And—just around the bend—the beating of hearts. One old. Two young. If I had to guess, the younger ones are engaged in an act of lust, their hearts racing in tandem with their sighs.
The old heart thuds slowly. Steadily. Beating toward its inexorable end.
Another creature of the night draws close. My muscles tense and my teeth lengthen on instinct, like the claws of a cat. I re-assure myself when I realize it is a familiar scent. One I need not fear.
I continue breathing deeply until my shoulders fall. Then I look once more to the top floor of the Dumaine. Another haunt I know well . . . down to its secret doors and hidden passageways.
Not long ago, I visited these rooms under cover of night, taking in the world of my enemies, knowing I would face them all soon. I even chose to lie upon Nicodemus’ bed and admire his collection of books, the shelves of which crown the towering space like a glittering tiara. I pushed the ladders along their oiled casters and marveled at the gleaming motions before pocketing one of my favorite tomes, a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Pity I missed the chance to bid my beloved Alexandre a final farewell.
Contentment ripples across my skin at the wash of memories.
Nicodemus’ bedchamber is a fitting place to leave my next mark.
I linger in my delicious reverie along my street corner, a pleasant hum forming behind my lips. A song from a brighter, happier time.
A beggar passes by, her hands outstretched for an alm, her shawl a tattered rag flapping in the breeze. Her heart thumps in a recognizable pattern. The old soul I sensed moments ago. I reach into my pocket to offer her everything I possess, a small fortune by anyone’s standards.
I have no need of money. What I need, I take. Currency is not important to a creature like me. I do not seek to rest beneath a golden canopy or bathe in a roomful of polished marble.
I seek only to survive.
No. That is a lie. I wish to thrive. To see those who would bring an end to my existence die a slow, agonizing death. After they witness everything they value crumple to pieces before them.
It is only fitting.
“Bless you,” the beggar woman says, a sibilant sound whistling from between her handful of teeth.
“May the Lord keep you,” I reply with a smile.
My voice catches her off guard. I’m unsurprised by this. Its rich music lulls mortals closer in a way that never ceases to amuse me. It helps greatly in salving the path toward their inevitable demise. In a way, I would argue we are among the most perfect of predators. We mime the mannerisms of our prey. We walk among them, unknown and unseen. By the time they realize they are caught in our web, it is far too late. The transformation is the click of a tumbler, the turn of a handle.
The end of a life. Here one moment. Gone the next.
There is only one other kind of creature that rivals us in such a way. Or perhaps two, though I find most woodland folk genuinely annoying, with all their talk of glamour and promises. With their gleeful tales of tricking mortals into making disastrous bargains. Why would I have need of anyone’s firstborn child? A mewling infant is a nuisance, not a reward. And only true monsters would make meals of such a thing.
Besides that, I do not bargain with lesser beings. I take. After which I make the necessary amends, so that I might one day thrive. It is a blessing to even hope for such a future, given the stains of our past.
I remember the last time I watched a vampire die.
She was a vampire I loved beyond words, though I knew I should not, for I realized it would amount to nothing but heartbreak. But when one finds a kindred spirit, how is it possible to turn away? These connections are so rare, even for immortals. For me, they are the food of life.
I watched as they threw Marin into a narrow pit. Those in my coterie bore witness from the sidelines as cloaked sentries. I buried my affection for her deep behind my heart. Locked it tightly in my chest, so that none of our ranks would know how much I loved a creature who flouted our rules and treated the gifts given to her as nothing more than tokens of appreciation from a dark god.
It was one of the things I appreciated most about her. Marin never took herself too seriously.
After they threw her in the pit, it took a moment for her to regain her bearings. Only a moment. She realized where she was the instant she looked up.
I remember seeing her face as the knowledge passed through her, thankful she could not discern me from the shadows.
She was terrified. Her eyes turned to stone, leached of all light.
But she laughed. Defiant to the end.
She called out to us, knowing we stood on the fringes under cover of darkness, safe in our self-righteousness. Secure in the cloak of our shared hatred.
Marin hurled terrible names in our direction. Demanded to know what we sought to prove by putting an end to her existence.
I call it an existence because—to this day—I do not believe what she lived was a life. Hunting under cover of night. In constant war with beasts of the Otherworld. In constant worry about whom to call friend and whom to call foe. It was not a life because Marin never longed for anything more. She was complacent. She learned nothing in all her years.
And in the end, this complacency failed her. She should have betrayed me before I betrayed her. She never should have been my friend. I never should have loved her. It brought me nothing but pain in the end. The reminder of her skin, soft and hard all at once, like velvet and steel. The taste of her lips upon mine, ever so bittersweet.
But no matter. That is a story for a different night.
Not long after Marin was thrown into the pit, the sun began to shift over the opening of the narrow chasm, slipping in place of the waning moonlight. We all watched in silence while its rays streamed toward the stone floor. We listened as Marin laughed louder, pressing her body against the stacked stones of the cylindrical chamber.
She cried for help in the last moments. Screamed through her laughter, begging for a reprieve. Howling for rescue, her song a broken melody.
Her shrieks haunted me for years. The smell of her flesh as it burned is a memory that still turns my stomach, and not much can do that anymore. Alas, fire will never be my friend. In the years that followed, I hardened myself to such sights. These punishments were necessary if my kind intended to survive. If we meant to establish our place in this world.
After Marin’s death, her coven scattered to the far corners of the earth. Every so often I would hear tales of one of its ranks stalking one of ours in retaliation.
A fool’s errand. True vengeance does not happen in a moment. It happens over time. The careful doling out of chips, the assiduous display of self-control. When I reap what I have sown, it will be in safety. It will be a breath to savor. And I will be far away when it finally comes.
I turn from my lovely street corner, moving toward a narrow alleyway shrouded in thick darkness. A place in which my kind have thrived for centuries, across all the continents of the world.