. Frankie snickered again, and ran his tongue across his teeth as she reached for the drink. Paige froze. Something was wrong, but before she could do anything a pale hand slammed down over the top of the glass.

The woman who'd yelled at her before glowered down at Frankie.

Long crimson nails clinked against glass as the woman curled her fingers, lifting the beer from the top and swirling it once. It looked wrong. Too foamy, and the color was off.

The woman offered it to Frankie and said, "Drink," in that same chilling voice she'd used earlier.

To Paige's surprise, Frankie reached the glass with a shaking hand and drank, staring at the woman with panic in his eyes.

"What the fuck man?!" James lunged across the table but the woman caught his wrist.

"Let him finish," the woman said. Her voice was liquid steel. Smooth and easy but without an ounce of give. Her smile widened as James struggled, until her lips parted to reveal a glimpse of perfect teeth. The woman's eyes bore down on James with heavy lids. Her lashes were like dark, feathered wings.

The woman flicked her eyes toward Paige and the numbness fled, chased away by awe. Paige plunged back into herself and hastily looked away.

Frankie finished the beer and stammered, "J-James," in a pleading voice.

The woman let go and stepped back, motioning for James to gather his friend. He did so warily, without taking his eyes off her. "Why did you do that bro?!" he croaked.