by Kerri Carr
August was certain that she could go and find one of the undesirables so that she could quench her burning thirst. She was positive there was one lurking in alley somewhere waiting to rob or to rape a young woman. If her strength had been up to it, she would follow them like a hunter, but she was weakening by the minute and could not last another hour without sustenance.
So, August did what she had to do.
She found her target. He was a young man of about twenty. Dressed alternatively as August, as was the fashion. His hair was black as the night itself and fell down his back in a long waterfall. He could have almost passed for one of the undead himself, but for the fact she could smell his life-force on him.
He had been to a concert and was now returning to Central Paris to meet some friends at a club. He asked August to join him, and she, ever the hunter, accepted. If she was to drink from him, then she needed to do it in private.
They reached the alley where the underground club was located. The alley was completely abandoned, all its occupants already inside. August was grateful for that. Slowly he turned and gestured to the doors.
“In here,” he purred in perfect French. “It is a hidden doorway to stop others gate crashing our turf.” He smiled proudly.
He was so beautiful.
When August didn’t move, he frowned. “Ma chère are you not coming in?” Slowly August stepped closer to him. He was tall like Everard, if not a few inches taller. August quietly thought to herself that Everard would not like that. As she stood there, she could feel his gave fixated on her.
“Indeed, I do wish to go in,” August whispered softly into his ear, “Though, I fear I am very thirsty and in need of a drink before we continue.”
August heard him give out a slight laugh. It was obvious he didn’t know what she was and she was glad for that. It meant that his death would make her feeding all the quicker.
“There are drinks inside,” he said to August while taking her hand and edging her toward the door. He didn’t flinch at her coldness. “Come.”
It was then that August chose to make my move. Quickly she released her hand and pinned him to the wall next to the doors, her face staring up at him. He didn’t seem shocked.
“Or if you're in such a hurry we can go back to my place,” he whispered seductively, his arm snaking its way around her waist. For a moment, August found herself enjoying this activity but the need for blood was making her feel dangerous, and one wrong move on his part would force her tear him to pieces.
“Hmm,” August whispered leaning up to his slender throat. He tilted his head at her as if he knew what was coming. “As much as I would enjoy that, my love, I’m afraid I must cut our meeting short.” With that, August sank her teeth into his neck.
Hot blood filled her desperate, wanting mouth in a crimson waterfall. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t cry out, he only sighed, one that encouraged August to bite deeper and she gladly I obliged.
In a red tidal wave, his life was revealed to August. He was an innocent. He lived his life the way he chose, played in a heavy metal band and aspired to be famous. He loved his family, his mother in particular. She was ill, and he was looking after her; she was all he had.
August ripped her fangs free and let his body slump to the floor. He wasn’t dead just unconscious. If August had held on any longer, he had would have been dead. She had intended to kill him, to spare him false mercy but August found that she could not. He wasn’t an evil man, and no matter how much she thirsted for the rest of him, she refused.
Slowly August bent down to him. His eyes fluttered open and closed. With a serene expression, she whispered to him, “Do not be frightened my love. You have been spared. Go home and look after your mother. She needs you as much as you need her.” And with that, August left him there for a mortal to find and to care for him.
*****
“It’s me,” August spoke quietly into the slender phone.
“August?” his deep voice questioned. Silence followed. He never was much of a conversationalist.
“I’m coming home,” August told him.
“From Paris? I expected you last night, but you never returned.”
August let out a long sigh at his words.
“I... there were some complications,” she assured him calmly. It was his turn to sigh now. Oh, how August missed his sighs.
“He's in Paris, isn't he?” Kyle asked calmly as if he already knew what it was that had prevented her return the night before.
“A distraction,” August replied impatiently, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“What was the urgency?”
Kyle’s clipped tone suddenly caught August off guard. Her mind had begun to wander with thoughts of her one true love. “I will tell you when I arrive back in London. I will meet you back at the house. Have you fed?”
“Not yet,” Kyle said.
“Remember what I told you. Stay safe, and when you feed keep out of sight. The world is even more dangerous than we thought it was.” At that, August hung up.
The night was young, and the lights of the city still sparkled before her. Part of August didn’t want to leave the city; it had been so long since she had been ‘home’. For over a century, she mourned for the city that she had so loved. For over a century, she had mourned for her mortal life and for her dead child.
August loved Paris as much as she despised it.
****
Kyle was an artist, a great painter with a talent so raw that his musings always made August weep. He was beautiful and knowledgeable, and gentle where Everard was angry. He was everything that Everard should have been, yet Kyle was everything that she didn’t want.
August loved him, but she didn't love him enough. Kyle appreciated her, and she him. He was her companion and many a night they would sit on the balcony of their hotel and quote poetry to each other, and talk of dreams, passions, loves and the nature of their kind.
Once there was a time when August did that with her Everard.
The thought of Everard made her bristle. The memory of the previous night burned inside August’s mind, picking away at her until she gave in and went back to the old chateau where the black-haired lord resided. But what reason did she have to go back? Everard wasn’t her problem any more. But then she thought of the voice and what it had said to her. August was to die by her maker’s hand. Well, she would not run away from death.
****
August found him in his chateau, lying on a bed of silk. The black silken shirt that had adorned his body was thrown upon the floor next to the finest, shiniest black boots that only Everard could wear. His black undershirt was unlaced at his chest, revealing the cold hard marble skin beneath. His perfect silken mane was loose and spread about him like a velvet veil. Blood painted the corners of his mouth. Next to him, the source of that blood lay lifeless.
Blood drunk, August’s mind whispered. Everard’s victim had been young, perhaps a girl of nineteen. Not slender but voluptuous. She had been a whore.
Everard was sleeping outstretched with his arm still beneath the young girl’s waist. He hadn’t been kind to her when he took her. Her neck was savagely torn. He did it out of anger; he was always the same. Each time he and August argued, he would always go out and hunt, lure them back to their home before brutally ravaging them in front of her.
August was glad that she left him when she did.
The girl was a drug user; August could smell the chemicals in her dead blood. Fool August’s mind snapped at him.
Everard had done it to get a fix. He was bored of the usual. He desired rebellion, freedom and a contaminated little whore was just the supply of ecstasy that he needed.
August stared down at him debating what she should do. She didn’t even know why she had come back. August had promised Kyle that she was coming back to London, yet here August was, standing over her maker with no reason to be there.
Slowly August turned away from the bed and sat in the velvet armchair. She watche
d Everard lying there, unmoving. For a moment, she contemplated killing him but she knew that she couldn’t do it.
Groggily, Everard began to stir. August got to her feet and walked back toward the bedside. August’s hand entwined with the white silken lace that concealed her face.
“Have you sunk so low that you only feed on harlots now?” August’s eerily calm voice questioned her lover as he stretched out lazily on the bed. He knew she had been there all along.
“Blood is blood, my love,” came his bored reply. August revealed herself from the lace confines. She stared down at him with an expressionless face. His blue eyes penetrated her soul.
“Even contaminated blood Everard?” August snapped, “She was a drug user. Could you not smell it?”
A cocky look crossed his alabaster face, “Of course, I could smell it!” he retorted sharply. Her eyes narrowed down at Everard.
“Fool!” August hissed and turned away from him, striding back into the living room. She knew his eyes followed.
“What are you doing here anyway?” his silken voice questioned authoritatively. “Shouldn’t you be back in London?”
“I should,” August answered, “I am leaving tonight.” And then the cocky vampire laughed as he rose to his feet. Hair in disarray, shirt revealing his body. These were the actions of a troubled vampire that she knew all too well.
“You won't go,” he sneered.
“Why won't I?” August questioned harshly. This was something that August wanted to hear. Slowly Everard approached her in the living room. The scent of the girl’s blood was still strong upon his lips.
“You have too much here that you don’t wish to leave behind.”
“And you're certain of that, are you?”
“Yes,” he snapped impatiently, “Paris is your true home. Not London. you belong here, not there. A Paris vampire always remains close to home.” His blue sparkled.
“I go where I see fit,” was all August answered, her voice emotionless. For a long while, he studied August in silence. He was still angry; she could feel it.
“Why have you come back here? You made it clear that you wanted no part in this.”
At his words, August sat down. August answered, “I came back of my own accord.” An arrogant smirk crossed his face as he began to pace the room.
“Is that so? Two centuries and not one word of your existence until you received a letter from me, and only now you decide to visit me?”
For once August didn’t have a reply to his sarcasm. She didn’t know why she had come back. August suddenly wished she was in London, away from here, and away from him.
“Do not flatter yourself Everard” August said coldly. “I can assure you that I have not returned out of my love for you.” He drew closer; August backed away. He laughed a mocking laugh at her actions.
“Brave of you to admit such a lie so fondly.” Everard chastised her as he all but fell into the silken bedclothes, resuming the position that he had when August first entered the chateau. August didn’t answer him. She didn’t know what she was doing. In her mind, August whispered Kyle’s name. She didn't know why she thought of Kyle, but as soon as the name crossed her mind, she wished that she could have taken it back.
*****
Everard looked up at August sharply. A rage burned in his blue eyes. For a moment, she stared at him dumbfounded, uncertain as to why Everard was looking at her with such malice.
“What?” his velvet voice snapped at August. She blinked.
“What?” August whispered a little breathlessly. His frown deepened.
“You said his name.”
August frowned, confused. “Whose name?”
“You know damned well whose name!” he hissed. August realized what he meant.
“Kyle?” August rasped. Everard’s reply was a curt nod before he tore his eyes away from hers.
“Is that why you’ve come back? To gloat? To mock?” Everard hissed.
Testing her patience, August approached him before perching herself on the armchair opposite him. Everard couldn’t look at her, and it was at that moment that she realized that her lover was ashamed at what he had done. A sick satisfaction took hold of August. She was glad he was disgusted with himself. That was why he was angry. He was angry at himself.
“I don’t know why I have come here,” August answered truthfully, ignoring his hostility. “I should be traveling to London, but instead, I am here talking to you.”
“Oh, how disappointing that must be for you,” he snapped. August tensed.
“Drop the facade Everard!” August scolded, “It serves you ill to speak so childishly.” Everard shot her a glare that was enough to kill.
“You really have exceeded yourself in what you have done,” August began. “Why now after all these years have you decided to call upon me? You made it plain that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Abruptly, Everard got his feet. August’s maker detested nothing more than to be spoken to like a child. But he knew she was right. August could sense it.
“Why do I have to tell you my most private thoughts?” he spat nastily.
“Because if you want to have any chance of redemption, Everard, then your best bet is to start talking now or I’m gone. I will turn my back on you, I will oppose you until you despise me and hunt me down and murder me in my coffin.” August’s answer provoked him.
“You're brave to speak to me so freely, August,” he muttered darkly, “I have forgotten the fire that you bear in your soul. But what makes you think that I won't kill you? After all, that’s why you’re here, is it not?”
Instantly August raised her chin as his meaning caught her attention. Everard was aware of what his duty was to her. He was such a damned good liar. He laughed at her expression. “And there you thought I didn’t know. Oh, I know what your new lover has been saying to you, love. He whispers to me the same poisons as he does you. I know I am to be your death. But you, my dear August, what exactly is your part in this to me?”
August dug her nails into the soft plush of the armchair. Her mind raced at what Everard uttered. Kyle was the one who was insisting on her death, the young fledgling that she had grown to love. Kyle was her companion, but he could never fill the void of losing her noble lord. That was the bitter truth. August was still loyal to Everard, but too selfish to admit her true feelings to him.
“I have no purpose to you.” August tried to sound as if she was not afraid but the way that he suddenly looked at her was unnerving. Everard looked like a lion about to attack its prey.
“That’s not the way this works now is it. Your dear little fledgling has grown jealous. He knows your dark little secret, my love. He knows our little secret. So, you see my dear, I have a purpose and you, my dear, sweet nightmares also have a purpose.” His face grew dark, hateful. “So what is it?”
August wanted to leave. She wanted to flee. For two hundred years, she had not once been afraid of her lover until that moment. For once August truly saw her immortal lover for what he was: a monster.
“I told you,” she whispered. Everard was stalking close to her. August did not move. Could not.
“Ah yes, of course, my blood.” Everard stopped in front of August before biting hard into his wrist. She had not expected his reaction but no sooner had he bitten into his dead flesh, his wrist was it at August’s mouth forcing her to drink, drowning her in powerful blood. She didn’t drink it.
Forcefully August ripped herself from out of his vice-like grip and launched herself at him like a crazed animal. She was furious, livid, outraged by his blasphemous behavior. His back hit the stone wall with a crack. His fangs bared in wild insanity. Everard was stronger than she thought, and August was thrown into the cold stone wall, her fangs bared at him in hate.
“You foolish, foolish girl!” He hissed at August, pinning me closer to the wall. “You dare attack me? Me! Have you forgotten who I am?”
“Have you forgotten who I am?” August retorted with equal ven
om in her tone. He didn’t release her.
“I know all too well who you are! I created you, you insufferable fool!”
“Release me,” August threatened. Her anger rose to the point where she was capable of destroying him. Everard arched an eyebrow in cockiness.
“Are you threatening me, my love?” he mocked.
“I will not ask again.” Everard all but practically slammed August into the wall before he released her. She glared at him, wanting to tear out his arrogant throat.
“What do you want from me? I grow bored of this game you play.”
“It is you who is playing a game Everard. You who once again has dabbled in the history of our kind. Your letter brought me to Paris, not in hopes of a reconciliation but a reason as to why you left me to rot the moment that I became your vampiric pet!” A strange look crossed his face then, and August knew that her words had struck a nerve.
“You dare speak of such things?” he hissed lowly.
“Yes!” she growled, “I do! For centuries, I have walked the streets of London wondering if I would ever see you again! At first I thought that I could live without you, that I could live with the hurt that you inflicted on me. But with time, I realized that I could not. The pain was too deep. For years, I have walked this earth alone with nothing but my pain for company. How can you be cool when you know what pain you have caused?” August stopped before continuing slowly, disdainfully. “How can you face me when you know that we have a history of pain and suffering?”
Everard bristled like she knew he would. Her words had power. August stepped closer to him, playing the arrogant vampire at his own game. She was the only one brave enough to attempt such an act.
“Hmm,” August laughed slowly, mockingly into his ear. His back was to her. “You think you're invincible. Immune to the pains of the world. Little do you realize that are you are the cause of most of the atrocities that go on in this God-forsaken realm. When will you finally face up to your responsibility as a vampire to actually behave like a vampire? Why do you feel this constant need to be known? The urge to cause chaos? I know the reason.”
