Fourth Night

The taste of blood burned as it ran down my throat. The child had only wanted my help. She'd lost her pet cat, and asked me to help her find it. I would have helped her quite willingly had her mother not started screaming. What choice did I have? She was collapsing into hysterics, and my stomach was howling for nourishment. Her skin or mine?
The child's life I took as much out of pity as caution. She couldn't survive two minutes on the streets without her mother, but on the off-chance that she wasn't raped and then stabbed for the fun of it by some street rat, she might have been able to describe me to the police. After all, she had called me by name. The child died mercifully.
I felt no guilt. The night-creature that had settled over my mind possessed no conscience.
Whilst I had no feelings of self-loathing to assuage, I still possessed an appetite that refused to be satiated. One life would not be enough this night.

The two-storey house with the low-lying window was within my sights. The blood of a homeless old man three blocks up still existed in traces on my tongue. My hunger was savaging my insides, demanding sustenance. But I would not prey upon my fragile whore; I adored her.
The side window lay slightly open, but the chair was empty, the desk-lamp flooding its empty cushions. The window was as much invitation as I required. Opening it, I silently climbed inside. Where was she?
As I ascended the stairs, two pulses pounded inside my head. It was enough to make my ravenous stomach twist; I had to feed, I had to feed!! The door's hinges were well oiled, they didn't make a sound. Not that I would have heard it either way, the beating pulses deafened my ears. Visions of metallic red cloaked my will, and instinct assumed control.

Desperation had made me messy; by the time I'd finished with the two sleeping occupants, the bed was streaked with blood. The woman had woken up as I drank her husband's life. It was her struggles that had stained the walls.
Finally, my stomach began to loosen the knots it had tied, the pangs of hunger ceased to attack my insides. My appetite was satisfied with the lifeblood of four and a child.

Instinct told me to hide in the shadows, as I came down the stairs, and I saw my delicate young whore enter the room with the low-lying window, carrying her constant companion, ‘Dr. Faustus'. I felt the corner of my mouth lift in a half-smile; I would have her at last. Silent as a wraith, I walked down the hall, and stood at the open door. Once more, she was curled up in the overstuffed chair, reading. Over the top of the chair, I could see her glance towards the window I'd left open. Her double-take was rather amusing; I couldn't help a chuckle. She was out of the chair and halfway across the room before she turned and saw me.
"You!" She was visibly shaking. I willed her to relax, to trust my assurance that I would not hurt her.
"Were you expecting someone else?" slowly, calmly, I approached her. She didn't retreat, but she didn't come any closer.
"I . . . um . . . no. . . ." her expression was hesitant, I'd surprised her. A reassuring smile found its way onto my lips.
Even before I saw her demeanor shatter, I saw my mistake reflected in her eyes.
Blood still dripped from my teeth . . . fangs! She screamed. I allowed her to push me away; I fell on a small wooden table, breaking it. She had already fled the room, up the stairs. I couldn't save her from what she would see.
The screams became wails. She had found her parents.
Cautiously, I followed the sound of her sobs, upstairs to the blood-stained bedroom. Clinging to her mother's cold hand, she wept deliriously. For the first time in four days, I felt helpless. What could I do? Decidedly nervous, I approached her slack form. One of the boards creaked. Wild, she swung around, knocking me to one side with a shoulder, and deserted the room, ran back downstairs. Desperately willing her to calm down, I ran after her. She was hysterical, beyond reach of both reason and myself.
Wary, and strangely nervous, I walked into the room with the low-lying window and found the reason why I was beginning to shake.
With tears coursing down her smooth cheeks, my delicate whore was armed with the broken table leg. A makeshift stake, as good as any. It was an entirely different emotion that swept through me than what I expected. Ire. Outrage. Betrayal. I had loved her and she returned it by attempting to stake me through the heart! It must have flashed across my face, because, for a single second, her tears checked and she shivered.
"Put it down," I pitched my voice low, hypnotically soft.
"No," there was no conviction behind her denial. The hand that held the stake directed at my heart was shaking uncontrollably.
"Put it down," she sobbed loudly, wavering, "Please," the stake dropped onto a table top, and she broke down.
I'd not had much practice in defense of a woman's tears. She had contemplated harming me, but I loved my beautiful little whore. I could not bear her weeping.

My worst fault, I have ever been too trusting.

The second I'd sheltered her in my arms, she pushed. I felt the stake drive through my back, between my shoulder blades, as I came up against the wall. Rage at her betrayal coursed through my veins. As my legs gave out, I dragged her down with me, using her to cushion the fall. If I was to die, then by Apollyon, Belial, Abaddon and Asmodeus, it would not be alone!
Fear was etched over her features; she could see her death mirrored in my furious eyes. With the last of my strength, I dragged her head back by her hair, exposing the throat. I made the bite as barbaric as I could, took one gulp (sweeter than sugar yet bitter as gall), then let the rest spill onto the floor. She'd die more slowly that way.
"You're blood is still warm, beloved," the endearment was spat like an insult, "But not for long. You've killed me, my sweet, but I won't be alone. Even in death, you'll never be free of me, my petite," I smiled cruelly; she saw her own blood mingled with that of her parents. Savagely, I kissed her ghostly pale mouth, drinking the metallic copper that spurted onto my tongue as she tried to breathe through a pierced windpipe.
"I taste God in you, my dear whore,"
Her eyes were glazed, her jaw slack. I could never be sure if she heard the last words whispered from my dying lips.
"We must never be apart. . . ."


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