NightFall: Book One: Bloodlust Is the Cure for the Immortal Soul

by Anastacia Kelley

  Anastacia Kelley

  Nightfall 18

  Nightfall

  A novel by:

  Anastacia Kelley

  “Bloodlust is the cure for the immortal soul.”

  (c)2011 by Stacy S. Avary

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First Printing

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATIONS

  I thank God for giving me the gift of writing and the health to always to do so.

  Thanks to my parents, James and Debbie Avary for their unwavering support. 1 4 3.

  To my siblings: Sonya, James Jr., Amanda. 1 4 3.

  From the Enigma video, “T.N.T. for the Brain”: To the amber eyed man whose name I do not know: Thank you for inspiring Saldivar’s character.

  Thank you all for believing in me and listening to me go on and on about my vampires.

  The theme of ‘NightFall’ is “Beyond the Invisible” by Enigma. Other songs for the book from Enigma include: “T.N.T. for the Brain“, “Touchness”, “Distorted Love“, “Seven Lives“, Gravity of Love(Judgment Day remix)”, “Fata Morgana” and “I Love You….I’ll Kill You.”

  PROLOGUE

  Paris

  He watched……waited. Just as he had waited for many nights before.

  The timing had to be perfect or else everything would all be for nothing. All the time and energy he had put in would surely be a waste. He hated loose ends. This he had to tie up rather quickly. But, if he moved in too soon, he would lose him. And, by God, he could not let that happen. He had been patient all this time and to make a move impetuously would ruin his chances of ever saving this poor man from his terrible fate. He had waited over sixty years for him. He could afford a couple more hours, but not a second more.

  He had felt this one’s presence so powerfully he knew he had to act. This poor young man was the one. But, his life force had begun to wane a little more each year. He was sure this poor fellow knew that something was terribly wrong with him.

  It wouldn’t be too long before death would come knocking. After that, the young man would be lost to him forever.

  Unfortunately, death was irreversible. But he had an opportunity to intervene before death could rear its ugly head.

  So, he waited, sinking into the inky darkness of the shadows. He could see without being seen. Mortals could not afford to know who he was. He could not worry about such useless distractions.

  He was able to observe freely the goings-on of the city. He was able to keep a watchful eye on the person of his concern. Then when the opportunity arose, he could make himself known.

  All he had to do was have patience. Then the moment shall come whether the young man accepted it or not.

  It had to be done. For time was growing short.

  CHAPTER I

  Paris, 1700.

  Van Pirone lay on filthy, shredded papers in an abandoned alley way that surely must have seen better days than these. But it was the only place not occupied by other beggars, such as him. He had come upon this place five months ago, just on the outskirts of Boralle. It was a small and beautiful village and would have likely to remain so if not for some people who saw fit to abuse the natural wonders of it. Only five months had passed and already Van witnessed the chaos that the people had caused.

  The lamps on the edge of the walkway were lit, illuminating the worn stone pathways and pointing out the various places to shop, if you had the right amount of money, that is. Some villagers were in small carriages being pulled by horses through the narrow, winding streets. Van caught the strong odor of horse sweat as their hooves clomped heavily on the stone road. Other villagers littered the streets, strolling to and fro rather lazily in the cool night air to whatever destination they had in mind. Even the light fog that had rolled in did not discourage the villagers from enjoying the night.

  Van saw ladies in delicate gowns taking tea, wine or cafe at a restaurant called Madames enjoying a bit of pastry stuffed with a fresh fromage or fruit. Of course, that kind of indulgence was made for people who could afford to throw down money without worry. He saw men sauntering at an idle pace, smoking their pipes and nodding to passers-by, touching the tips of their hats or forehead as a common courtesy to the madames or mademoiselles, talking of nothing and everything. Van’s gray eyes wandered to another secluded alley where he witnessed a young woman in questionable clothing secretly trying to entice a young man to join her for a certain number of coins. The young man smiled and reached in and pulled money from his pocket and followed. This practice was outlawed many years ago, but still, some managed to get away with it.

  Van turned his head and watched the finer dressed people converse with one another.

  “Fine night, is it not, madame?” one well dressed man commented, bowing his head in the respectful manner.

  “Indeed it is, monsieur,” the lady in the dark blue dress acceded in a polished tone.

  Van looked upon this exchange and sighed heavily. He observed the night life with utter disappointment. He was and never had been a part of their world. He lived in a completely different way. He wasn’t part of their bubbly laughter, their riches and the freedom to do whatever they pleased. He couldn’t even share in their good health. He was always watching from the outside. He felt as if he were in a one-sided glass cage. He could see but could not be seen, he could not feel or do or be a part of this world. He could not touch the wonders around him, nor did it seem that was he touched by the same winds or the same rays of the sun; the same problems.

  Van looked upon the women parading around in fancy gowns with costly baubles upon their white necks, smiling with adorned faces. Men were strolling about in expensive suits and hats. They made merry as if they had not a care in their high classed world.

  Van shifted in the papers and snorted childishly. If someone could be privy to his thoughts right now, they would think him to be resentful against the moneyed people.

  It is not that I am envious, he reasoned with himself silently. It is just that I deserve much better than this cold, hard-packed earth I call a resting place. A lonely place. I do not begrudge those people their wealth. I just wish I had wealth and power. I just wouldn’t want to have to socialize with these certain people…..even if I did have it all.

  Oh, he should not really be thinking so selfishly, for he was not the only one suffering this anguish. There was an excess of others in the same plight as he. Young and old. Men, women and the ones that suffered the most—the children. He knew that some of the women living on the streets were with child. Unfortunately, almost all never entered the world, taking their mothers with them. They die long before birth because the mothers cannot afford to feed the growing child inside of them. The mothers cannot even sustain themselves much less another life in their bellies.

  At least mother and child could be together in the after life. What a tragedy that this happens, but no one wanted to or cared to help such people like street beggars.

  Did any of the ‘others’ care? Did anybody come by and show just a smidgen of compassion? Sympathy? Pity? Anything to show they had a beating heart in their chests?

  No! Van shouted inwardly to himself angrily but abysmally, feeling the pity
well up in his heart. His pity spread to the others like him. He did not know them but still could not help his sympathy overcoming him. There was a crack in the dam of his heart-as much as he tried to deny it-and the sympathy leaked out and he felt it in every cell of his body.

  Van grieved somberly as his dismal gray eyes scanned the other morose faces about him. He then took in the state of their dress. It made him study his own tattered rags that used to pass for clothing. He knew these garments would not hold out much longer.

  He felt his body would not hold out much longer, either. It was an odd feeling he has had for months now. As much as he tried, he couldn’t fathom what was wrong with him. But that odd sensation came and went without any provocation from him.

  Van’s stomach suddenly growled painfully. It was deep and loud in his hollow pit of a belly. It was like a caged beast demanding to be assuaged. Van closed his eyes and wished it to stop but knew it was worthless trying to stave off a ravenous beast. It was just odd that he would be hungry for food when food was the last thing he wanted to put passed his lips. Still, his belly craved sustenance even though he was physically and mentally drained. He was dirty and felt as if he had an eternity of grit upon his emaciated frame. Sleep beckoned for him but hunger took the controls and pushed him to his unclad, blistered covered feet.

  Life could not get any worse then it was right at this very moment. He knew what he had to do to get food into his stomach. He had to go out on the streets and beg piteously for money or food and drink. It did not really matter which he got just so he got it. He was weakened from the absence of food in his body. Right now, anything even slightly edible would do. He couldn’t afford to be picky. Beggars could not be choosers.

  So, Van trudged to the street, eyes downcast, face burning with humiliation. It was terrible no matter how many times he did it or how good he had become at begging. It would never get any better for him. Other beggars didn’t seem to care about how much they begged. Van was in a downward spiral heading towards destruction and despair.

  Shoulders sagged. Eyes focused on the ground, making sure never to make eye contact with the rich people. Van knew this routine well. The Beggar Pose. It was a moniker Van heard frequently among the wealthy. It was even less than a plebian way of life.

  Van decided on a street near Cirel Road. It was less crowded by other beggars. So he stood there and began his humiliation.

  Some people threw coins all the while looking down on him as if he were merely a sewer rat. As if he wasn’t human. A nobody to be laughed at, then cast aside. Thrown away. He heard what the ladies and the men said about him. They always made sure he heard every cruel word coming from their horrible mouths.

  A lady, wrapped in what looked to be green velvet and smelling of an overabundance of perfume, walked by Van and gasped loudly as she seized her escort’s arm dramatically. “What are they?” she asked disdainfully, making no effort to lower her voice. Van could see clearly the contempt and distaste in her cold blue eyes.

  But what really irked Van was the man’s response. “Nobody, cherie. Do not look at them.” They walked away, snickering at their own pathetic assumptions.

  I am not a joke! I will be a somebody, he thought vehemently. Someday. And those snobbish excuses for human beings will regret how they have treated me.

  After a few hours of begging like a sick puppy-and how he despised it!-he managed to get enough coins for some old bread, a scrap of cheese and some wine. Clean water was almost nonexistent. Right now he was too thirsty to care.

  He took his meager meal back to the bleak alley, a place that he has called home for five months now, and ate greedily. It surely did not make up for all those days of emptiness. It barely made a dent in his hunger pangs; peculiar hunger pangs that seemed to get a little bit worse with each passing day.

  This…….. this was his hell.

  Could hell be any worse than this? To suffer at the hands of strangers who could care less if you starved to death; to see you sick and helpless and then smile arrogantly at your dilemma?

  No. Living or dead, hell is the same.

  When will the hunger ever subside? He pondered to no one.

  As long as he was living and breathing in this life? Probably never.

  Why am I even alive?

  With nothing more to do or eat, Van lay upon his musty papers once again. It was very late in the evening anyway. He sat up long enough to rustle the papers to make them more comfortable.

  He laughed with no humor. Only the overwhelming sadness filled every part of him.

  What is the use? He shrugged.

  He lay back down and laced his cracked fingers behind his head. His stomach rumbled still. But what did he expect after such a scant meal? Could you even call it that?

  Van gazed up at the sky, seeing the stars twinkling like diamonds against a black canvas. It seemed like even the stars were his adversary. They were shining with hope. Hope that he had long forgotten. The ever bright stars mocked him. And his faith faded with each turn of the sun and the moon. They scorned him in a way he could not understand.

  Van sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out slowly. He had no purpose in this life. Why couldn’t he just fall asleep and never wake up? Provoke some drunkard into beating him to death? Steal some poisons from the local apothecary down the street, hoping to get caught for his actions? If the owner was merciful, he would either make him drink the vile poison or have him killed for his crime. Then it would truly be over. No one would care any way. Just a nobody transient that was justly punished. Van who? Who cares? He could almost see his limp, bony body, his eyes glossed over in death, being thrown into a shallow grave with no marker showing who he once was, even though he really never was. He would be with the rest of the ‘unknowns’ in a dirty, rotting pile of corpses.

  No! he thought, shaking that eerie image out of his mind. There must be a better life for me in the future, he mused with the smallest glimmer of hope. But that hope had disappeared faster than it had appeared.

  Future? What blasted future? He felt he did not have much longer anyway. He felt his life waning, barely hanging on by a thread. And with one nick of a razor, he would die.

  Gladly die.

  Hopefully die.

  “What in the world is wrong with me?” Van asked the emptiness. He looked up at the dark sky, waiting for an answer. Nothing. Just as he predicted. Every thing, every being was against him.

  He must be going insane. Surely, it is because of going days on end without food.

  Yes, he decided. That must be it.

  But even as he thought of that being the case, something niggled in the far recesses of his mind. He felt hungry all of the time but no matter what he ate-if he ate-the hunger never changed its commanding rage. The hunger was like a whole other being within him. He had no control whatsoever over this mysterious demon.

  He thought for a fleeting moment that he must be coming down with some mysterious malady. Whether it was physical of mental, he did not know. Either way, one was not better than the other.

  Physical: die on the streets. Mental: die in the asylum. Van didn’t know which was worse. People run the other way at either of those problems. They wanted no part of it.

  Van wondered if the other beggars felt the same way. He knew he would never bring himself to talk amongst them. They had never shown any camaraderie toward him. He knew they-like him-had their own miserable lives to think about. Though, it was not much of a life to think about or a life worth waking up in the mornings happy. Those days for them never came. It was an endless darkness cascading all around them, shutting them off from everything and everyone.

  The last though that swam in Van’s brain was that if he was sick, he would not have to worry about begging for food any longer. The dead don’t eat.

  Just as Van’s eyes drifted off to slumber, a hand, a powerful hand, clamped down over his mouth. He never thought a human could possess such brute strength……..until now.

  Van tried
to struggle free, but his efforts were done in vain. Panic encased his rapidly beating heart.

  Now that Van was looking death in the face, he realized he wasn’t so brave about wanting to die. Especially right now.

  Oh, but he was a worthless coward.

  Oh, please. Not now, he beseeched silently. A soft whimper escaped his lips.

  “Be still, man,” the rich male voice ordered with the same power that his hand possessed.

  Van stilled immediately. He looked into the stranger’s eyes. If this man were surely death, wouldn’t his eyes reflect that fiery doom? His eyes only showed genuine concern.

  Van studied the stranger’s face. It was rather pallid and shone oddly in the glow of the moon. His skin was somewhat luminous and very smooth looking. And his eyes? They were the color of ancient amber. His sooty lashes seemed to go on for miles. His hair, colored as a raven’s wing, was shiny and nearly touched to nape of his pale neck. The hair on his chin was shaped meticulously in a strange anchor-like pattern. It started small just under the bottom lip then both sides curved inward and back out, only it was about two inches wider at the base of his strong, stubborn chin. It seemed to be dusted with a golden color. His nose was rather patrician looking. Strong. Sure. His black coat came down to the back of his knees. As Van realized, the stranger was wearing all black attire. He still had the look of nobility, dignity and prestige about him. His face commanded attention. And the stranger knew it.

  Van realized that this enigmatic man had removed his hand from his mouth. He wondered how long ago that had been and how long had he been gawking at the fellow? He also wondered why he had not had the urge to call out for help. It was as if he knew no harm would befall him. Very curious, indeed.