Chapter 115 - Vesuvius, December 29 part 3

It had been five days since my last feeding: the pornographer and sadist Hans Loen. 

Now there was a meal fit for a vampire king! Betrayed by his associate, who I've been holding captive in my penthouse, he was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall. Vigorous. Full of hot, delectable blood. And beautiful, too, despite the injury that had claimed his right eye and scarred the flesh of his face. In his form could be found the ultimate romantic expression, handsome prince and furious beast, all wrapped up in a single mouthwatering package. Body of an Adonis, face of a Frankenstein's Monster. I have to confess, he was lying in pieces when I was through with him!

Oh, spare me your reproof, you tutting guardians of propriety, you waggers of fingers! The man was as much a monster as me. A deceiver. A child rapist. Delivered to me by his business partner, who is even more morally repugnant than Hans himself, if you can imagine that! Right to my door, just like you mortals order out for pizza.

I have made many moral capitulations throughout my unimaginably long life, driven as I am by this thirst for human blood, but perhaps I can win your sympathy by assuring you of this: I feed only on the wicked.

At least, I try to.

Oh, like any human addict, I have my slips. Just this previous August, I had gone to the Monos Gallery to take in a new showing. Local artist, lovely paintings. Reminded me of Cezanne. As I glided through the galleries, drinking in the sights, I was approached by an ethereal beauty, an art critic who wrote for one of the local newspapers.

She engaged me in conversation, and we talked at length about art. Her specialty was modern art. I, of course, impressed her with my knowledge of the classics.

Would you expect anything else?

She seemed quite taken with me, laughing at all my bons mots, nodding at my insights, stroking my chest and shoulders. She couldn't keep her hands off me, and my desire for her swelled with every passing moment.

I knew I should withdraw. Flee from her presence, lest I poison her with the venom of my desires, but I was too fascinated by her—by her beauty and her intellect. How can a man be rude to such an erudite admirer? I was helpless to resist her graces.

Before I was even aware of her intentions, she had swept me into a deserted stairwell, piercing my soul with a quiver of compliments, whispering that she had nearly fainted at the sight of me, she was completely enamored with me and that I must take her now, right here in this filthy stairwell like an animal, she wanted me so badly!

I covered her in passionate kisses, her head falling back in delight, her tiny warm fingers tangling in my hair. The flesh of her neck rashed with goosebumps at the touch of my tongue, so soft, so warm, and I thought: Just a little drink, as I press myself inside of her...

Yes, vampires can make love! The Strix, the black blood which animates us, has no quarrel with our cocks. Sex with us is dangerous for mortals, and not always pleasant if we—in our passion—let slip the reins of our true strength, but it can be done, and she wouldn't even realize I had fed from her, if I took the utmost care!

All vampires must learn this trick if they wish to go undetected by mortals: how to bring the black blood up from their gut, how to slather it on the wound after drinking their fill. Just a drop, delivered on the tip of the tongue, and the wounds stitch right back up. And our teeth are so very, very sharp! In the throes of passion, even little pains can be a pleasure when delivered by an amorous lover. She would think it a love-bite.

"Yes! Now, Gaspar, I must have you inside me!" my beautiful art critic whispered in my ear, and so I slid myself inside her, and then I slid myself inside her.

She latched onto me as I fastened onto her, and I lost myself in the pulsing red pleasure of feeding and fucking. We could hear the low murmur of the art show attendees just beyond the door. I think it enflamed her knowing we could be caught at any moment, her reputation sullied. She wrapped her legs around me as I held her in my arms, filling her, draining her.

It was only after the ultimate moment that I realized she was dead.

Cold, pale, limp inside my encircling arms. A lifeless China doll, arms flopping at her sides, the legs she'd clamped around my hips only moments before swinging flaccidly around.

Oh, the horror--!

One little drink, I'd promised, before granting myself license to indulge. I'm sure no small number of alcoholics have thought that very thing.

I made off with her body to a nearby wilderness, ashamed, furious with myself, and buried her in a lovely, remote location. I'm sure she would have appreciated the beauty of her final resting place, though not the untimeliness of her demise.

Still warm with her blood, I proclaimed: Never again! Never again will I feed from the innocent!

Though I'm sure every addict has sworn off their weaknesses in just such a manner, as well.

As I said, I try to feed only on the wicked, and such was my aim this night.

I don't ordinarily hunt nightclubs. Such garish gathering places are favored more by those with a mind for mating than the morally deficient that constitute my diet. No, my shadow most often falls upon the back alley brigand, and those who haunt dimly lit riverside bars. The irredeemable. The insane. And don't think I prey only on the lower class, as I've been known to take a corrupt marquess or marquise from time to time as well… though it's become much trickier to steal them from their gilded halls in this modern age.

There are just so many damned security cameras!

Here, in this nightclub called Vesuvius, I feel as if I'm drowning in a sea of horny children. There are a few blackguards to be found. They're easy enough to spot for a creature like me. That one standing by the bar, plying a female with drinks—he's no stranger to a prison cell. I can tell by the stocky muscularity of his figure, the way he constantly peeks over his shoulder, as if he suspects someone might shank him in the back at any moment. And that woman there? She's a professional thief. See how she appraises the men who come to court her? She doesn't look them in the eye, but assesses their belongings: their clothes, their jewels, the timepieces on their wrists.

But I'm not hunting just any generic villain this evening. I have a target, a very specific victim in mind, and I've been assured he'll be somewhere in this club tonight.

Thinking about him makes the Hunger leap and snap inside my stomach. I would salivate as I press my way through the bounding mob if that is something that I was still able to do. The music, the smells, it makes my mind reel. I slip between the revelers like a lion stalks his prey through the high savannah grass, eyes alert, every sense humming like a high voltage wire. I feel alive, rooted in the here and now, vital and relevant. I so often feel unanchored, like flotsam drifting in time's slow tides.

All this hot bloody flesh pressing in around me: it threatens to distract. But I ignore them. Even if they were all great villains, I would stalk my prey no less single-mindedly.

You know how it is when you have a taste for something in particular.

Nothing else will do!