“Shh. Be quite now. He cannot hurt you.”
From the corner of his eye, Kasper saw Lars raise his head. Turning, Kaspar saw a grin spread across his father’s gaunt face.
“Hide,” he cried to his siblings.
“Wooden stakes, my boy? Nonsense!” With a wet sucking sound, he pulled himself off the skewer. Slowly, he stalked toward Kasper. His blood had soaked through his clothes, turning his jacket, shirt and trousers crimson. “I am not a creature of myth and old books. I thought I taught you not to believe in fairy tales. I thought I taught you to be a man of science. Of reason. And reason tells us that vampires do not exist.” As if he wished to emphasize his point, he flicked his tongue against the sharp points his new canines.
The smaller children scrambled behind the old chair that Lars had long ago deemed his reading chair. They clung to each other as if they were one person, their cherubic faces terrified and glowing orange in the dancing firelight.
Kasper retreated from the filthy grasp of his father. His eyes searched the room for something he might use as a weapon.
“Please, Father. Please do not hurt the little ones.”
“Please, Father,” Lars mimicked. He then feigned tears and dipped an index finger into the wound in his chest that was now noticeable smaller and more shallow. “Look what you have done to me!” He laughed and added, “Tasty morsels, those two. Yours is the tougher flesh. But I shall taste it all. “
“I am sorry, Father,” Kasper whispered. Despite his effort not to weep, tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision.
Before he could again move away, Lars snatched him up by the throat. He held him high over his head with one nasty claw. Kasper was much taller than his father was and outweighed him by more than thirty pounds, but Lars’ movements were effortless.
Lars rushed across the room with Kasper in a hateful vice-grip. Kasper felt as though his windpipe was being crushed as Lars slammed him against the wall. Framed pictures and paintings clattered to the floor, shattering their glass covers. Kasper saw stars for an instant, and as his vision cleared, he saw his father’s face mere inches from his own. He could smell his mother’s blood on Lars’ hot breath.
“My dearest son. I am going to allow you to watch me devour your brother and sister before I kill you.”
He hurled Kasper to the floor hard enough to make the thick wooden planks splinter. Kasper lay in a gasping bundle, staring up at flickering light and shadow. Then, he turned over onto his hands and knees and began to climb to his feet.
Laughing like a madman, Lars brought his heavy boot down on the middle of Kasper’s spine, driving him back down to the floor. He then pounced on him, bringing his entire weight down onto the pit of Kasper’s back. Pain flooded Kasper’s body. His open hands grabbed at the floor. Shards and splinters of wood became embedded beneath his fingernails. After a couple of excruciating breaths, his legs began to spasm. Blood flowed from his parted lips.
His bladder let go and warm urine wet his clothes. He twitched a moment more and then fell completely still, unable to move.
In a gruesome triumph for Lars, Kasper’s eyes remained open as he lay immobile. Still weeping, he watched his father slaughter his smaller brother and sister. He tore their plump limbs from their soft bodies and gorged himself on their blood. And then, in a final insult to their ruined remains, Lars removed his clothes and bathed himself in the gore.
Kasper lay wretchedly helpless as the blood poured from him like torrents of warm spring rain.
He closed his eyes and waited for his own death to arrive.
***
Perhaps his father still had a heart despite his metamorphosis. He did not dismember his oldest son.
Kasper awoke to the stench of death. He opened his swollen eyes to a bright and hateful sun. Slowly, he raised his head and looked around. Dear God, the pain. It was like a bullet to the brain. He moaned and squinted into the burning, blue-white dawn.
It took a moment for realization to dawn. To his horror, he was atop a sea of bodies. There were corpses as far as his watering eyes could see. Corpses of his neighbors. It seemed as if his entire village had been slaughtered and tossed like so much rubbish into a huge mass grave He began to flail, horrified and sickened. Some of the bodies were whole; others were only pieces and parts. He saw severed limbs, torsos, and heads.
He waded through the stinking, rotting flesh. His hands sank into the wet, putrid torso of an old man, headless and without limbs. He wept and pawed at his eyes, smearing gore across his face. He pushed through the mass until he finally reached solid ground. “Please, dear God,” he whispered.
He fell headlong and came face to face with little Ingrid. Her curls, heavy with blood, fell across the back of his hand. Her doll’s face appeared to be sleeping. He touched her icy cheek. “Wake up, Ingy,” he said, knowing that there was no use. Still, he shook her gently.
Ingrid’s tiny head rolled to the side, and then he realized that it was not attached to anything. He scrambled away, through and over bodies, shaking his head as if clearing away the image of his dead sister.
He sprinted for the woods, leaving his dead village behind him. His clothes were stiff with blood and beginning to freeze. He wondered where he would go. He wondered if he would survive the coming night.
chapter nineteen
Devin drew back the shower curtain just like Norman Bates. The unfortunate man behind the sheer plastic was blessed with the equally unfortunate name of Wallace. Devin had grown to know him over the past few months, stalking him now and then on the boulevard when he had nothing better to do. It had become a game, to watch this miniature fifty-something, gay lothario try to lure boys back to his Lysol and Old Spice-scented motel-lair. And that was what helped Devin make his decision to tail this little man—his taste for boys, the younger the better.
Devin often stalked his victims, becoming their shadow, growing to know them, often growing to like them. It added a pang of sadness when he decided to end their lives, but most had nothing to live for, anyway. Devin did one thing that helped set his mind at ease—he chose people who were not worth the air they breathed.
Devin was not sure how a man like Wallace came to live in the motel. From what he had gathered, the little man was an accountant in his previous life. Closeted, married, a father to a college-aged son. But, he had done something terribly wrong, and it was only a matter of time before his little victim spilled the beans. So, he had vanished while he still could. Wallace knew no one would miss him.
One night, barely two months ago, he had brought Devin back to this little flat. The look on Wallace’s face was one of sheer surprise, like a man who had just won the lottery, although Devin was hardly the helpless child Wallace typically preferred. Repeatedly, he told Devin how beautiful he was, until Devin began to feel a bit guilty for planning his death as he held him in the shadowy bedroom.
Finally, just to reaffirm his own dark motives, Devin whispered to Wallace in the darkness as he excitedly removed his clothes, “I saw you with that boy earlier. Do you feel like a sick man?”
Wallace stopped undressing, pulled his baggy underpants back up and frowned.
“No.”
“Do you feel like an evil man?” Devin asked. Inside the little man’s little brain, thoughts swirled. Devin picked up the image of the boy that had sent Wallace to Charlestowne. Guilt seethed inside his mind like waves churning in a storm.
“I can see inside you, Wallace. I can see Bobby Miller’s blue eyes, staring at you as you shoved your . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. He wanted to take Wallace’s head off now, but that was not part of the game. Discipline was part of the game, and after seventy years, Devin was still a student of patience. “Maybe you should repent,” he said after a moment.
Wallace’s breathing grew labored. Devin wondered if the man might be having a coronary.
“Maybe I should, at that,” Wallace croaked.
“Get undressed, you little bastard. Penance will
come soon enough,” Devin said, laughing.
On the upside, Wallace gave great head. He had managed to keep Devin on the threshold of orgasm for what seemed like hours. Devin remembered lying back on the bed and taking in the dim room through eyes clouded with bloodlust: the ugly, cheap abstract hotel prints, the dirty shag rug and the rust-colored crack that ran along the ceiling over the bed.
But Wallace looked different now than he had two months ago. Devin suspected illness, but maybe it was loneliness. Perhaps leaving his wife, running from his normal life, and ultimately, guilt, had taken its toll on poor little Wallace. He deserved it—all of it. Besides, Devin was just putting Wallace out of his misery, doing him a favor.
Under the stream of the shower, Wallace appeared exceptionally small and frail. He screamed like a little girl at the sight of Devin’s wicked, smiling face through the rising steam. He brought his hands up to block Devin’s fist, but he was much too slow. As if in slow motion, Devin saw the little man wince as his knuckles impacted with his head. The old man’s skull cracked loudly, and Devin’s heart thudded in his chest.
With the second blow, Wallace fell limp and slipped down the funky aqua and coral checkerboard tile. He was still alive; his eyes fluttered open. Devin stepped into the tub, and the hot water soaked him, making his jacket and jeans heavy and uncomfortable. It was sobering, but that was good. Devin wanted to be completely alert for this—nothing was more exhilarating than the hunt. Not drink. Not drugs. The dazed man reached up and grabbed at Devin’s coat, but it seemed that his hands no longer worked correctly.
Wallace’s bony, spasming fingers slipped over Devin’s crotch, and Devin held Wallace’s wrists for a moment before letting his arms fall. He then reached down and snatched Wallace back to his feet by his hair. Baring his fangs, Devin thought he found the faintest look of recognition in Wallace’s eyes. Inside Wallace’s head, Devin felt the taint of guilt swirl, mixed with a heavy helping of terror, creating colors like a bruise. Wallace knew death was coming.
“Why?” Wallace croaked.
“Why not, you sad little pervert?”
Devin yanked Wallace’s head back, exposing the soft skin of his neck. He smelled the subtle scent of some kind of moisturizer, something women used. Beneath the pallid skin was the jumping pulse of Wallace’s jugular; it was a line as pale-blue as a robin’s egg.
Devin sank his teeth into that thrumming blue line, tearing skin and muscle along with it. The blood began to flow, a wondrous, hot fountain. Salty and metallic, it filled Devin’s mouth, and he gulped it down like a man dying of thirst.
Wallace clutched at Devin’s back, as if holding onto the living might save him. He moaned softly. In only a few moments, Devin had drained him to the point of death. He was nothing more than a lifeless sack of flesh and bone, barely coherent.
Devin let him fall.
“You’re an animal,” Wallace mouthed.
The words meant little to Devin. The water turned pink with the remnants of Wallace’s blood. It splashed up the sides of the porcelain walls and up Devin’s jeans-clad legs, magically dying them not red, but black, in the harsh light of the bathroom. Devin tilted his head back under the flow of the shower and parted his lips. The water jetted against his teeth and tongue, and he swallowed, letting it scald his throat.
Finally, breathless and close to exhaustion, Devin stood motionless. Through the steam, he caught someone staring at him. Wide, crazy eyes, a grimace of pure horror, blood running down striping the cheeks like war paint.
His heart quickened. I am in here with a madman! But, he was only seeing his reflection in the mirror, ghostly and little more than a suggestion of himself. He had forgotten to mention that little side effect to Susan. He doubted that she was very pleased with it.
He remembered how startled he had been, searching for his face in the mirror, not finding it. Eventually, as it faded into view, it had grown so gaunt and sallow, Devin thought he must have been dying.
When he had first changed, he tried to survive on the blood of animals—dogs, cats, even rats—anything to keep him from harming the flesh of a human. But months of that made him grow as weak as a child. He wondered if he was starving himself to death, death as it was.
He suffered from malnutrition. The bones of his cheeks and the round hollows beneath his eyes were clearly visible, as if he were looking on the stark image of a skull. His hair had become brittle; his lips dried and split. His body, always broad and powerful, had wasted away to sinewy, stringy muscles and tendons that flexed beneath his thin skin like writhing snakes. He had never been a vain man, but even so, he knew that he had been beautiful.
In a fit, he had smashed the mirror with his fist. Then, he had sunk to floor and crawled into the darkest corner of the tenement where he rode out the hateful daylight weeping dry, painful sobs.
By nightfall, Devin had come to the conclusion that for him to live, others would have to die.
The beast in him grew with each kill. Of course, he could have taken just enough blood to quench his immediate thirst, but where would that leave him? Obligated to hordes whose aging process had slowed so dramatically that they would live 200 years or more? Just because of his precious and poisonous bite. No, he could not have that.
He took a series of long, deep breaths and shut off the water. He climbed from the tub, and then reached back in and retrieved Wallace’s flowery shampoo and conditioner. Next, he went back into Wallace’s bedroom. His wet shoes squished as he walked, and his wet clothes hung like heavy blankets. He riffled through old man’s belongings, tearing open the closet, pulling the drawers all the way out and dumping the contents on the bed. He searched for anything worth keeping—anything to remind him that he was nothing more than a rotten killer. He needed reminders around him, in his room, in his house. He needed that dose of guilt.
In the heap were several dog-eared paperback books. One stood out to him for some reason—the cover featured nothing but text in large gothic lettering: Interview with the Vampire. He snatched it up, along with an older generation iPod, and left.
Outside, the breeze nearly froze him thanks to his wet clothes. He thought of Susan, of what he had shown her already. When he was still able to see inside her mind, he knew she was simultaneously terrified of him and excited by him. Now that she had been transformed, he did not know what she thought, and that was a little frightening.
What exactly did she think they were? Soon, he would need to show her how to hunt and kill. How difficult would it be for her to adjust? Not very, he suspected. Her heart was hard; she was already stronger than he ever had been.
Devin dropped his new loot into the passenger seat of the Rover. He started the engine and cranked the heat all the way up, then tore out of the driveway and into the ghostly, tourist-free streets of Charlestowne’s beach district.
chapter twenty
The craving for blood—for Devin’s blood—plagued Susan’s mind. She was as restless as a drinker in need of a shot of whiskey. She paced the rambling old mansion, stalking the wide expanse of library. She picked up John’s thoughts as she passed through the long room, and his eyes followed her nervously. He knew what she was doing.
She picked up his fear of her, but rather than the possibility she might spring at his throat any moment, he was concerned over whether she might become sick from not feeding. Somewhere in the darkest corners of his mind, he considered offering himself to her. He was attracted to her, and the idea quickened his pulse. There was only a small twinge in the pit of his stomach when he considered her lips on his throat. When Susan seized this idea, unwelcome excitement warmed her middle, as well.
A fire roared in the huge stone fireplace, like something straight out of the gothic novels that she had spied here and there on the shelves. The warm scent of burning hickory infused the room, making her think of holidays when she was a girl. She selected a book without noticing the title and sat down heavily in an overstuffed, leather chair.
John appeared t
ime and again, more to check on her than to guard her from escaping. “Everything’s all right, yes?”
Finally, after his fifth time asking, she slammed the book closed. She hadn’t been reading it, anyway. “Hell, no. I’m not all right. I’m fucking miserable, John. Why did he do this to me?”
John drew closer, tentatively. “Please, Susan. Calm down. Devin will take care of you. He will be back before dawn.”
“He left me here like this.”
At first, she had been happy when the sun had sunk low in the sky. The brightness had given her a sickening headache and left her nauseated and shaky. Now, she wanted to rave, to vent her frustration on John. She couldn’t understand why she felt so bad. She didn’t have an addictive personality, but the taste of blood had her in its grip. Just thinking of it made her mouth water.
Briefly, she toyed with the idea of asking John to come to her, since he had considered it, as well. She was shocked to find herself contemplating sleeping with him only to render him vulnerable enough to tap into his vein. She had not known the man twenty-four hours, yet she was entertaining the idea of having sex with him. Was that how far she had fallen? She was no better than a junkie on the street.
She went onto the terrace and looked down at the moonlit garden below, which was a sharp contrast to the streets and sidewalks beyond the gates, sparsely littered with pedestrians and blowing trash. The chilly nip of autumn touched her skin. She shivered and crossed her arms to warm herself. The scent of wilted gardenia wafted up, along with the salty, fishy odor that drifted in from the bay just ahead. The musky odor of small wild things scurrying in the shadows had become easily distinguishable, even against the rancid stink of the old city. That was something new and mildly interesting. She even glimpsed the little creatures here and there, mice, birds, and one unfriendly cat. It was something, seeing with her vampire eyes. Moving shadows, even against the inky darkness, were easy to spot. Mere colors were now mesmerizing. She found herself more than once staring at Devin’s Giger print, at the shades of gray. Before, she had imagined gray was only light or dark, but the spectrum between light and dark were now vividly apparent. The near-sightedness she had lived with since her teens had vanished, and good riddance.
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