Bloodstorm Part 1


He knew that he was going to blast off quickly, so he pulled the man out of his mouth, now only stroking him. He did not want to hurt the man when his orgasm hit.

It proved to be a good idea, because it was almost instantly after he did that, when he felt the orgasm start. Bolts of pleasure ripping out from under his balls. He could tell this was going to be a good come. And it was. So good, in fact that he never felt him tearing into the blood filled meat of him and start a totally different feast.


Sandburg Condominiums, Chicago, Illinois, August 1, 2002, 1:30 A.M.

"I would say that the most pressing problem for the modern vampire," Jonas said to me, in his penthouse condominium. "Is not one of disease, addiction, or any of the other traditional worries. No, our real problem lies in our arrogance."

I must have looked a little skeptical, because he arched an eyebrow at me; his habit when he felt someone was being critical of him. One does not accuse a being that has seen fifteen hundred years worth of midnight insane; it is both disrespectful and somewhat redundant.

"Hear me out, young one, and you may learn something useful. Diseases wax and wane in the herd of humanity, like the phases of the moon. Only the most foolish predator is caught unawares. We have the heightened senses to provide us our best defense, and that defense is restraint. A mortal wouldn't eat tainted meat; why should we? You were not around to sample the selection that was on the menu when the Black Death was making its presence felt among mortals and our brethren alike! It makes this AIDS thing look like the common cold!" Jonas seemed to realize that he was frothing a bit, and visibly took control of himself. He's honestly not that insane; he just enjoys the attention that his reputation gives him. Having known him for two centuries, I don't see how his reputation can get him more attention and still be safe.

"Anyway," He continued, a little more calmly. "Drugs are also of no consequence. What competition can any chemical enhancement give to the ultimate liqueur, eh? They make the blood taste odd, at the very best." Jonas chuckled saying that. He was always most amused with his own humor. Then, a dark, worried look crossed his face and he started pacing the floor.

"No, the real danger to our existence is all the damned dead bodies we leave behind. I know that, for most of us we only have to slay one victim a year. The others that may die are out of passion or inexperience. Most of us even have the restraint to keep our meals from understanding what they have gone through. At least, the ones that we don't choose to bring into the fold." He said that with a loving tone of voice and his fingertips traced the line of my jaw. I still thrilled at his touch, so many years after I first met him. "It is hard to criticize a fellow hunter for a lack of restraint, restraint that I don't practice every time myself."

"Why are you so worried about this? There aren't that many of us to cause much of a dent in the mortal population, not so they would notice." I said to him.

"I'm sorry; I haven't quite reached my point, have I? I forget that everybody doesn't live in my brain. I'll try to keep that in mind." He smiled enigmatically. "We'll begin at the ending, so to speak; at least, the end of the mortal's life. We'll say you are a law enforcement officer in London three hundred years ago. What would your thoughts be if a body shows up in your district with some troubling characteristics? You might ignore it almost completely, through ignorance. You might chalk it up to witchcraft, or even a vampire. This, of course, is true in the strictest sense. Not a traditional vampire, one that you can fight with garlic and holy water, but a vampire nonetheless, so there is not a hell of a lot you can accomplish. You just don't have the resources to put forth much of an investigation.

"Now, say it is a hundred years ago, in Boston. The exact same corpse shows up on your beat. You'd probably put it down to an American breed of Jack the Ripper. You are moving farther away from the true source of the crime and there is still not very much you can do about the crime. Even fifty years ago, that is where you would stand.

"Now, imagine fifty or a hundred of these bodies dropping in at the same moment. You would definitely think something was going on, wouldn't you?"

"Is that not why we wander so much? Just to avoid those clusters from occurring. We have the Gathering to keep us informed. True, we don't hold it as often as I think we need, but I'm not in a position to argue the fact. Still, isn't that enough?" Yet, I could almost see where he was going with this train of thought. I just didn't want to get hit by that train.

"True, we have survived a long time with what we have in place. The dinosaurs lasted a long time too, though. They couldn't adapt and now they are gone. We have to be more flexible, because mortals certainly are.

"For instance, this problem we're discussing now. There may not be the geographical clusters that I proposed. Yet, with the advent of computers they might as well be in the same neighborhood.

"In the blink of an eye of my existence, they have made a quantum leap forward in their ability to gather information, store knowledge, make esoteric connections between one fact and another, sift data, and be able to discard the trash from the treasure. National criminal databases, International police records available at the push of a button, these tools now make it possible for that cop in London to put details of that crime into his computer and find a possible match anywhere on the globe. It raises the stakes in the game tremendously."

"Sure, he could do that, but he'll risk coming off looking like a fool." I said, laughing out loud at the thought. "Jonas, the real world, the mortal world, just doesn't believe in us anymore. We may be cultural icons, but we are fictional icons in their mind."

"True, in the modern scientific age, the police would still consider it some type of serial killer. Any type of attention, however, could be injurious. The light that would be thrown on our world could very well be the final straw. We have faced vampire hunters before; I'm sure there are some out there in the world now, in fact. Those are mostly one to one confrontations. They don't threaten the entire race. Could you imagine what it would be like if scientists, the FBI, or a large urban police force, such as right here in Chicago, saw us for exactly what we were?"

With that, I finally realized the full scope of what he was saying to me. I knew our society, my brothers and sisters of the night. We are just too small, too disorganized, too much in love with anarchy, to put up anything like the united front we would need to have to put down that kind of threat. My mind spun with the dimensions of the problem.

"Naming the demon doesn't tame him, Jonas." I told him, using a phrase from my long past childhood. "I accept that what you are saying is a problem, now we need to come up with the solution." There are times when he needs me to play the devil's advocate, or maybe it's my ego that needs to play that role. That may be one of the reasons Jonas and I have such a good relation-ship. He needs the sounding board and I enjoy being that for him. Hell, even after all this time, he still needs me.

"I have some ideas in mind. I'm not sure what final shape they will take, but it does no good for just the two of us to agree on a course of action. No, our first step is something you have already mentioned, Damias. We need to Call a Gathering of the Children, the sooner, the better."

Chapter Three: Serpent's Kiss

"Now, the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?"
- Genesis 3:1

My name is Damias Miller and I am a vampire. I realize my choosing to say it in that manner makes me sound like I have the world's largest ego, or I might be one of those alcoholics. I suppose there is a grain of truth in either impression. I will try to explain that in greater detail in a little while, but first I should explain precisely why I am writing this story.

This reflection is a true account of the events that occurred in the summer and fall of 2002, events that took place in both mortal and vampiric society. Episodes that I was present for, I have chosen to write in the first person. For episodes that happened outside my awareness, I have chosen to write in the third person, to appear as a dispassionate observer.

Those of you who are unfamiliar with vampires, I will take this opportunity to explain some things about us. Those of you who think you know us; you may also want to read this, since we are not all that you believe we are. That is one of the main reasons I chose to write this, to try to provide some information about what we truly are. Those of you reading this who are vampires, and you know who you are, please bear with us. Education is very important, that is, if we are to survive.

The popular media chooses to portray vampires as heartless undead. Heartless we may be, undead we are not. We do feed off the mortal population, but, contrary to popular folklore, we do not kill all of our victims. A vampire must drain only once a year, on the anniversary of his birth as a vampire. Why this is so is unknown to us. Our senses- vision, smell, tastes, and so on- are heightened. These are merely the realization of true human potential. We cannot change our shape, or vanish. We are limited to the night, but only for the first couple of decades. The real reason that most of us prefer the night is the simple fact that we are predatory animals at heart. When it comes down to it, anything that is attributed to us that is considered supernatural is untrue. Except for the stuff that is related to how we feed, and the descriptions of how we are made.

Vampirism is, to put it bluntly, a sexually transmitted disease. Some of us, the ones who are interested in the science of the illness, feel that it must be a virus. Unfortunately, it has resisted all efforts to isolate it. There are those who hope for a cure, but I am not one of them. To try to explain why I feel this way, it might be best to explain the circumstances of my transformation.

I should say that I have always absorbed languages easily. I don't notice changes, words becoming archaic and such. I think in Twentieth Century American English. There are some expressions that I used, when I was younger, that I can't recall. Then again, there are some that I do remember, and use to this day. So, if I slip and use an anachronism occasionally, please understand.

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts on July 21, 1769. In a day and age of large families I was an only child. I never asked my parents why. My father was a silversmith. Paul Revere was a rival of his; he was also a fellow patriot and one of his closest friends. He died at Valley Forge in that horrible winter, before the Christmas breakout by George Washington, so I never knew him well. I do have a few clear memories of walking along the wharf, or through the business district, before he left for the Continental Army.

My mother was a quiet, religious woman who, especially after the death of my father, sought solace in her church. Her parents lived about twenty miles outside Williamsburg, Virginia. My grandparents were Royalists and they took every opportunity to denigrate my father for the folly they saw in his dream of an independent America. These attacks only increased once my mother and I went to live with them, after my father's death.

It should be remembered that, even into the 1800's, the Revolution was seen as an aberration by many, especially large landowners. They thought things would soon return to normal, that we would return to the fold of the empire. The heroism of those men, the horrors they had to put up with, would not be known for many years after the fact, so my mother had little ammunition to fire back and little motivation to use it if she had possessed it.

If there is anything of controversy in my mortal life, at least as seen through modern eyes, is the fact that my grandparents were slaveholders. I do not apologize for this fact of my life. As abhorrent as I find the practice today, it was the society that I was raised to believe in with my whole heart.

Owning another person as property is certainly not something that I am proud of having done, but it was not as prevalent as modern mythology would have us believe. Most southern planters did not have the resources to own even one slave.

This is why my grandfather took particular delight in these solid symbols of his wealth. Wealth that I inherited; land, slaves, and other holdings, when my grandparents, my mother and about half the population of our plantation, died in 1788, after an epidemic of some type of swamp fever swept through the region.

As luck would have it, I was away that summer, ensuring that our crops would have transport across the ocean. We grew mostly tobacco and cotton. My luck would continue to hold, in the person of the plantation foreman, he survived the epidemic and agreed to stay on to help me manage my new responsibilities.

It was the next year that would change my life forever. I had just turned twenty and was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the surrounding country, if not the entire state. Mothers were always looking to set matches up for their daughters. That is, if they were not widows and were interested in me, for their purposes.

I knew that eventually I would settle down and provide the plantation with a new mistress. For the moment, however, tying my options up in one woman for the rest of my life, held no particular interest for me. I was interested in finding the most pleasurable activities that were available to be enjoyed. I had been raised in a very moral household, but like many men before me, who found themselves masters of their own destiny, I had a tendency to make my own morals. I believe, with all my heart, that most of my family has taken up residence in heaven. They must be shocked at my behavior, both then and now.

I also knew, very early in my life, that I was attracted to both men and women. I can even remember the first time that I became fully conscious of this difference. He was a slave that I saw out in the field, guiding a plow with a mule team, with his shirt off. I was instantly enthralled by him. There was something about the way the sun gleamed on his sweat-shined, ebony skin. I knew that I had to have him. I must have been about sixteen and, as the young master of the house, I knew I could not be denied. I took advantage of that fact, and of him.

If my grandfather, or anyone else for that matter, had found out, the man would have been killed and I would have been thrashed within an inch of my life. The man pointed this reality out to me, once my passion felt quenched. I never felt more ashamed, not about what I had done, but the danger I had risked with this man's life in the balance. He was an amazingly understanding man, considering his situation. He was the only slave that I freed after my grandfather's death, yet before the unreal change in my life. After I became what I am no, I freed all of them.

Returning to the events of the summer of 1789, I was riding my horse back to the plantation one evening, after enjoying a business lunch in Williamsburg. I had just turned onto the dirt track that led up to the main house, when I saw a figure crossing one of my fields. I could tell, even with the distances that lay between us, that this was not a slave.

I brought my horse to a halt and the figure started approaching me. I felt uneasy, not because of any specific threat that I felt, more out of the rarity of visitors and the sheer audacity of whoever this could turn out to be. It took another five minutes for him to finally arrive at my side.

"I would guess, from the look of you, that you are young Damias." The man said to me, with a bow and a flourish of his cape.

"That I am, though I must say that you have the advantage, for I do not recall having met you, so do not know your name. I must also say that your presence on my land without permission is troubling me to no end." I cautiously made sure that the knife I carried on my belt was in place.

"You need not fear, young sir. I mean no mischief. My name is Jonas Winterhaven. I was a friend of your father, near the end of his days."

This surprised me greatly. I had very nearly forgotten my father, in the atmosphere of my grandparent's acrimony. I sat there a moment or two, before I remembered the stranger.

"So, you were at the Battle of Boston?" I said, still being cautious.

"It was Valley Forge, Master Miller. I am not in the habit of waylaying people. At least, not those who are the only sons of old friends." I could almost feel the ice in his voice and it thawed my attitude.

"Master Winterhaven, please forgive my beastly manners. I am still becoming used to the burdens of being the owner of these lands. I am shamed to admit that I know little of my father and next to nothing of his actions in the late war. You must come up to the house and share in the evening meal with me. I have been very lonely at the table lately and any stories you may have would be a most welcome addition." I swung down from my mount to walk alongside of him.

"Your suspicion is understandable, even commendable, given your situation." He said, as he followed me along the path. "I would do the same in your shoes, save that I have no fear of what any man may do to me."

"I have known many men, veterans form that war, who say the same thing, Sir. Yet, I wonder how many of them actually feel no fear."

"I believe you are right to wonder, Damias. Such a smart lad! You must call me Jonas, by the way. No, it was not this small skirmish that bought me this attitude. I paid for it in a different currency, in a different land." He laughed.

You may be reading this now and calling me a fool. After my initial suspicion and distrust, I simply take this stranger at his word. There are two reasons for this. First, Jonas is simply trustworthy. You believe what he has to say. An invaluable gift, considering what he is. The second reason is that, despite my worldly ways, I was still innocent in the ways of the world. I won't say it was a more innocent time, however. It has been my experience that every age has its own set of difficulties to overcome. Society either comes up with some way to deal with those difficulties or it sinks into a morass of disillusionment and despair.

I suppose I should take this time to describe both Jonas and myself. Jonas stood a little over six feet tall, which, for that time, was a tall man. His height would not cause much comment today. He has a spare build, as if almost every ounce of energy goes to the fires of his intellect rather than his waist. His hands are artist's hands, with long, slender fingers. His eyes are an arctic blue and can pierce you as painfully as any arrow. His hair is an angelic shade of honey-blonde, a shade I have only seen in paintings, which he keeps long enough to either flow to his shoulders, or keep tied back.

I suppose describing my appearance is a foolish game, as I am my harshest critic. Where Jonas' slender looks are appealing, mine seem weak. I suppose I just don't have the height to carry it off. I'm, on my best days, all of five feet, eight inches. I prefer a close cropped look, since my hair is a rather mundane shade of brown, almost, but not quite, black. I would say that my eye-color is my most remarkable feature. They are an arresting shade of hazel, almost golden, rather than green or blue.

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