by Alex Severin
It was, quite simply, beyond compare.
Valentine's cock stirred and he had an intense urge to plunge his hand into his pants and start stroking it. He wanted to grab Vivant by handfuls of his tousled black hair and make him sink his lethal fangs into it and drink.
A knowing grin spread across Vivant's ruddy lips.
“You don't have to long for those days to come back any more. I'm here. We can have it all again. We can feel all of that again.”
Tears welled up in Valentine's eyes as he realized he was once again powerless to resist him. His mind screamed at him to be strong, to be stoic, but it was useless. The vampire heart that had been a sluggish thud for so long now beat fiercely once more, beat the way it used to beat when he and Vivant were together before, the way it did when they lived for each other and there was nobody else.
That vampire heart now told him to go out into the night with Vivant and do what it was in his nature to do – kill, kill ruthlessly, kill the way you once did and revel in the blood.
His feral nature beat out a tattoo on the inside of his chest; it was telling him to be that thing he used to love being, the thing he suppressed and denied and buried deep inside him. It was telling him to be a vampire again.
Valentine stepped heavily across the floor and slumped down on a low stool at a corner table in the club. He didn't know what to do. He was torn inside, a war raging in his head between the man he was now and the beast he knew he could be, the monster he once was. And he knew which one was stronger. He knew which one would be triumphant. Questions filled his mind and his brow furrowed as a satisfactory answer evaded him.
...What's stopping me from being what I am and doing what I know I want to do? These humans do nothing but make me insane with their stink and their falseness and their pretense...their...their everything!
I'd love to run rampant through this club when it's at capacity and slit each and every throat from ear to ear, to bathe in the arterial spurts that would paint the walls a beautiful shade of vampire red...
“So come with me then. Don't just dream about the old days – let's live them again. Let's be more than we were. We're older now, stronger, more powerful. The world is at our feet and there is nothing we can't have, nothing is beyond our grasp. It's all there for the taking, Valentine – all you have to do is reach out and take hold of it.”
Vivant held out his hand, crooking a finger, gesturing for Valentine to come to him.
He didn't move, he sat there, body rigid, hands on his knees, nails digging into his own flesh. He still tried to resist, still tried to deny Vivant his dominion over him, but he knew that it was futile.
Valentine rose, shoulders slumped, his head heavy, defeated by himself and the strength of his own desires. He put his hand in Vivant's hand.
Vivant's grip tightened around his fingers and his eyes changed.
Vivant's eyes, Valentine remembered, only did this when he was in a state of blind rage.
Valentine watched as the near-black of Vivant's irises bled into the whites of his eyes making them entirely pitch.
His pupils were the only hint of color, deep red, and elongated into feline slits. His upper lip curled into a snarl and he showed Valentine a keen white stab of enamel.
Before he could even blink, Vivant had picked him up and hurled him, face first, into the wall with such a force every rib inside him shattered. He could feel sharp shards of bone protruding through his skin and felt the wet heat of his own blood running down his front.
He gasped at the pain, winced as he tried to move, but by the time he dragged himself to his feet, his devastated rib cage had healed itself and he was brand new once more.
“You think it's going to be that easy, do you? You fucking little prick,” Vivant's voice emerged from a growl that rumbled in his throat.
“But...but...I thought...”
“You thought we'd just kiss and make up and everything would be rosy for all eternity, right? Wrong. You've got some fucking explaining to do. And if I'm not satisfied with your answers, well...let's just say they'd better be satisfactory, you understand me?”
Valentine knew he was serious.
“I asked you a question – do you understand me?”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. I'm sorry, Vivant.”
“You're sorry? Sorry for what? Trying to kill me?”
“Yes, I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have done that. I just wanted to get away from you,” Valentine said.
Vivant rolled his eyes.
“You could have left a note! But no, Mr. Drama Queen has to try and fucking kill me. Why'd you do that? Were you that afraid of me? What did I ever do to make you that afraid of me? Why do you hate me so much?”
Valentine felt ashamed and cast his eyes downward and toed at the pool of his own congealing blood like a scolded child.
“I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. What else can I say? But you do know what you did. And maybe I don't deserve your mercy, so, if you're gonna kill me, I accept my fate.”
Vivant looked at him, horrified.
“What? Jesus. You've been among humans for too long, Valentine. Once upon a time, I'd be standing here watching your eyes change.”
“Frankly, I'm glad it's over. Finally. I've lived with the fear of you coming back for so fucking long that I nearly forgot what I was so afraid of,” Valentine laughed bitterly. “I just want it finished. So finish it now, Vivant. Kill me.”
“Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Always playing the fucking martyr. Well, fuck you. You'd really love me to actually kill you. What? Would that redeem you or something?” Vivant laughed. “I hate to tell you, but it'll take more than you fucking dying to redeem your eternal soul. Really, Valentine.”
Vivant kept chuckling, shaking his head, as Valentine glowered in his direction. He was determined not to give Vivant the fight he craved. He knew his old friend was desperate for them to draw blood and tear strips off each other in a passionate and obsessive battle of wits and fists.
But as they stood there, eyes locked together, minds reading each other, they both knew that it was futile to resist. A bond that can never be broken had been forged between them a long time ago – the bond of a father and son, the bond of brothers, of lovers, of family. These were bonds that had withstood the ultimate betrayal, loss, loneliness, and the expanse of decades.
But in those moments as they looked at each other, the years disappeared into history. This night – the night they were brought together again – was just the beginning of something that would become legend.
FUCKIN' HARDCORE
HOLLYWOOD, CA – 2.31 AM – October 31st
Paul heard the throb of the music coming from inside the Death Row Club. It was like a heartbeat; strong, steady, exciting.
He sat alone in the diner across the street, his nose buried in a well-worn book. His copy of Vampire Red by Lily Transyl was already tattered, the spine rubbed and cracked, the cover creased, and some pages dog-eared from folding them over to keep his place.
Certain paragraphs in the book had been marked with luminous yellow highlighter pen. But now, after reading Vampire Red so many times, Paul barely needed to consult the text any more - he could recite page after page without faltering and swore that he knew the entire book by heart.
And he was sure that Lily Transyl could read his mind, he was sure that Lily had written Vampire Red just for him. It was the book he had always wanted, the book he would have loved to write and the book that he would treasure forever. And tonight, he would do what he'd always wanted to do, inspired by Lily's words, sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was telling him to carry out his will, uninhibited.
Excerpt from Vampire Red by Lily Transyl...
...He knew what he wanted. He'd always known. And this was the night he was going to get it. There had been so many years of pain and suffering, so many years of self-doubt and guilt. But denying what he craved, what he needed, was just delaying the inevitable.
He wanted blood.
He wanted it hot and wet and running over him in rivers. He wanted in in his hands, wanted it smeared over his lips, his body, tracing a warm path to his insides as it flowed down his throat soothing the beast that had raged inside him since he could remember.
And tonight - after all these tortuous years of suffering and solitude – he would have blood...
He sighed as he closed the book. She was telling him to do it. Telling him that it was OK, she understood. It wasn't his fault. He needed it - it was just the way he was and it was all alright. The book said it.
He knew she was giving him her blessing. Lily knew what he wanted. Lily was a kindred spirit...
Paul's body seemed to vibrate with excitement, anticipation tightening each muscle with deliciously painful little knots.
God, please let her be there. Please let her be there. I need this.
He waited patiently.
Each time the music swelled as the front door of the club was opened, Paul would feel a shock of electricity running through him as he searched the throng of bodies for her.
She called herself Belladonna.
He tapped his foot rapidly on the floor, on edge with anticipation as he read and chewed on his black-lacquered thumb nail. He tutted at himself, worried in case a chip of nail polish was wedged in his teeth. It would absolutely ruin the look of his custom fangs if they were covered in flakes of bitten off nail varnish.
Paul's heart almost shot into his throat as he saw her curvaceous, killer body strut out into the night air as if she owned it, as if the very street she walked on belonged to her.
Dozens of people outside spoke to her as she passed by. She said nothing, but threw them a smile and carried on her way down the street.
The air had been humid inside the club and her skin glowed in the moonlight, shimmering with a touch of sweat. Her clothes, black shining rubber, looked fluid. Paul imagined smearing black liquid latex over her body, smoothing his hands over her curves, the swell of her breasts and the tight buds of her nipples.
"Gothic flesh," he whispered, and licked his lips.
As he stepped out into the night he began to perspire profusely, his clothes wet through in moments. He trembled violently as adrenaline raced through his system.
Tonight's the night.
Tonight they will come.
Belladonna took the same route from the club every time. She was always alone. Paul had often wondered why she was always on her own - such a stunning, fuckable chick would surely have her pick of men or women.
He picked up his pace as she reached the dark alley she always took. Paul had the notion that she was inviting an attacker, practically goading him to do his worst.
Oh, yeah. Bitch is asking for it. She wants this as much as I do. I'll make her famous. We'll both be famous.
He was mesmerized by her form, bathed in alternate flashing red and darkness from a buzzing neon sign that read Live Sex! He was entranced by the gentle sway of her ample ass as she sashayed down the alley. He imagined taking a bite out of it as if it were a huge, fleshy peach, and instead of sweet, sticky juices running over his face, there would be the piquant taste of her blood.
The degradation of his surroundings aroused him - he knew what went on in this alley, day and night. Blood crushed into his cock and he adjusted himself as his tight pants became uncomfortable.
He inhaled deeply and smelled the scent of piss, old and new, and his eyes rolled as the thick soles of his black boots squelched onto a spent condom. A discarded hypodermic smashed beneath his feet and he wondered if there was death in the blood residue.
He looked down a dark side street, just off the rancid alley and saw bodies writhing together among piles of festering trash. His lip curled in disgust but all the while his cock grew steadily harder.
Belladonna half-turned her head and slowed her pace - she knew somebody was following her, somebody who was breathing heavily, breath baited in anticipation of something. She rolled her eyes.
Paul was sure she was allowing him to catch up with her after he'd been distracted by the white trash side show in the garbage.
Ever-so-slowly, she turned around.
Paul stumbled backward against the slick alley wall as his knees buckled and all the strength drained out of his body.
Her eyes were wild, the irises black and shining. But there was something behind her eyes, something feral, something ancient, that shone, iridescent like illuminated amber - the glint in a cat's eyes catching the light.
She grinned at him as she reached out and grabbed him by the throat, effortlessly raised him clear off the ground and slammed him into the wall. As his mouth opened in a vain attempt to scream, she could see his custom fangs glistening with his excited saliva.
As she spoke, he could see the gleaming white tips of two pin-sharp incisors.
"What you gonna do, badass, bite me?"
Paul tried to scream but she was squeezing the air from his throat, crushing his larynx and his vocal cords.
"All you fucking wannabe vampires - you're giving us a bad rep."
The vampire stabbed her sharpened black nails into the flesh of his throat, tearing away skin and flesh and fat. She put her mouth to the pissing red wound and drank.
Belladonna rubbed his cock through his leathers as she fed on him, and laughed as he reached out, desperately trying to grab her right tit. His body spasmed then stiffened in the throes of orgasm even though he knew he was dying, even although his throat had been ripped out and his blood soaked his front and the ground beneath him.
Paul's moans of pain and pleasure were an eerie gargle that rushed from the gaping hole in his neck.
"Damn, you're fuckin' hardcore!"
Belladonna laughed uproariously at him, her face painted with an expression that was close to admiration. She shook her head, grinning as she hooked two fingers into his mouth and under his tongue and yanked down hard.
She let go of him and his shocked body slid down the wall and landed on the piss-washed alley floor.
As the vampire looked at her latest victim, she felt a fleeting stab of pity for him - an old habit she had not quite lost. He was so young and she wondered, momentarily, what he was like, what he did for a living, if he had a lover who would mourn him. Even after decades as a vampire, sometimes she remembered she'd once been human.
Then she spat on him. He was meat. Cattle to be herded for her sustenance. He was no more to her than a cheeseburger was to him. Food. Nothing more. And he had wanted to kill her.
She walked away without a backward glance at the remains she left behind. He was all but dead now, drained of blood, no more than a pile of skin-covered bones and ripped flesh.
The poetic irony of his demise did not escape him as death began to shroud him.
He had spent his whole life longing for his belief, his strongest faith, to be proven beyond any doubt - that vampires , real vampires, immortal vampires - existed.
His plan to draw himself to the attention of a real vampire was, that if he drank human blood, slept in a coffin, lived a nocturnal existence, and showed dedication and respect for such a life, that his wish for immortality would be granted by them.
Paul smiled at the cutting irony of his murder, but the sensation didn't feel right. He reached up a shaking hand and touched his face; his brow knotted as he felt for his chin, only to touch his upper teeth and feel his tongue lying against his opened throat. Belladonna had ripped off his lower jaw and now all that hung from his face were ribbons of his own meat. He choked out a gargled laugh, an unnatural sound that made his own skin crawl.
The sound was wet sucking and dry blowing as blood and air escaped straight from his lungs, through the hole in his neck, and out into the night air.
I did it. I did it! I'm gonna be a real vampire now I'm gonna live forever.
Paul reached out and fumbled for his discarded jaw bone. He was certain, that if he held it in place before he died, it would miraculously reattach itsel
f and be good as new when he woke to his new life as an immortal vampire. But he couldn't find it. With a giggle, Belladonna threw it over her shoulder.
The last drop of life ran out from the torn artery in Paul's neck; he slumped, dead, face down in a pile of human shit.
The last thing he heard was the rattle of his jaw bone hitting the ground beside him.
DRAIN THE BLOOD
Lily couldn't take any more. The knot in her gut just would not leave and her stomach felt as if it was digesting itself.
Each time she thought about all the murders that had been committed in her name by the Ministry of Lily, or thought about Lord Ruthven and his live internet murders, an acute feeling of nausea would take hold of her. She was sick with guilt. She felt responsible for being every psychotic's excuse for their own psychoses.
Lily felt tainted. She felt poisonous and poisoned. Her insides seemed rancid to her, toxic. The constant guilt, fear, and the sensation of perpetual dread about the next sickening development were taking their toll. And the constant finger-pointing and condemnation not only insulted her, but enraged her. And what bothered her most was her lack of opportunity right now, when it mattered, for public rebuttal of the buffoons lambasting her all over the mass media.
Since she'd gone into police protection, the gossip rags and the blogosphere had exploded. Every blogger into either goth, books, vampires or anything remotely related had something to say about her. Some of it was supportive. Some of it was outright condemnation. Some of it was downright libelous.
She paced along the whole length of the cottage, walking from one end to the other, in and out of all the rooms, back and forth and back again. She was ready to scream, scream so hard and long that she would use every single iota of energy contained within each atom of her being that when she was done, she simply would not exist anymore.
She knew how lions at the zoo felt now. And she could feel the rage they kept behind their eyes.
