Masters of Midnight

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “I wish I could have known her.”

  “Me too, son. Me too. But you have her heart, Bradon, and her soul. Don’t you ever forget that. Your mother was an angel on earth. The best woman to ever live. And now she is an angel in heaven, and she is always with you.”

  “Is she here right now?”

  Victor shivered and looked around the dark kitchen. “Yes, she is, son. She is here right now.”

  “Good.”

  “Now drink up,” Victor said, as he handed the bag of warmed blood to his young son. “You haven’t eaten in over a week. It’s time.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you do. And then it’s time for bed. The sun will be coming up soon.”

  Bradon took a sip of the blood, and puckered his face in disgust. He looked up from the top of his eyes and saw Victor’s disappointment. Then he closed his eyes tightly and drank the remaining pint of blood without pausing to catch his breath.

  “That’s a good boy. I’m proud of you, son.”

  Bradon belched loudly, then covered his mouth as his face reddened.

  “Come on, kiddo,” Victor said as he ruffled Bradon’s hair again. “Let’s get you downstairs and tucked in.”

  Over the next two years, Victor began deleting more and more from the story. Once, he had spent hours in front of the fireplace, with Bradon snuggled warmly against his chest as he spun the most magnificent love story in history. Now, he had it scaled down to a little over three minutes, and he told it with his back to his son as he washed the dishes and Bradon cleared the kitchen table.

  “You’re getting old and lazy, Dad,” Bradon said, as he wiped the wooden table clean with a dishrag.

  “I’m older than you can imagine, son. But I am not lazy. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “You act like I don’t remember the story the way you used to tell it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Victor mumbled, as he stared out the kitchen window and rinsed the suds from a clean plate.

  “You’re forgetting her.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Bradon. I could never forget your mother. She was the love of my life.”

  “Then why do you have the story down to under three minutes?”

  “Not tonight, Bradon, okay? I’m tired. I don’t feel like arguing.”

  “Me either. So from now on, I’ll tell you the story. It wouldn’t hurt for you to remember it like I do.”

  “It would hurt, Bradon. It would hurt very much.”

  “Too bad. I won’t let you forget Mom. I know you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to forget her, son. I just want to move on. Your mother’s death was a very painful time in my life. I don’t want to rehash it every single night.”

  “But you deal with death at least a couple of times a week. Even more than that the past few months.”

  “It’s not the same thing, and you know it. Those people are homeless transients and prostitutes and drug dealers. No one will miss them. And they certainly mean nothing to me. I loved your mother very much.”

  “I still do.”

  “She meant the world to me.”

  “She still does to me.”

  “You didn’t even know her, Bradon.”

  “So? She lives inside of me. Her heart and her soul are a part of me. Remember? You used to tell me that all the time.”

  “Yes, I remember. And I never want you to forget it, either. But I simply cannot go on reliving the memory, the pain of your mother’s death.”

  “You’ll survive, Dad. You’re immortal, remember? So from now on, I will tell the story and you can wash the dishes with your back to me if you want. I don’t care. But if you love me, you will listen.”

  “Of course I love you.”

  “Good. Starting tomorrow I’ll be the storyteller.”

  “You are way too intelligent for you own good. Or for mine, for that matter. No one should be that smart at your age.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I know. By the way, that reminds me. In two weeks you turn seven. You know what that means.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s good, because there’s nothing to discuss. Every naturally born vampire executes his first live feeding on his seventh birthday. It’s nature’s law.”

  “But I’m only half vampire. I’m also half human.”

  “You are a vampire, Bradon, and you are my son. On your seventh birthday, we will go out together and you will feed on the live, warm blood of a human. The frozen bags of blood I’ve been storing for you are no longer sufficient. You’re growing dizzy easily and getting weak. It’s time for you to become a man.”

  “At seven years old? What’s the hurry? I’ll live for eternity, right? I’m sure it can wait another couple of years.”

  “Damn, you do have your mother’s wit. And her tongue.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nevertheless, you will accompany me two weeks from tonight for your first feeding. I will have no more arguments.”

  “But, Daddy . . .”

  “Give it up, Bradon. Don’t ‘Daddy’ me. I won’t fall for that childish act. You only act like a child when you’re losing a fight. I’m not so old and lazy that I don’t know that.”

  “I don’t want to . . .”

  “Not another word, Bradon. And if you do not join me on your birthday feeding, I will burn every photo of your mother and forbid her name to be spoken ever again.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Don’t push me on this, Bradon. I’m making you a deal. You agree to start your live feedings at least once a month. It’s all you will need for a few more years. Promise me that, and I will listen to your whimsical stories, no matter how long they may be. But I’m warning you, son. This is a one-time offer. I will not bring it up again. Am I making myself understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m tired, now, and the sun will be coming up in a couple of hours. I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes. I just want to finish the chapter I’m reading in my book.”

  “All right. But don’t be too long.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  Bradon watched as his father dressed and groomed. His dad looked marvelous in his black tuxedo and white, starched shirt. His short, black hair was slicked back and his sideburns were perfectly tapered. His lips were full and pink against the creamy white skin of his smooth face. He hummed and tapped his feet as he looked at himself in the mirror.

  “I can’t do this,” Bradon said, as he zipped up his jeans.

  “Of course you can. You just have cold feet. Everyone does their first time.”

  “No, I really can’t do it.”

  “Bradon, we’ve talked about this before. You know it is not an option.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “God damn it!” Victor yelled suddenly, and shoved Bradon down onto the couch. “I’m tired of this childish behavior, Bradon Lugo. We had a deal.”

  “I thought I could do this, Daddy, but I can’t.”

  Victor grabbed the framed picture of Rachel that graced the fireplace mantel and threw it forcefully against the far wall. The glass faceplate shattered into dozens of pieces, and the wooden frame splintered in every direction.

  “No!” Bradon cried out. He stood, ready to run to the broken framed picture that had been his favorite of his mother.

  Victor pushed Bradon back to the seat of the sofa and walked briskly to retrieve the torn picture of his dead wife. He held the glossy picture by its corners and ripped it into tiny pieces, and then threw them into the dwindling fire in the brick fireplace. The blaze crackled and sputtered lively for a moment, and then died down again when it had completely consumed the remains of the photo.

  Bradon wept loudly and covered his face with his hands.
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br />   “Damn it, son. I didn’t want to do that. But I wasn’t joking. This is not an option. We had a deal. I’ve listened to your three-hour mini-series of your loving mother every night for the last two weeks. It is time for you to live up to your part of the deal. Your responsibility.”

  “But that was my favorite picture of her,” Bradon sobbed, as he wiped at his wet, red eyes.

  “I know. It was my favorite too. But I had to do it, son. And I will not hesitate to do the same thing with every other picture and any other reminders of her if you do not stand up right this second and follow me out that door.”

  Bradon looked into his father’s eyes and saw that he meant what he said. He wiped the last remaining tear from his eyes and stood up slowly.

  “That is the Anchor Hotel,” Victor whispered to Bradon as he wrapped his arms around his son’s shoulders. The hotel was a shabby two-story wooden building in the middle of an old, almost abandoned industrial district near the docks. The once-fluorescent sign that used to announce the hotel’s presence now blinked only once every three or four minutes, and only in splotches of lights that still carried some life in them. The only other light for a three-block radius came from behind the shabby yellowish-white curtains of the hotel rooms, and from a blinking low-wattage street lamp that was several feet from the back of the hotel, right on the alley.

  “They rent their rooms by the hour. It’s always full. Some of the whores rent their rooms by eight-hour blocks and entertain six or seven men a night. Most of the johns are sailors, but not all. They also get a lot of married businessmen who don’t want to risk being seen on the other side of town where they actually live.”

  “It’s scary out here,” Bradon said, as he hugged himself tighter to his father’s side. “I don’t like how that light shines through the fog.”

  Victor laughed and squeezed his son’s shoulders. “You will learn to appreciate that hazy light, believe me. It will help you see the prettier whores, and trust me, that will make the experience so much better. A whore is a whore, but the prettier whores always seem to taste so much better.”

  Bradon sighed and drew his jacket collar closer around his neck. He waited with his father in silence for a few minutes, and then the back door of the hotel’s ground floor creaked open. A fat, middle-aged man stumbled out into the darkness and rushed to the new Mercedes that awaited him a full two blocks down on the opposite side of the street.

  As the Mercedes roared to life and screeched its way down the street and out of sight, the back door of the hotel closed as noisily as it had opened. A few seconds later a tiny orange glow lit the damp foggy air and a thin trail of smoke drifted up toward the glow of the streetlight. A thin woman, clad in a short skirt and a thin wraparound shawl, strolled leisurely over to the lamp and leaned against it. She took deep drags from the cigarette and held the smoke deep in her lungs for several seconds before blowing it out into the cool night air.

  “That’s Veronica. I’ve had my eye on her for a couple of months now. Even spoken with her a couple of times. I told her I wanted to get together with her sometime soon, so she won’t be afraid when I approach her. You stay here in the shadows for a few minutes. I will go and speak with her, and then pretend to kiss her neck. She will begin to struggle after a few seconds and then she will go limp in my arms. When I wave you over, you must hurry. The blood is only warm for a few minutes.”

  “I don’t think I can . . .”

  “Bradon, this is not the time for doubt or hesitancy. When I wave for you, you will hurry and join me. This is not a request. It is a command. I will not tolerate insubordination. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now stand back behind the shadow here, and wait for my call.”

  Bradon watched as his father strolled over to the woman. She looked a little startled at first, and then relaxed as Victor got closer to her. She extended her cheek and allowed Victor to kiss her, then accepted a light for her new cigarette. Bradon’s heart began to race as he watched his father pull the woman closer to him and fondle her breasts. He thought about running away, but found he could not move.

  A moment later Victor handed Veronica a bill, and she tucked it into her bra. She pulled Victor’s face closer to hers and kissed him on the lips. Then she laughed and flipped her long blond hair behind her and tilted her neck to the left. The light of the lamp above them reflected brilliantly off her ivory-white throat.

  Even though he was at least twenty feet away, Bradon could see her thick jugular vein pulsing across her neck. The bluish river of blood throbbed invitingly around her neck and Bradon couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He watched in fascination as his father kissed Veronica’s neck, causing her to moan and giggle.

  And then it happened. She whimpered softly, and began to push against Victor’s body. Her hands flung out wildly, beating uselessly against Victor’s chest and shoulders. Bradon saw the first trickle of blood cascade between his father’s lips and down Veronica’s slender throat. Seconds later, she stopped fighting and fell limp against Victor’s body. Victor wrapped her in his arms, pulled her just out of the bright glow of the street lamp, and laid her on the ground. He sucked on her neck for a full minute before raising his arm and waving to Bradon to join him.

  Before he had a chance to react, Bradon realized he was rushing toward his father and the unconscious woman. He didn’t feel his feet hit the pavement beneath him, but relished the cool damp breeze that brushed against his face as he rushed toward his first live meal.

  Victor raised his face from the woman’s neck just before Bradon reached them. Blood stained his entire mouth and lips, and dripped slowly down his chin. He was breathing heavily and his eyes seemed distant and glossed over.

  “Hurry,” he said, and quickly moved aside so his son could take his place. When Bradon hesitated slightly, Victor grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down to the dying woman’s neck. “Feed,” he said roughly.

  Bradon dropped to his knees and leaned in closer to the woman’s face. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, and was strikingly beautiful. Her emerald green eyes were frozen open. For a brief moment he smelled her sweet perfume mixed with the sweat of sex. And then he smelled the blood.

  Suddenly he was filled with a hunger he’d never known. He leaned a couple of inches closer to the woman’s neck and reached out tentatively with his tongue. He licked at the cold blood that was left dripping from his father’s puncture wounds. It was salty and a little bitter, but irresistible nonetheless. Bradon sank his teeth into the same wounds his father had previously made and sucked, drawing several mouthfuls of warm blood from the woman’s body. He swallowed it eagerly and began to pant from the effort to drain even more from the lifeless body beneath him.

  “That’s enough, son,” Victor said as he pulled Bradon up from the ground.

  Bradon’s mouth was dripping with still-warm blood. When he reached up with his hand to wipe it from his face, his tiny fingers came back stained with the thick red lifesource of the dead woman. He leaned forward and vomited a few feet from his father and the dead woman.

  Victor stood back and waited for Bradon to finish being sick, and then walked over to him. He chuckled as he pulled Bradon up from the ground and hugged him tightly.

  “It’s all right, son. It always happens the first time. Nothing to be ashamed of. You just kept at it a little too long. You got a little too much, and the last few swallows were probably already turning sour. That’s when you know it’s time to stop.”

  Bradon began to sob, and fell back to the ground. He looked over at the dead woman and cried uncontrollably.

  “It’s okay,” Victor laughed softly. “I cried my first time, too. We all do. Tomorrow you will feel much better, I promise. You did well tonight, Bradon. And now you have enough fresh blood to get you through for about another month.”

  “I will never do this again,” Bradon spat out angrily.

  “Yes, you will. You can’t imagine it right now, but b
elieve me, you will do this again. About once a month for the next several years, and then gradually you will begin to need it once every couple of weeks.”

  “I will never do this again,” Bradon repeated even more angrily. “And I hate you for making me do it this time.”

  “Of course you do. But you will feel differently tomorrow.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “We will. But first I have to dispose of the body. Wait for me over there by the bushes. I’ll only be a few minutes. There’s a drainage ditch just a few yards away. Between the dogs and rats and birds, she will be gone in a few days. No one will report her missing. The only people who even knew she was ever alive are her johns, the other whores and the manager of this run-down cockroach-infested dump. She will not be missed.”

  “I’ll miss her,” Bradon said as he pulled himself up from the ground and walked slowly over to the bushes to wait for his father.

  The hunt became a little easier over the next few months and years, but Bradon never acquired a liking for it. He hunted and fed with his father because he needed warm blood to stay alive. He dreaded the time every month when he knew he would have to accompany his father for a feeding. Many times, he questioned the need to kill the victim. Couldn’t they just feed on the humans for a while, and stop before they died? Couldn’t they leave them to wake several hours later, wounded and dazed, but still alive?

  Victor was adamant about killing the victims and disposing of their bodies. Bradon refused to help him, and waited instead in the dark shadows of the night for his father to accompany him back home.

  When Bradon turned ten years old, his hatred for the act of killing and the disgust he felt for his father’s hunger and excitement of the kill turned to rebellion. He knew his father was growing weary of his long-winded nightly stories of Rachel, and he spent hours adding more and more details until the tale finally lasted over three hours.

  “We made a deal, remember?” he taunted Victor. “If I joined you for feedings once a month, you would listen to my stories of Mom.”