Devil's Dream

by Shayne Silvers

  Let there be pain…

  In the exact center of this poor bastard’s soul.

  And that merciless smiting woke me from a dead sleep and thrust me into a body devoid of every sensation but blinding agony.

  I tried to scream but my throat felt as dry as dust, only permitting me to emit a rasping, whistling hiss that brought on yet more pain. My skin burned and throbbed while my bones creaked and groaned with each full-body tremor. My claws sunk into a hard surface beneath me and I was distantly surprised they hadn’t simply shattered upon contact.

  My memory was an immolated ruin—each fragment of thought merely an elusive fleck of ash or ember that danced through my fog of despair as I struggled to catch one and hold onto it long enough to recall what had brought me to this bleak existence. How I had become this poor, wretched, shell of a man. I couldn’t even remember my own name; it was all I could do to simply survive this profound horror.

  After what seemed an eternity, the initial pain began to slowly ebb, but I quickly realized that it had only triggered a cascade of smaller, more numerous tortures—like ripples caused by a boulder thrown into a pond.

  I couldn’t find the strength to even attempt to open my crusted eyes, and my abdomen was a solid knot of gnawing hunger so overwhelming that I felt like I was being pulled down into the earth by a lead weight. My fingers tingled and burned so fiercely that I wondered if the skin had been peeled away while I slept. Since they were twitching involuntarily, at least I knew that the muscles and tendons were still attached.

  I held onto that sliver of joy, that beacon of hope.

  I stubbornly gritted my teeth, but even that slight movement made the skin over my face stretch tight enough to almost tear. I willed myself to relax as I tried to process why I was in so much pain, where I was, how I had gotten here, and…who I even was? A singular thought finally struck me like an echo of the faintest of whispers, giving me something to latch onto.

  Hunger.

  I let out a crackling gasp of relief at finally grasping an independent answer of some kind, but I was unable to draw enough moisture onto my tongue to properly swallow. Understanding that I was hungry had seemed to alleviate a fraction of my pain. The answer to at least one question distracted me long enough to allow me to think. And despite my hunger, I felt something tantalizingly delicious slowly coursing down my throat, desperately attempting to alleviate my starvation.

  Even though my memory was still enshrouded in fog, I was entirely certain that it was incredibly dangerous for me to feel this hungry. This…thirsty. Dangerous for both myself and anyone nearby. I tried to remember why it was so dangerous but the reason eluded me. Instead, an answer to a different question emerged from my mind like a specter from the mist—and I felt myself begin to smile as a modicum of strength slowly took root deep within me.

  “Sorin…” I croaked. My voice echoed, letting me know that I was in an enclosed space of some kind. “My name is Sorin Ambrogio. And I need…” I trailed off uncertainly, unable to finish my own thought.

  “Blood,” a man’s deep voice answered from only a few paces away. “You need more blood.”

  I hissed instinctively, snapping my eyes open for the first time since waking. I had completely forgotten to check my surroundings, too consumed with my own pain to bother with my other senses. I had been asleep so long that even the air seemed to burn my eyes like smoke, forcing me to blink rapidly. No, the air was filled with pungent, aromatic smoke, but not like the smoke from the fires in my—

  I shuddered involuntarily, blocking out the thought for some unknown reason.

  Beneath the pungent smoke, the air was musty and damp. Through it all, I smelled the delicious, coppery scent of hot, powerful blood.

  I had been resting atop a raised stone plinth—almost like a table—in a depthless, shadowy cavern. I appreciated the darkness because any light would have likely blinded me in my current state. I couldn’t see the man who had spoken, but the area was filled with silhouettes of what appeared to be tables, crates, and other shapes that could easily conceal him. I focused on my hearing and almost instantly noticed a seductively familiar, beating sound.

  A noise as delightful as a child’s first belly-laugh…

  A beautiful woman’s sigh as she locked eyes with you for the first time.

  The gentle crackling of a fireplace on a brisk, snowy night.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  The sound became everything and my vision slowly began to sharpen, the room brightening into shades of gray. My pain didn’t disappear but it was swiftly muted as I tracked the sound.

  I inhaled deeply, my eyes riveting on a far wall as my nostrils flared, pinpointing the source of the savory perfume and the seductive beating sound. I didn’t recall sitting up, but I realized that I was suddenly leaning forward and that the room was continuing to brighten into paler shades of gray, burning away the last of the remaining shadows—despite the fact that there was no actual light. And it grew clearer as I focused on the seductive sound.

  Until I finally spotted a man leaning against the far wall. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump… I licked my lips ravenously, setting my hands on the cool stone table as I prepared to set my feet on the ground.

  Food…

  The man calmly lifted his hand and a sharp clicking sound suddenly echoed from the walls. The room abruptly flooded with light so bright and unexpected that it felt like my eyes had exploded. Worse, what seemed like a trio of radiant stars was not more than a span from my face—so close that I could feel the direct heat from their flare. I recoiled with a snarl, momentarily forgetting all about food as I shielded my eyes with a hand and prepared to defend myself. I leaned away from the bright lights, wondering why I couldn’t smell smoke from the flickering flames. I squinted, watching the man’s feet for any indication of movement.

  Half a minute went by as my vision slowly began to adjust, and the man didn’t even shift his weight—almost as if he was granting me time enough to grow accustomed to the sudden light. Which…didn’t make any sense. Hadn’t it been an attack? I hesitantly lowered my hand from my face, reassessing the situation and my surroundings.

  I stared in wonder as I realized that the orbs were not made of flame, but rather what seemed to be pure light affixed to polished metal stands. Looking directly at them hurt, so I studied them sidelong, making sure to also keep the man in my peripheral vision. He had to be a sorcerer of some kind. Who else could wield pure light without fire?

  “Easy, Sorin,” the man murmured in a calming baritone. “I can’t see as well as you in the dark, but it looked like you were about to do something unnecessarily stupid. Let me turn them down a little.”

  He didn’t wait for my reply, but the room slowly dimmed after another clicking sound.

  I tried to get a better look at the stranger—wondering where he had come from, where he had taken me, and who he was. One thing was obvious—he knew magic. “Where did you learn this sorcery?” I rasped, gesturing at the orbs of light.

  “Um. Hobby Lobby.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” I hissed, coughing as a result of my parched throat.

  “I’m not even remotely surprised by that,” he said dryly. He extended his other hand and I gasped to see an impossibility—a transparent bag as clear as new glass. And it was flexible, swinging back and forth like a bulging coin purse or a clear water-skin. My momentary wonder at the magical material evaporated as I recognized the crimson liquid inside the bag.

  Blood.

  He lobbed it at me underhanded without a word of warning. I hissed as I desperately—and with exceeding caution—caught it from the air lest it fall and break open. I gasped as the clear bag of blood settled into my palms and, before I consciously realized it, I tore off the corner with my fangs, pressed it to my lips, and squeezed the bag in one explosive, violent gesture. The ruby fluid gushed into my mouth and over my face, dousing my almost forgotten pai
n as swiftly as a bucket of water thrown on hot coals.

  I felt my eyes roll back into my skull and my body shuddered as I lost my balance and fell from the stone table. I landed on my back but I was too overwhelmed to care as I stretched out my arms and legs. I groaned in rapture, licking at my lips like a wild animal. The ruby nectar was a living serpent of molten oil as it slithered down into my stomach, nurturing and healing me almost instantly. It was the most wonderful sensation I could imagine—almost enough to make me weep.

  Like a desert rain, my parched tongue and throat absorbed the blood so quickly and completely that I couldn’t even necessarily savor the heady flavor. This wasn’t a joyful feast; this was survival, a necessity. My body guzzled it, instantly using the liquid to repair the damage, pain, and the cloud of fog that had enshrouded me.

  I realized that I was laughing. The sound echoed into the vast stone space like rolling thunder.

  Because I had remembered something else.

  The world’s First Vampire was back.

  And he was still very hungry.

  4

  The blood slaked my thirst and washed away the last of my pains like sheets of cool rain on sunbaked boulders. It wasn’t enough blood—there would never be enough—but it was enough to repair my most concerning ailments and sustain me until I could hunt down some more.

  I finally opened my eyes again, licking the blood from my lips and chin. Sudden claws spouted from my fingers and I ripped the clear bag entirely open, lapping up a few last drops of blood like a hound at the table.

  I heard that delicious thump-thump sound again—a heartbeat—and locked onto the source, propping myself up. The man was studying me thoughtfully, keeping me at what he presumed to be a safe distance.

  I really would be much more content if I guzzled down all of his sweet, sweet blood. The only balm capable of quelling my fiery emotions.

  After all, I had always been taught not to play with my food. I ignored the strange lights between us. I would study them after this meat-sack was out of my hair. The obvious sorcery of the lights made me uneasy, and feeling uneasy in front of my prey was stoking my anger to even greater heights.

  I locked eyes with the man and was surprised to find him smiling at my initial reaction to the blood rather than fleeing in terror at the sudden hunger in my eyes. Which made me hesitate.

  More chunks of my memory were slowly trickling in, but I still had trouble connecting the pieces together into a full picture. So, I decided to assess my guest to buy myself some time.

  He was a tall, middle-aged man with sun-kissed skin and he wore his thick, ebony hair in a wavy mess that managed to look at least somewhat presentable. His face was like a chiseled boulder with high, dominant cheekbones and a harsh, angular jaw—almost guaranteeing he was of an American Indian bloodline. He had very light stubble and his eyes were like dark, melted chocolate. In those bold, brown eyes, I sensed a calm serenity as powerful and dangerous as any man I had ever met. He was broader of the shoulder than me and wore pants of a thick blue fabric with a white, stained undershirt of sorts.

  I found myself wondering if his clothing would fit me after I killed him.

  Rather than running in terror at my bloody, hungry grin, his amused smile slowly faded and he shook his head in warning at the look in my eyes. “It is generally considered unwise to drink the blood of a Medicine Man,” he warned.

  I belted out a mocking laugh. “You expect me to believe you are a Medicine Man? Your balls haven’t even dropped, boy. Have you ever even gone on a hunt? Killed a man? Made love to a woman?”

  He glared at me, his eyes narrowing. “You will soon learn that the requirements for becoming a man have changed in…recent times. And my name is Nosh. Not boy.”

  I grunted, rolling my eyes at his pathetic excuse.

  I couldn’t necessarily confirm or deny whether he was truly a Medicine Man, but his blood did smell potent. And he had that magic light on those metal stands…

  He obviously had some type of magic at his command. I appraised him pointedly. “Medicine Man,” I repeated doubtfully, deciding I needed to find what this man was truly made of—to provoke him, even though I presumed he was telling me the truth. Having magic was one thing, but knowing how to effectively use it was quite another.

  True Medicine Men were extremely dangerous, and I knew only the vaguest of details about the limits and capabilities of their power. I vaguely recalled living with the American Indians for a few years, as strange as that sounded. But I felt like I knew quite a bit about Medicine Men, so it had to be true.

  Nosh smiled faintly. “I prefer the term Shaman. Although not as accurate, it incites more fear these days. And fear is a weapon in and of itself. When a mere word can give an enemy pause, it is wise to wield it.”

  I grunted my agreement, memories still slowly trickling in, but they were a confusing jumble like they were out of order or context. But I was absolutely certain of a few things.

  To square off against a Shaman, I would need to drink a figurative ocean of blood—which would likely leave me dazed and lazy after such starvation as I had obviously suffered. Blood would help me recover, but as much as I would need to fully heal would also put me at risk. I had never been as hungry as I was now. Despite the bag of blood reviving me, I still felt weak. I must have been asleep for a long time. The real question was why?

  Drinking this Shaman’s blood might help me recover faster but a more persistent whisper in my mind warned me that drinking a Shaman’s blood was the worst thing I could possibly do. I couldn’t recall why, but I was confident that my instincts had never steered me wrong before.

  Nosh held up a hand to reveal a wooden stake in his fist. He waited for me to react but I managed to keep my face blank. A real Shaman wouldn’t need a stake to battle a vampire. It was like introducing a wooden practice sword to a duel. His fist shook ever so slightly but I sensed no fear from him. It was almost as if he was testing me, wondering how feral I was—that he believed that if I attacked him for such a slight we would both lose something much more important than our pride. A Medicine Man—or Shaman, as he preferred—was a unique type of man. They looked at the simplest of situations in very complicated ways, inferring deeper meanings from the most common of occurrences.

  Typically, vampires were very wild and erratic types—reacting on impulse more often than not. Their hunger and dominance rose above all else.

  I decided I was very interested in letting this situation play out before I contemplated eating him. Because I wanted the rest of my memories to clarify before I did anything rash.

  Also, this man’s actions were…intriguing.

  In me, he apparently saw a potential for something that he considered important enough that it warranted risking his own mortal life. The look in his hard eyes practically shouted that if he had to stake me to save his own life, he would do it, but I could tell that he felt he would be starting some cataclysmic chain of events that would doom us all—meaning he would lose either way. The only hope he saw was in our conversation continuing—for us two entirely different men to overcome our baser natures and stereotypes.

  I needed to know why he felt such a thing. I was no hero.

  I was entirely sure that I was quite the opposite of a hero, in fact.

  “I’m still thirsty, and your fear is not helping,” I lied.

  “One Medicine Man a day is beyond impressive, Sorin. Two would surely kill a vampire. Even the world’s First vampire.”

  I blinked twice, staring at him. What was he talking about?

  I realized that he was not looking at me but beside me. I glanced over to see that we were not alone. Three dead bodies lay on the ground beside a bowl of smoking incense—the source of the thick herbal scent in the cavern.

  Two roasted men were propped up against a stack of crates, their faces blackened and melted to reveal fangs where their teeth should have been.

  Vampires.

  They were smoking, their bodies still
warm with both blood and fire. I was surprised I hadn’t smelled them before now, but the herbal scent in the air had masked it.

  A wizened old man was sprawled out beside the stone plinth I had been resting upon. Blood trailed down the side of my temporary bed, and I realized it was emitting a smoking vapor—magic. Tendrils of that magical vapor fused with the smoke from the incense, growing thicker and more pungent.

  The old man’s wrist was a mangled ruin, and something about him looked…vaguely familiar, although I was certain that I did not know him. Recalling Nosh’s comment, my body froze.

  One Medicine Man a day is quite enough…

  This old man had fed his blood to me—that was why his wrist was shredded. He had given his life to wake me from my slumber. And he had been a Medicine Man. How had that not killed me? Their potent blood was enough to possibly overwhelm me, even poison me. I’d learned that the hard way with—

  I grunted as a dizzying cascade of memories slammed into me. After a few seconds, I blinked rapidly, trying to process it all. I had lived with the American Indians, even befriending their Medicine Man, Deganawida! That was where I had acquired my knowledge of their people.

  Deganawida had adopted me into his tribe soon after I first came to the Americas. I remembered him once offering me some of his blood during a meal, fascinated to meet a vampire—since there hadn’t been any vampires in the Americas. I had hesitantly agreed, and had instantly regretted it. I remembered only a bolt of lightning followed by sudden unconsciousness.

  A cold chill raced up my spine as my eyes latched onto his chest. I eagerly scooted closer, snatching at a familiar necklace around the old man’s neck. My hands shook as I stared at it—a simple stone from a creek-bed.

  Deganawida had worn such a necklace. He had found the stone the day his daughter was born, while impatiently waiting outside the tribe’s longhouse for her to enter the world. It was how he had chosen her name, Bubbling Brook, and he’d worn it as a memento ever since.

  A larger flood of memories abruptly hammered into me, seeming to physically hit me like punches to the gut. I rocked back and forth, gritting my teeth as I began to remember. To remember why I was here.