The Dying Light

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The Dying Light

The Dying Light By: Dyana Lunaris

Dyana Lunaris

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The Dying Light

Dyana Lunaris

A Silk’s Vault Electronic Publication, in arrangement with author Dyana Lunaris. Copyright © 2005 by Dyana Lunaris Cover Design and Art by Dyana Lunaris, © Copyright 2005 Edited by Rene Walden

Silk’s Vault Publishing www.silksvault.com

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in part or whole, in any form or by any means, without permission from both the author and publisher. All characters, incidents, situations, institutions, governments and people are fictional and any similarity to characters or persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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Chapter One

Marcos slid the last of Project Storm Shadow into the paper shredder. Unlike many of his vampiric counterparts, he liked technology. He liked the shiny cars, powerful computers, things that hummed and beeped. He was a connoisseur of electronics, so it was his pleasure to eradicate every last bit of evidence regarding the fiasco that was Project Storm Shadow. The Order of the Dragon, an ancient group that represented vampires all over the world, had started Project Storm Shadow as a way to prove that they could feed from humans without the repercussions of a world-wide vampire hunt.

He chuckled to

himself. Unfortunately, their subjects had been a headstrong vampire and a ‘take no bullshit’ werewolf. The only thing the project had accomplished was the creation of the first true female vampire. His best friend Mikhail and his new werewolf girlfriend, Lauryn, were in Italy, ostensibly to find Chloe, the new female vampire, but he knew they were also taking time away from The Order to enjoy each other’s company. He took the torn pieces from the basket underneath the shredder and dumped it into the low burning fire he had going. It flared quietly without spark, pop, or ceremony and withered fluidly, turning finally to ash. He sat, watching it melt, thinking about failure and thousands of lonely lifetimes.

Not unlike a man who, in the rapidly

approaching dusk of life, realizes he’s accomplished nothing. He wondered why he let The Order of the Dragon rule his life. He gazed down at the heavy amber ring on his finger and was tempted to hurl it into the fire with the files. His attention was drawn from the fire when a flash of white on one of the security

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monitors caught his eye. With the Storm Shadow fiasco looming, the Order had asked him to take over the huge estate house while they spread to the four corners of the world. They were cowards, but it had scored him a huge mansion to haunt. The estate was in the country and, while it bordered farmland on one side, there was a state run institute on the other. No one should be skulking around the property. He dropped into the comfortable leather chair he’d ordered with the Order’s money and swiveled it to follow the quick, slightly blurred figure, as it darted from camera location to location. He could discern very little other than the figure was small, and very likely a woman. She didn’t run all out like someone who was just cutting across the property, rather she stayed close to the house, running in short bursts, punctuated by paranoid looks behind her. When she reached the corner of the house nearest the room he sat in, she stepped into the light and he saw, very clearly, that she wore hospital scrubs. Her feet were bare. He stood and walked to the door. Opening it only a breath, he waited until he knew she was right in front of it and stepped out. His black silk suit shimmered in the moonlight, and his pale skin stood out like bare, bleached bone. The woman skidded to a halt, her bare feet ripping up patches of grass. Her eyes went wide and she fell back, the terror evident in her face. “Can I help you?” Marcos asked, arching an eyebrow at her. The voices in Cybele Montgomery’s head told her she’d made a terrible mistake. They told her that the creature in front of her was a monster, born of evil and darkness. They whispered urgently that she should run the other way. Run for her life, back to her little metal bunk where the orderlies took her meds and sold them on the street.

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The part of Cybele’s head that didn’t really believe she was a paranoid schizophrenic scoffed at the idea of monsters lurking in the night. The happy, straight A, cheerleading Prom Queen knew there was no such thing as ghosts, goblins, and demons. The broken girl who huddled on the cold tile floor of Northern State Mental Hospital knew there were things in the dark you should be afraid of. “Baby Killer,” the voices in her head hissed. “Stay away from me,” Cybele’s voice trembled. The man that stood before her was more handsome than any human could be. From the dark, mahogany hair that melded with the night behind him to the bottomless golden eyes, this man dripped with seduction. He used passion as bait for a prey too civilized for most monsters. “I know what you are.” Marcos’ face showed his shock before he had a chance to moderate his features. He moved invisibly, with the vampire grace he’d gain for centuries of being alive, and snatched her from the ground. Her brassy red hair shone dimly in the dark, and her eyes were drowned to dark pinpoints by terror. He held her upper arm tightly, and her body swung from his grasp as if she were a full sized rag doll. Pulling her into the little room with him, he used his other hand to grab one of the metal folding chairs he kept in there. Snapping it open single handedly, he sat it on the floor in front of him and shoved her into it, refraining from being gentle. His thoughts and activities this night had put him in no mood to be gentle with this little trespasser. With the echo of the metal chair still echoing off the cement walls of the security station, he leaned over her and looked right in her eyes. “What do you mean you know what I am?” He asked quietly, his mood darkened even further by the fear in her

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eyes. In spite of her fear, she opened her mouth to answer him, but was interrupted by a hollow chiming sound that didn’t sound quite real to Cybele’s ears. She wondered if it was a secret signal from Hell to let the demon know he wasn’t to waste time talking to her, but rather to kill her quickly. Marcos started toward the bank of monitors, but turned back to her and pointed one long, pale finger at her, “You stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.” He started to add that he would feed on her flesh if she didn’t listen, but restrained himself. Some people didn’t appreciate his dark humor, and he was pretty sure this little insane asylum runaway was one of them. Light flashed on the security monitor in blinding black and white. There was some kind of authority figure at his front gate, most likely to collect the little runaway. He tapped his finger on the steel control panel, trying to get his thoughts together. He would be remiss to let the little woman go without finding out exactly what she knew, or thought she knew, about him. He could deliver her into the capable hands of these fine security guards and no one would believe her if she spouted about vampires all night long. She was crazy, after all. On the other hand, he thought, looking up at her, maybe she was only crazy when she hadn’t been given her medication. If she was given her anti-crazy candy and still told them their neighbors were vampires, were they likely to believe her? He pressed the button that opened the gates and went back to his little Houdini. “Your escorts are here, little one,” he said smiling gently, using the same voice he used when talking to the Order. “Everything will be alright now, yes? You will go to

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your home and get your medicine, and then you will feel all better. Then I won’t be what you think I am anymore.” Cybele glanced at the unseen monitors, then back at the dark man before her. The voices told her it was a gamble she shouldn’t take. The voices told her that her cold cell was so much safer than dealing with the Eater of Flesh, Drinker of Blood. She held her hands over her ears, drawing her feet up onto the cold metal of the folding chair. “Shut up! Just stop talking!” Marcos stepped back, even vampires were fallible to sudden attacks and this girl was nuts. He froze when she suddenly stopped and looked at him, her eyes clear and calculating, not the eyes of a madwoman at all. “A deal. You tell them you never saw me and I’ll leave. You’ll never see me again, and I’ll never tell anyone what you are. I won’t tell a soul.” She rubbed a spot in her forehead as if it ached, but Marcos knew it was most likely a compulsion brought on by her illness. “Blood sucker, feasts upon the bones of children, ancient evil.” The voices in Cybele’s head screamed, and she doubled over in agony. She fell from the chair and curled in the fetal position on the cold, concrete floor. She fisted her hand and hit the same spot on her forehead violently. “Ancient Evil!” she cried over and over again. The doorbell rang, but Marcos paused. This type of dementia didn’t develop from a couple of hours of missed medicine. He was no psychiatrist, but he’d seen enough madness to know that this particular case was not being treated. He hesitated again, wondering why he always got himself in these situations, before scooping her up and taking her to the kitchen. In seconds, he had the redheaded mad woman tucked into the cabinet beneath the huge butcher’s block that served as an island in the middle of the

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huge kitchen. He shook his head, muttering to himself all the way to the door before smoothing back his hair, wiping the blood sweat from his palms, and opening the door. “Yes, officer, can I help you?” he said, cordially.

His black silk suit was

impeccable, even though it was well past three am. He was a handsome man with shoulder length hair and strange, flashing eyes; a respectable figure that commanded attention where ever he went. “Yes sir. I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night, but we’ve had a break out next door at Northern State. I would feel better about your safety if we could search your grounds.” They security guards were like every set of security guards he’d ever seen on television, one fat, old and pushy with a perpetually disgruntled look on his face and a thin, pimply-faced kid who didn’t look like he was old enough to drive. Marcos forced his face into a mask of the proper emotion. “I’m sure she isn’t on my property, gentleman. The security system would have caught her,” he answered, not mentioning that he had been sitting in front of the security monitors like a paranoid human. “Plus, the dogs don’t let much past them. Your escaped patient wasn’t a ghost was she?” he laughed. The security guard laughed nervously, and put his hand on his side arm. “I don’t believe I mentioned it was a woman we were searching for, sir.” Marcos furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, putting a hand upon his head. “Well, that looks suspicious, now doesn’t it?” He took his hand from his head and slid it in his pocket. The nervous security guard slid the pistol from its holster, but didn’t cock it. That, in itself, worried Marcos more than if he had. A nervous security guard with a Double Action Only pistol meant innocent vampires like Marcos might get shot. He

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knew that if the pistol was Single Action it had to be cocked and he’d have time to move out of the way, but if the pistol was Double Action Only, the squirrelly security guard had only to pull the trigger to get the thing to work. Yes, Marcos loved technology. He loved the mechanics of things, the cause and effect that made the insides of the Ruger P345 work. He would happily take it apart and put it back together. He would love to hold it and fire it. He did not, however, want to be on the receiving end of its fiery kiss. The security guard was less than two feet away, and if the gun was indeed a double action only, Marcos very well could be in a heap of trouble. “Yes, well,” he said, sliding his empty hand from his pocket slowly. “Feel free to search the grounds, gentleman. I’ll go put some coffee on for us, shall I?” The nervous man slid the gun back in its holster, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Yeah, coffee might be nice, Mr. ...” “Call me Marcos,” he said, pleased he had defused the situation without losing his temper. Many vampires he knew would have broken the man’s neck, and then killed his partner just because he was a witness. “You may walk around the outside of the house while I go disarm the security device and make coffee. Then, if you wish, you may search the inside of the house.” He laughed, “We wouldn’t want to get the police involved or wake a judge up to get a search warrant.” The two security guards started to look nervous again, so Marcos shut the door firmly in their faces.

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Chapter Two

Marcos moved quickly and quietly, furious with himself for making such a stupid and, frankly, human error. As soon as he got into the kitchen, he grabbed the girl’s arm roughly and dragged her out of the cupboard. He didn’t know if she was too scared or too smart, but she didn’t scream or fight him. She didn’t try to escape when he unlocked the basement door, and she didn’t even gasp when he shoved her violently down the stairs. The basement was huge, stretching the entire length of the manor house. It had several entrances and a few secret exits. Marcos avoided these however, and instead pushed her silently toward the back wall of the basement. They wove flawlessly in and out of the spare furniture and junk that was stored there, as if Marcos could see in the dark. He was sweating and his breath was coming quickly, his heart a marathon runner in late August heat. He hadn’t been this excited since the night he and Mikhail had been attacked by a werewolf. He swiped the sweat from his forehead and ran the tip of his tongue over his elongating fangs. If he were a weaker vampire, the woman would have been dinner by now. The image he had of her offering up her neck to him was so vivid he stumbled. As if sensing his need, the stranger pulled away from him, crying out. He let her go, and stood like a man starved, eyes drinking her in. It was only the rush, the vampire equivalent to adrenaline. He started through the darkness again, but she cried out again, “Don’t leave me in the dark.” Her voice was fused with terror, and it made his pulse race. He wanted to chase her through the darkness until she was panting on her knees. That need was the essence of Project Storm Shadow.

Even after decades of

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feeding on animals and stealing cold, human blood from hospitals, he was still, and always would be, a predator. Vampirism had made him such, and no matter how much control he had, he would always lust after the chase. “You had better keep up,” he gasped, starting to jog toward the back wall. Hidden in the wall was a small crawlspace. It had been long ago sealed off from the outside, but enough room was left for her to cower until he came to get her. He grabbed her and shoved her inside the tight space, knowing that his time was almost up. Any second now, Quick-Draw and Too-Young-To- Drive would be rounding the final corner of the huge manor. In seconds, they would find the security room with the cheerily burning fire, the unlocked door, and the metal folding chair set up, as if for interrogation. “You have to stay in here until they’ve gone, then I’ll feed you and you can leave, but you have to stay hidden and quiet while I deal with them.” “Don’t leave me in the dark with the voices,” she whimpered, clutching at him like a drowning woman. He froze, doubt clouding his thought. She really was mad. Maybe the hospital was the best place for her, medicine or not, she was still in a secure environment instead of roaming the streets where she could harm herself and others. “The security will wonder where I’ve gone, they’ll call the police.” She seemed to see the logic in that and let go of him whispering frantically, “Don’t be long. Please.” He could hear the tears in her voice. “I promise I’ll hurry.” Then the darkness closed around her as he replaced the fake portion of wall. She could hear her own heartbeat and the gasp of her own breath. It was so much

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better than hearing the voices, she almost calmed down when she heard the first one, as if the person speaking were laying right beside her in the tiny crawlspace, “Foolish girl, you’ve put yourself in his trap. There is no police, no security. He merely used that excuse to lure you into the basement so he could drain the blood from your body. He’ll tear you apart.” Cybele squeezed her eyes shut, knowing exactly what she would see if she opened them -- nothing. So much worse than a moldering old corpse or a skull, or decomposing flesh squirming with maggots, because it proved that she truly was mad. There was no greater proof that the voices she heard came from her head. “And when you’ve been used up, when you’re dead he’ll...” She covered her ears and swallowed the scream that rose up in her. She didn’t want to hear what the voices thought, but they continued. “He’ll trap your soul inside your body, and you’ll never get to Heaven. You’ll be trapped on earth forever.” Marcos used vampiric speed again. He used it more times today than he’d used it in the last century. When he got to the control room, he stirred the fire to make sure all the paperwork was burned to ash, locked the filing cabinet, slid it back into its slot in the wall, and folded up the metal chair. He would have to make the coffee while the security guards searched the upper levels of the house. He had nothing to hide up there. All the rooms were fully furnished and kept clean by a maid that came once a week. They would never know he slept in a crypt in the adjacent family cemetery. Cliché as it might be, it was safer than staying in the basement. He was just glancing at the new mechanical watch on his wrist when the guards

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knocked on the security room door. He liked the watch, it was heavy and pleasing to look at, plus it was powered by the simple movement of his wrist. He’d never have to replace the battery or wind it. “Gentlemen, I trust you found nothing of interest in the yard?” he asked innocently, smoothing his ruffled hair with a steady hand. “No dogs.” The one who had drawn down on him answered. Marcos looked at him blankly for the space of a breath before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping the fine sheen of sweat from his forehead. He tucked it back away before they could see the white cloth was now stained pink. “I brought them in when you started to circle around so they wouldn’t mistake you two for intruders. They’re here in the house. Somewhere.” He lied smoothly. “Warm in here, Marcos?” Quick Draw sneered. “Not really, I must be coming down with something; indeed I’m feeling sick to my stomach as we speak.” He wanted to kill this fat, greasy human. He wanted to break him open like a bone and suck out his insides like he would marrow. He was rarely, if ever filled with such a violent hate against a human, but this weak piece of trash deserved death. Marcos, unable to control himself any further, turned slightly so the man was between himself and the younger guard. He flashed the aging sack of bones a toothy grin. “Must have been something I ate.” The terror that screamed through the man left his mind open for the split second it took Marcos to climb inside. He scraped a psychic claw against the man’s brain and hissed, “Get out.” When Marcos pulled from his mind and sank back into his own, he needed a shower. He felt covered in the man’s evil. His glowing, golden eyes faded back to

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normal and he took a deep breath, “Shall we tour the manor, gentlemen?” The old man seemed to wake from a deep dream. He clamped his mouth shut and rubbed his eyes. “No, she’s not here. We’re sorry to have taken up so much of your time, sir.” The younger security guard looked from Marcos to Quick Draw, confused, “But I thought...” “No questions, boy,” the older security guard barked. He reached out to shake Marcos’ hand, but seemed to change his mind midway and turned abruptly to leave. Cybele exploded from the tiny space when Marcos finally moved the fake stone out of the way. She’d been weeping, and she was babbling about voices in her head. He grabbed her, putting a hand on either side of her face, touching her body -- touching her mind. Marcos sank into her terror, feeding from it, filling up with it until he thought he would spew forth the black sludge that was her fear. As he fed, she quieted. Marcos pushed her away suddenly and stumbled against the wall, so filled and yet so empty. He shivered when she touched him, a deep aching shudder that reverberated through him. She turned his face toward hers and he found her eyes were clear of fear for the first time since they’d met. “How did you do that? How did you take away the fear?” she asked softly, tears flowing freely from her eyes. “You don’t want to know.” His voice was that of a desperate man. He’d used himself up, and now he needed to feed. She was so close, so warm, her blood so near the surface. His teeth grew long and his body was wracked by spasms of hunger. He cried out, hands curling into claws and body contorting into a bow of lust and need. “Leave,”

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he ground out. She was on her feet and across the room, bare feet beating a tattoo that matched the beat of his racing heart. Her hair flew like a living flame behind her. She reached the stairs, climbing them on her hands and feet. The voices had been right for once. He was a monster. A monster that had sucked up the violent blackness from her soul. She stopped at the top of the stairs in a short hallway, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart rattling against her rib cage. He’d taken all the ugly things out of her and pulled them into himself. She turned around to go back and he slammed into her like a rabid animal. She was pinned between his body and the wall, his face shoved into hers. His eyes glowed orange like a flame and his teeth lengthened into viper-like fangs. She could feel that every muscle in his body was rigid and hard with the strange need that filled him. She could feel his heart thundering against her chest. A lock of his autumn brown hair fell over his eyes, as they traced the line of her jaw, following it all the way to her neck where her pulse beat like a trapped animal against her skin. Dark, wet heat coiled in her and she pressed her lips desperately against his, oblivious to his teeth nipping at her full lower lip. The voices told her he wanted blood, but her mind, now clear from the horror and pain that had haunted her so long, knew instinctively that one need would do as well as another and, if she was honest, she was filled with just as much need as he was. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him to her. His hands found her waist and his grip was like iron, lifting her from her feet and pinning her more securely to the wall. His tongue slid inside her mouth tasting the blood his teeth had eased from her

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lips and she heard him groan. She dragged her lower lip against the sharp points of his teeth, releasing even more blood, and was surprised to feel him go hard against her. The bulge between his legs pressed against her through the thin material of their pants. She rocked her hips against him and he cried out. He put her down with shuddering hands. Pushing her firmly against the wall, he held her at arm’s length. He pushed the lock of hair from his eyes and stumbled away from her. “You can’t do things like that.” He’d had human blood before, packets stolen from blood banks, but never warm. The rush it caused made him wonder if he’d taken her madness. He felt completely out of control. “You are putting yourself in danger. Please... you’ve got to leave.” She licked the blood as it dribbled from her lower lip and it took all his control to stay on his side of the hallway. “Vampire, I owe you,” she said with taunting eyes. “You’re mad,” he said, knowing it was more true about him than her. Cybele sat on the butcher’s block while Marcos puttered around the kitchen fixing her something to eat. He kept murmuring over and over again the words “mad” and “crazy”. She smiled and touched him whenever he came near to her. He always jumped as if she’d shocked him, causing her to laugh. When he handed her the bowl of soup he’d microwaved, she scooped up a spoonful and let it dribble back into the bowl. “You know you’re supposed to add a can of water to this before you cook it, right?” He stopped and looked at her with a blank look on his face before snatching the bowl, causing her to laugh out loud. The sound startled her. She hadn’t laughed for as long as she could remember. He poured some water into the bowl and shoved it back in the microwave, then he

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stood in front of it, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button. It revealed an attractive peek of pale, smooth skin. Cybele squirmed a little in her chair. If he made her feel like this in a three piece suit, how was she going to feel when she finally got him naked? The voices whispered the same nasty, awful things they always said to her, but she ignored them. They weren’t telling her anything she didn’t know. This man was a vampire and he’d somehow, someway, released her from a terror so strong it had held her in its grasp for ten years. Maybe that’s what was wrong with her, she’d been fifteen the last time she’d been thinking clearly enough to lust after anything. Ten years of bottled up lust could overwhelm a girl. “I don’t want soup,” she said, following him with her eyes. “It’s all I have, unless you want canned chili that probably has horse meat in it,” he said, looking tragic. “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t want anything to eat. Look, can we talk? I want to know how you did that. How you made the fear go away. I mean, I’d rather you had taken the madness away, but taking the fear of the madness is the next best thing.” “You aren’t mad.” he said simply. “Those voices you hear aren’t because you are insane.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the refrigerator. He’d been inside her head. He’d heard the voices that haunted her and the things they told her weren’t merely paranoia. The voices conveyed facts. They did it in an ugly, perverted sort of way, but everything they had told her was the truth. “Northern State Institute for the Mentally Insane would disagree with you on that,” she scoffed. “If I’m not insane, then why am I teaching a vampire how to make condensed soup?”

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“Just in the right place at the right time, I guess,” he said sarcastically. He took the bowl from the microwave and set it in the sink. “Look, you being here is a bad idea.” “What? Vampires don’t have one night stands?” she said hopping down from the butcher’s block. “No, we tend to keep our mates forever.” His words fell heavily into silence. “That was supposed to be a threat, wasn’t it?” The voices hissed a warning that she was treading on thin ice.

Chapter Three

“Yes it was. Why, didn’t it work?”

He emptied the bowl into the garbage

disposal, then set it down loudly on the counter, “What happened in the hall was a rare occurrence. I would usually need a ... donation before being able to...react.” He traversed the kitchen in an agitated pace. “It should be obvious, even for someone with a mental deficiency. I have no heart beat, no blood pressure -- unless I’ve fed.”

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She was quiet for several minutes, suddenly hurt that he would bring up her madness, and wondering if this whole fiasco wasn’t just some drug deprived dementia. “Oh sure, now I’m crazy,” was all she could think to say. He huffed just like a child, “Don’t you see? Anything you feel for me, or any feelings I return, we cannot act on. We are not a good match,” he continued, oblivious to the hurt he’d caused at his casual reference to her illness. “Look, I understand what you’re trying to do, but you’ve got to understand something. Being near you, touching you, kissing you, it does something to me. This is the first day since I was a child that I wasn’t too terrified to move. These voices -delusions, paranoia, whatever they are, they have ruled my life. They’ve dictated my words and actions; fear of them molded who I am. Whatever you did to me down in the basement took away the pain. It took away the power they had over me, and now they are just voices again. You did, in one second, what years of drugs, psychotherapy and electroshock treatment couldn’t do.” She paused, her heart feeling light. This was her decision, and she was going to make it. “Now, I don’t even know if you are real or just another voice in my head, but you have done so much for me that I’m not willing to walk out of your life right now. Call me greedy or reckless, but I’m flying on this high for as long as I can.” Another thought hit her, “and if that means donating some blood to get things moving, then so be it. It wouldn’t be the first dozen pints I’ve donated, by far.” He shuddered at the thought of swimming in the warm, fresh blood from her throat. He wanted to feel revolted at the thought of feeding from her, but instead it was so incredibly sexual, he grew hard for the second time that night. “I don’t feed from humans,” he cried out, eyes wild with lust and hunger. She was mad. She had just

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offered herself to him. He’d never met anyone like her, and he never wanted to, ever again. She took his carefully composed control and crumbled it to dust. Her flame colored hair and stained glass eyes made his hard won battle against baser instincts suddenly unobtainable.

He was afraid that cold cattle blood would never again be

enough. “What do you mean, you don’t feed from humans?” she asked, trying to bring him back from that faraway place he was in. “I only drink the blood taken from blood banks or if I’m in the country, I feed from animals.” His throat was suddenly parched; he was so thirsty. “Cold blood and animals, that doesn’t seem very palatable.” The sympathy was clear in her eyes as she placed a hand on his chest. Oh she was beautiful -- beautiful and conniving. “Little martyr, giving yourself to me won’t make your life easier. I have a suspicion it will only make your life end.” She stepped back as if she’d been slapped. She opened her mouth and then closed it, turning away from him. “Whore,” the voices whispered, and they were right. She’d been willing so give herself to a vampire, delusion or otherwise, for food, shelter, and the security of being without fear. She’d just tried to prostitute herself for basic needs. That made her sad and desperate. “We are both tired; it is almost dawn. We must eat and rest. We can discuss this more tonight when we aren’t so easily upset. “Stop talking to me like the doctors do. I’m not going to slit your throat because you said something I don’t like. I’ve just been…taken care of for so long. I don’t know

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how normal people react in situations such as these.” Marcos laughed for the first time since she’d met him and it was beautiful. It touched her soul in so many ways. “A vampire and an escaped insane woman? Normal people don’t get themselves into situations like this.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing lines of shivers down her neck. She’d been through so much that he wasn’t sure if she was ready for his opinion. He didn’t know, on top of everything else, how she would react to the news that he thought the voices that haunted her weren’t that of madness, but were the voices of the dead. .“You don’t have to worry about anything for now, Cybele. Stay here. You’ll have food and shelter from the elements. I won’t touch you.” She smiled bitterly at him, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” She had meant it to be a joke, but she knew her voice was cold and hard when she said it. This insanity was driving her crazy. “How did you know my name?” “It doesn’t matter, a little vampire trick. Did you know in Greek mythology, the Sybils were women given the gift of prophecy?” he said, hoping he wasn’t being too subtle. She wondered briefly why he was trying to romanticize her illness. How old and genteel his time must have been, where everything from mental illness to drug abuse was made into something more beautiful. If you were an opium addict you were considered a creative soul, and if you heard voices, maybe you were just an oracle to the gods. “I couldn’t predict my way out of a paper bag,” she said, for the first time seeing him as he was, instead of how the voices portrayed him. He was polite, gentle, and so anachronistic that it made her want to dress in a hoop skirt and put her hair in an up do. “You’re a nice

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guy.” “Not the monster your voices told you I was?” His eyebrows rose to meet his severe widows peak and he smiled, seemingly having the same thoughts as she. “Stop doing that,” she whispered darkly, actually angry for the first time since the drugs had worn off. “Don’t go in my head. Don’t you think I’ve had enough of that over the years? I don’t need anyone else trying to pick me apart. No one asked for your help.” He grew solemn. “You are correct, I had no right.” He turned suddenly and disappeared from the room. When he returned he had a stack of clothes and some clean towels. “The sheets on the bed should be clean, if they aren’t let me know and I will change them for you.

If you get hungry, I only have soup and canned fruits and

vegetables. They are the only things that don’t go bad.” The statement made her suddenly curious. “How long have you lived here?” He was standing in front of her, holding out the clothes and linens. When she didn’t take them, he laid them on the counter. “I’ve lived here less than a month. In fact, I’m only, how do you say, house sitting.” “How long have you been alive?” she asked before he could leave. Her words were abrupt, and she knew instantly that it was not a question one asked in genteel company. She chewed nervously on her lower lip, not sure she wanted to know the answer. “You like your privacy, I like mine, Ms. Conner.” “Less than an hour ago we were ready to screw like bunnies in the hallway, now all of the sudden I’m Ms. Conner? Besides, asking how old you are and reading my thoughts like a grocery list aren’t the same at all.”

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“Oh, believe me Ms...Cybele, your thoughts are a much better read than a grocery list,” he said to hurt her, but the words brought memories and the memories remembered the lust. She could feel her mouth water at the look in his eyes and before she could stop herself, before the voices obscured true thought, she was on him, her lips savaging his. The voices rose up like a wave, hammering her with disapproval, but she shoved them aside until she felt only his hands sliding over her waist and heard only the pounding of her heart and the gasp of her breath. It was like floating under water, her world shrinking down to the taste of his kiss, the slight coppery tang of blood, and the roar of her breath in her own ears. Then her world exploded on a groan and she was pressed against the refrigerator, his hands in her hair and on her ass, stoking the fire in her belly. The heat and smoke slid down to the juncture of her thighs, slowly at first, but then quickening like wild fire. She heard him groan again and clung to him like a drowning woman. “Marcos,” she breathed, and knew subconsciously they had been one for that split second. She knew exactly what he wanted and how much control he was using to keep himself from taking it. “Marcos.” He slid his hand from her hair, down her neck to linger on her pulse before cupping her breast gently.

He brought the other hand up from her ass and slid it

underneath the loose top of the scrubs. She wore no bra and her nipples were hard and ready for his hands, ready for his tongue. He moved down her body, pushing the top up until finally his mouth could capture her pert bud. She gasped, “Yes.” He swore softly before devouring the nipple with his lips and tongue. The rough, pebbly feel of her skin was something he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years.

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She couldn’t think clearly, almost as if she were drunk, and the heat coiled around her body like a giant snake. She rocked her hips back and forth, grinding her thighs together to try and counteract the passion. Knowing instinctively what she needed, he slid his left hand between her legs and let her rub against him. Her cries grew louder and louder until they were wild and free. It made him need her so much more. He lifted her and swung her around, setting her on the counter. She tried to take his mouth in hers again, but he pushed her away, “Are you sure you want this?” “Yes, oh god, yes.” He spun around before she’d even finished and pulled a plastic IV bag filled with blood from the fridge. He bit into it, breaking the thick plastic with his fangs, his eyes never leaving her while he fed. She quickly undid the simple tie on the front of the scrub pants and pulled them off. She threw them on the floor and her shirt followed. Marcos had the blood halfway done when she snatched it out of his hand and squeezed it, dibbling two lines of blood down her bare breasts. It slid down her pale body and pooled between her thighs. His eyes started to glow, and he felt himself grow harder than he had ever been since he’d been mortal. He went to her and licked the thick fluid from her breasts, carefully cleaning her flawless skin. He traced the scarlet rivers down her flat belly to the v her legs formed. She writhed and moaned as he drank the blood from her cupped legs. He licked her clit gently at first, but harder and harder until she was gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckled passion. He put his hands on her ass and buried his tongue inside her, licking deeply. She tasted so sweet, sweeter than blood and her screams were more beautiful than any sonata. Marcos replaced his face with his fingers and instead of again assaulting her clit,

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he rubbed the skin right above it. “Oh my god, where did you learn that?” she gasped, throwing her head back. He flashed her a smile and the power in his eyes made her wild. “Lots of practice.” At that moment she froze, and he could feel her twitching around his fingers. He moved quickly, wanting to get in her right at the beginning of her orgasm before she grew too tight for him. He pushed himself into her slowly. She had said she’d been in the hospital since she’d been a kid and while he wasn’t naive enough to believe he was the first, he knew she probably had sex rarely. She gasped, the orgasms crashing over her as he entered her. He slid inside of her, but froze. What if vampirism was transmittable through sex? The Order had told its members that female vampirism wasn’t even possible. Surely he wasn’t the first vampire to find an accommodating mortal. Mikhail had bedded Lauryn, but she’d been a werewolf, and therefore, presumably immune. “What’s wrong?” Cybele asked, still vibrating from her orgasm. He pushed away from her, sliding out carefully. “Did I scratch you when I put my fingers inside of you?” He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She pushed him away. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Why, what’s wrong?” He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to think -- trying to remember. Hell, he didn’t even remember taking his pants off. He looked down at himself; he was covered in blood. Was any of it hers? The Order didn’t talk about how vampirism was spread, lest the world be crawling with bloodsuckers, but he had been alive long enough to know it had something to do with bites. The virus lived in a vampire’s blood, constantly killing

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off old blood cells, forcing the vampire to endlessly renew his blood supply. But a vampire’s body only processed blood, the sweat, tears, cum and saliva were all blood. A vampire’s bite was infectious because its saliva was blood.

He rubbed his fingers

together. They were slick with blood. His palms were filmed with it. If his palms had been sweaty could he have transmitted the disease to her from his fingers? His kiss? “Oh, dear god. I’m so sorry,” he told her, his eyes filling with remorse. The look in his eyes scared her. “What? Marcos, what? Why are you sorry?” The passion was gone from the room and in its absence the voices came rushing back. “We told you so.” they whispered.

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Chapter Four

“What is it, Marcos?” She had a sick feeling in her stomach and it had nothing to do with not eating. She looked down to find herself covered in blood? She remembered emptying the bag of blood onto her chest, but was it possible that some of this blood was hers? Had he hurt her and she didn’t even know it? She wiped at the blood with her hand, some of it had begun to dry and fell away in flakes. “Did you hurt me?” He shook his head, his sunflower golden eyes wild. “I don’t know. Go take a shower. I have to think and the sun is rising. I will return tonight and then...then we’ll discuss it.” “No, wait. You can’t just stand there looking as if you killed me and then tell me I have to wait all day to find out what’s the matter,” she said grabbing his arm. “I fucked up. Ok?” he said, the modern colloquialism sounding foreign on his tongue. “I fucked up and I need some time to think, to decide how badly I fucked up.” She realized he had a faint Russian accent and wondered how old he really was. He went to the sink and washed his hands, using the small bar of soap as a pumice stone to scrape away the blood. As the lather turned pink, he scrubbed harder and harder. She grabbed his hands and stopped their frantic movements, making him turn toward her. He’d splashed himself in the face and twin rivulets of blood streamed down his cheeks. She wiped them away, but realized they weren’t from the packet. They were his tears. She sighed, feeling like she was a part of something so big she could never really understand it. “I’ll wait. Go get some sleep and we’ll work out whatever it is.”

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He nodded and turned to the door where he paused with his hand on the doorknob. His head was down and his voice was like that of a lost child. “I never meant...” “Whatever it is can wait,” she said, now convinced she didn’t want to hear about the terrible thing he’d done to her. The voices crowed and shouted in her head. She grabbed the towels and went to find the shower.

***

Marcos remembered wrapping his soft sash around the rougher cloth of his rubakha, or long shirt, on that last day, remembered concentrating on the intricate ties of the onuchi that tied the flowing legs of his pants tight. He did everything with ceremony and concentration to detail.

It was rumored that Ivan had lost his mind.

He was

removing all the Boyars from their estates, forcing them to serve in the Cavalry and Marcos knew his father would never voluntarily fill such a position. Today, Ivan’s men would either kill his father or force him into servitude. As a full grown man of twenty, Marcos should have been married with an estate of his own, but his father coddled him and allowed him to wile away his days in solitude with only his inventions and creative thoughts for company. He knew with certainty that his life as an eligible bachelor was over. He and his parents would be removed from their estate and thrust into poverty. He remembered the smell of the leather bound books as he packed them. The feel of the slightly oiled astrolabe was heavy and comforting in his hand. He placed it back on the shelf. While it was made of gold and might make a nice fortune, he knew it was too

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heavy to take. He added some gems and a jeweled dagger to the bag, along with one perfectly selfish, unreasonable item. A wooden carving of a dragon his mother had commissioned for him. The winged beast eternally looked over his shoulder, his wise mother’s way of reminding him to trust no one. She had been right. Even Ivan Grozny, in the end, could not be trusted to support the Boyars.

***

He stood at the foot of the stairs that, only seconds ago, Cybele had alighted and caressed the very same wooden plaque. He had learned the hard way not to trust his Czar, had learned even harder not to trust his parents, but now, 400 years later, he was just realizing he couldn’t even trust himself. Four centuries ago, at the foot of a different set of stairs, he’d listened to the silence of a completely empty house. He could recall perfectly the sick feeling in his stomach as he stood in the barren front hall. His parents and their servants were gone. They’d gone in the night and the only thing they’d left him with was a paid carriage. The driver had been ordered to take him to the edge of the Caspian Sea. He’d been sold into slavery. A slavery so diabolical and sick he’d blocked it out. A handsome, young, Russian lord, he fell prey to the older gentleman his parents had sold him to. The resulting vampirism was just another scar he’d learned to conceal. Now, when it was more important to remember the abuse than to lock it away, the key was suddenly out of reach. The memory of his rebirth was as shrouded in mist as the house by the Caspian Sea had been.

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Marcos touched the wooden carving of the dragon again before withdrawing to the crypt in the cemetery. He knew from his conversations with Mikhail about their time in Dimitri’s tender care, his friend didn’t remember much more than he did about their time there, but he thought maybe it might be worth it to call them. Settling down on the cool stone and pulling the heavy metal crypt door shut behind him, he cursed himself, remembering belatedly that his friends were in Rome. There was no one else he could trust. The Order of the Dragon would have him tried and convicted if they found out he had created another female vampire. Even though it was forbidden to feed from humans, he couldn’t believe he was the first vampire, through the ages, that had gotten intimate with a mortal woman. The Order knew how to make vampires, how the infection worked. The elders had to know. The information was there, hidden from the rest of the Order by the shroud of antiquity and a board of elders who knew how to keep secrets. A board whose home he now resided in. The information he needed had been under his nose the whole time. There was surely a dusty tome of ancient lore somewhere in the vast library that held the key to answering Marcos’ problems. He wondered how long it would take the symptoms to manifest if she had been infected. It would take time to dig through the endless shelves of volumes the library held. If only they had let him catalog the library on a computer two years ago when he had asked. Paranoid old fools that they were, however, feared someone would hack into the Order’s database and discover the age-old vampires hiding right out in plain sight. He would have to begin the search in the morning and pray to a god that had long ago forsaken him that they had enough time.

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***

Cybele was too upset to sleep. She’d taken a shower and, even though the sun had risen and it was a bright, sunny day, the house felt as if it were watching her. She bathed and dressed quickly, then went downstairs and lay on the couch rather than on the huge bed he’d insisted she sleep in. She was used to a tiny metal cot with a two-inch mattress. A huge, king sized pillow top made her feel insecure. The look on his face when he’d drawn away from her made her feel insecure. When she bathed, she searched every inch of her skin to make sure he hadn’t bitten her, but no bites marred her pale skin, not even in the fleshy folds of her vagina. She didn’t know what had upset him so much, but the anticipation of finding out made her so nervous she couldn’t sleep. There was a gigantic grandfather clock that stood in one corner of the library she now rested in, and it counted down the minutes like an eerie, evil metronome or some diabolical heartbeat featured in Edgar Allen Poe’s stories. The shower and clean clothes should feel good considering she couldn’t remember that last time she’d received either at the hospital, but the stress she was under made her edgy and in no mood to enjoy such things. The voices in her head told her she should run away while he slept. It had been long enough and anyone who lived in a house this large had to have a collection of fast cars to escape with. This guy was just your stereotypical rich eccentric who drank blood and kidnapped young girls. She knew that wasn’t true. She’d seen his eyes change, seen his teeth grow long

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and wickedly sharp. This was no ordinary weirdo. She’d stumbled, with her infinite bad luck, upon an honest, real, live vampire. “Even more reason to run,” the voices cried. “Scary or not. Sexy or not, I’ve got to find out what scared him so badly that it made him cry. Before I go anywhere I have to find out what he thinks he’s done to me.” She rolled over and tried to concentrate on the noise of the clock, but when she finally felt like she could sleep, the loud chimes marking the hour would have her bolting for the door. She eventually gave up and went to fix herself something to eat. Marcos had been right, there wasn’t much in the way of food in the huge house, but she found a can of soup and some hot chocolate. They made her belly feel full and warm. When she finally lay down on the couch and pulled a burgundy and yellow afghan over her, it was noon. The blanket was warm and reminded her of a home she’d never had. It was comforting, and as she cuddled underneath it, she began to dream. She dreamed of a Faberge egg done in gold and wine, exquisitely crafted and encrusted with rubies and garnets. She dreamed the egg rested gently in her hand and as she caressed one of the priceless gems, the treasure sprang open in her hand. A tiny painted figure fell out of the egg into her hand, a little cassock man with red pants and thick black hair. As she peered down at the little toy, she could almost see Marcos’ face painted onto the tin. She woke to Marcos leaning over her, staring worriedly at her. She tried to smile reassuringly at him, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. He wore a pair of dark oatmeal cargo khakis and a black cable knit sweater. It accentuated his slim dark form and brought out the gold in his eyes. They reminded

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Cybele of some predatory cat, yet at the same time, they were clouded by fear and an agony she hoped she would never know. “We need to talk,” he started, but she stifled his words with her mouth. After a long, deep kiss she pulled away. “The look in your eyes breaks my heart. I don’t know what you are going to say, but I know it isn’t good. Give me one more night before you completely tear my world apart.” She didn’t let him answer, but instead buried her tongue deeply into his mouth, pulling him down on top of her. She was wild to erase the look in his eyes, to make him forget what he intended to tell her. He’d fed, she could taste the blood on his lips and it brought to mind the insane passion they had shared the night before. Remembering the feel of his tongue on her nipples, they hardened again against the thin cotton of the borrowed shirt. The slightly rough material chaffed at the sensitive peaks of her breast and she cried out, a wordless cry of need and frustration. He tried to push her away, but her unyielding need and the heady aroma of sex between her thighs made his control slip. He braced himself over her, one knee between her thighs, a hand on the back of the couch, and a hand on the arm of it. If he could pleasure her without touching her then he would gladly do it. He pressed his knee against the juncture of her thighs, and almost took her violently when he felt her little cunt clench against him in need. Her thighs tightened around his knee. She wrapped her fingers through his hair and pulled him toward her kiss. She wanted to forget everything, the voices, his look, even the fact that he didn’t seem to want to touch her. She knew the instant he grew hard, because his fangs grew long and one of them sliced into her lip. The blood slid silkily to pool on her tongue. His body went

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rigid. There was a breathless, afraid-to-move moment while his tongue sucked hungrily at her blood, then he was on her like an animal. His hand slid inside her oversized borrowed pants, and her wet and ready for him. His mind emptied except for thoughts of her, and how she’d feel clenching around him. He slid two fingers inside and she moaned, arching her back and pressing herself against him. “Please don’t make me do this to you,” he pleaded, knowing this may be his last chance at salvation. Ignoring his breathless prayers, she grasped his hard length through his pants, driving him past all reasonable thought. For so long, the predator in him had been locked away. For decades he had been the gentleman vampire who neither preyed on, nor approached humans, but she, with her stained glass eyes and fiery hair, had finally turned his Doctor Jekyll into a Mr. Hyde. She couldn’t remember being lifted from the couch or carried up the stairs. All she remembered was slamming against the wall with his cock buried deeply inside her. It took her a minute to catch her breath, but when she could see straight, she noticed that the man that fucked her was not Marcos any longer. He’d become a hungry, bestial version of himself, licking and biting at her skin, and burying himself deep inside of her. He drove her relentlessly toward passionate heights she had never visited before.

The

orgasms came crashing, one right after another, and still he rode her, pinning her to the wall until they were slick with sweat and blood. It wasn’t until he cupped her breast in his palm that she realized somewhere along the way she’d been undressed and so had he. They were suddenly, as if by magick, nude and upstairs. “Marcos, god it feels so good! Please don’t stop. ” “I won’t ever stop,” he pledged. “Not until we are both dead.” His words hung

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ominously in the air. He grunted, as she clenched around him in orgasm. “Don’t,” was all he could manage. “Please.” He couldn’t breath. His world was shrinking to a pinpoint and he couldn’t stop what he knew was about to happen. He was about the change her life forever and she would hate him for it. She clenched again and he whimpered. He stopped pumping, holding very still, hoping the need to finish would pass, but she rocked her hips against his pelvis violently and it was too much for him. With a roar he went rigid and, burying himself inside her one more time, he orgasmed, emptying his entire blood supply within her. She collapsed on the bed, sighing contentedly and filled with the knowledge she could take on the world. The voices were quiet. No one in her head dared to say anything. “After sex like that, nothing could ruin my mood,” she said smugly, propping her head on her arms and laying back to look at him. His back was still to her, one arm braced against the wall and his head bent. “Marcos?” He didn’t have the strength to face her. “I should never have touched you. Before, there was always a chance, but now... now I’ve most likely sentenced you to death.” She froze. She hadn’t even heard what he’d said, but the tense line of his back and the tone of his voice said it all. “It’s bad isn’t it?” she asked, wanting him to turn toward her, but at the same time, not wanting to see his face. “What have we done?” “Vampirism isn’t a curse, Cybele,” he said, finally facing her, his eye barely visible between the locks of his hair as they fell over his face. “It’s a virus.” Cybele froze, the words sending vicious little icicles down her spine. “You bastard. You knew this last night didn’t you?” She flew at him, pummeling his chest with her fists. “You knew last night and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t stop me just now.

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You knew and you didn’t do a damn thing to stop me!”

Chapter Five

He grabbed her arm, knowing that watching her walk out of his life would hurt more than knowing his parents had sold him for a quick getaway. Her accusations made him want to lash out at her and defend himself. “You’re right, I was wrong to do that to you, but I will help you deal with any repercussions,” he said between clenched teeth. “I don’t want to deal with any repercussions!” she said, her voice shrill. “I don’t want any of this. You made me a vampire!” “We don’t know that. We won’t know for a long time,” he said, his anger rising. He refused to let her go, no matter how hard she tugged.

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“Don’t know? Look at this!” She gestured to her blood covered thighs, swiped at them with her fingers, and shoved the red tinged fingers into his face. “This is all infected blood! Let go! You’re hurting me!” “You don’t understand, the infection lays dormant until...until you die. You could live very happily for years...” He stopped at the horrified look on her face. “You’re telling me that if I die as an old lady, I’ll be an old lady vampire?” The thought was repulsive. He shook his head, realizing she wasn’t going to like what he said any more than she liked what he’d already said. “Most old people who are infected with the virus can’t tolerate the change that occurs when the virus come out of remission. It’s...painful.” She laughed bitterly. “I should have stayed in Northern State. At least there I was safe from immortality. This is some gift you’ve given me, Marcos.” “I didn’t know. I mean I...was never told,” he finished lamely. “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit! You are an old man, a learned man. You didn’t have the common sense to realize your blood was infectious.” She froze, her face contorting in fury. “You did know. You knew last night. That’s why you pulled out. It was why you stopped. What did you think you would find out today that would make it any easier for you to tell me? What knowledge could you have possibly gleaned today that would make this blow any softer?” “I wasn’t even sure I’d infected you last night. I hadn’t cum and I was pretty sure I hadn’t scratched you. I was only concerned that the sweat from my hands may have somehow given it to you.” “Sweat from your hands?” She wrenched away from him and this time he let her

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go. “So you’re telling me this might be contracted through a handshake?” “No, not a handshake. Not unless you have an open wound on your hand. I have some suspicions about kissing, and I’m almost positive about sex. They never taught us that it could be contracted at all. We were told female vampires weren’t even possible. We didn’t even know it was possible until last fall when it happened. We don’t feed on humans, so the chances for infection are very small.” “I’ll be the second female vampire in history? Forgive me if I’m not honored by this title. Where is the woman that was changed last fall? I have some questions for her.” “She’s a rogue,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I’m not happy about this either. I didn’t think...” “That’s right, you didn’t think!” She put her head in her hands. “What have I gotten myself into?” “There’s more. I know you’ve heard enough, but this is something you need to know.” She gestured for him to continue, wishing she could just close her eyes and realize this was all some demented delusion. “The voices will get worse when and if you decide to make the change.” “What? How do you know that?” she asked. She became still like a child who knew if he drew attention to himself, he would be beaten. “You aren’t delusional. You aren’t schizophrenic. You’re a Necropath.

Those

voices you hear are the voices of the dead, reaching out to you. That is why I brought up the subject of Sybils. If you decide to take the step, your Necropathic abilities will grow. You would be doubly advantaged.”

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“You’ve got to be joking. You think I can hear dead people in my head, and if I jump off a cliff and kill myself tomorrow this “talent” will get stronger? Then will I have dead people screaming in my head instead of just shouting?” “Vampirism will give you the ability to control the voices. You will be able to just turn them off and on like a switch.” She froze. He’d said the one thing that could get her to actually consider doing this crazy shit. “And they say I’m the one who belongs in an institute. You, my friend, are certifiable. You really expect me to just kill myself because you, a man I’ve known for two days, says I will live forever.” “Don’t you believe in fate, Cybele?” he pleaded, going down on his knees in front of her. “Don’t you see that you were sent to me for a reason? I was meant to help you develop the powers you were given.” “Oh believe me, buddy, you’ve helped enough as it is. You’ve done plenty.” She stood up and he echoed her movements, but then he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. The fire ignited in her loins and she pushed him away. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t feel that. You’ve become a part of me. Maybe it wasn’t a threat when I told you vampires mate for life.” “Have you ever heard of a woman and a vampire living ‘Happily ever after’? Even Mina hacked off ole Dracula’s head at the end. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. You are now, more obviously than ever, just another one of my delusions. I’ll admit I even tricked myself that time.” “Please, don’t. I need you in my life. Never before have I felt so whole. My devotion is truly undying.” He didn’t move toward her, didn’t even look up at her. Her

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words had sliced him like a razor. He was begging her, something he had never done in 400 years of solitude. Even when the old Russian vampire tortured him, he’d merely stared straight ahead -- saying nothing, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. The rage rose up in him suddenly and he brought a swift arm down on a desk. It crumpled into two halves, interconnected like an accordion. “I must have you!” Cybele backed away, the hurt and violent anger she saw in his eyes more terrifying than any of the voices she heard. She realized, most gradually, that she hadn’t heard the voices in some time. She stood there caught in indecision. For the first time in her life, she needed the voices and they weren’t there for her. She knew this was a path she would have to choose for herself. For once, she wouldn’t be driven like a sheep, and that thought scared her more than anything else. She would have to make this choice herself because there was no one there to force her to choose. She was wrong; she recognized as Marcos advanced on her, someone was there to make her choose. “I only want to love you.” She realized she was crying; heavy, salty tears, but still clear, still normal. At the sight of her tears, a ragged cry was torn from Marcos’ lips.

An animalistic aura

surrounded him. His hair flowed as if made of water and his eyes gave off a brief cat-like shine. There was a split second where Cybele had to battle her body, lest it lunge into his arms. “I can’t...love you. You’ve destroyed my life.” “I’ve given you a new life! I’ve given you immortality. I’ve released you from your mortal torment!” he said, still advancing. “No.”

She shook her head, still backing away.

“You’ve given yourself a

playmate. Driven by loneliness and greed, you made me into this THING so you wouldn’t

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be alone anymore!” Her back hit the wall. He froze, and licked his lips. She was so close. He could be on her before the movement of light would even register in her retina. He knew it, yet he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move. Her accusations had acted like a kick to the stomach. He doubled over, clutching his abdomen. This pain was familiar to him. He’d felt it the day his parents had disappeared. It was his heart. He drifted for a second, thinking how it was strange when your heart broke; it always hurt in your stomach or throat, never really in your chest. Marcos knew he would let her go, and he felt like he was watching his last sunset all over again. He was saying goodbye forever to something that was so vital to him, it removed a chunk of his humanity, and he knew when they returned, The Order of the Dragon would have to vote on whether or not he was a danger to them. “Get out,” he growled out, his voice low and guttural. “Get out! GET OUT!” His voice rose to a desperate scream. He knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself very long. “Get out, or so help me God, I will feast from your flesh.” The voices came back then all at once, urging her to fly. Pushing her down the hall and around the corner. He sprang after her like a jungle cat. She ran into the kitchen first, but slid to a halt when she saw that he was already there. “Marcos. Please,” her voice quivered and she gulped down the terror. If he answered her, she didn’t hear him over the chanting of the voices in her head. She only saw the vicious grin that curled over his lips and she was off again. She skittered down the hallway, knocking over a shelf of Faberge eggs as she went. She began to cry, the tears blurring her vision and making it hard to know where he was.

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The Dying Light

Dyana Lunaris

She saw him in front of her, a tall, blurred shape and switched direction, clipping her hip on a small hall table. She glanced back; it had only been the old hall clock. She turned to resume her flight and he was in front of her, panting through the passion and excitement of the hunt. She took off in the other direction and slammed into the wall at the foot of the stairs, making the paintings on the wall rattle. The wooden dragon plaque slid from its nail and fell with crushing accuracy to her head. The dark wood tones of Marcos’ house and Marcos’ life faded, lightening at the edges to a harsh white. “That should teach you not to try and run, Cybele,” the voices jeered. Her name seemed to echo in her head, as the world bled to white. She blinked her eyes, the bright white making her eyes water.

***

“Cybele? Welcome back, Cybele,” the voice said. Cybele opened her eyes and found herself back in the same little room she’s spent the last 15 years in. “How did I get back here? Where is Marcos?” Cybele asked, taking in her little cot and the drab blue scrubs she was in. “Back? What do you mean? You’ve been here all along. The doctor got your meds a little mixed up and we had to fix your levels, but you haven’t gone anywhere,” the young black nurse answered. She was the only person in Northern State Hellhole that Cybele liked. “No, I escaped last night. I went and hid in that huge house over there and I met a man. His name is Marcos,” Cybele insisted, feeling ill.

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The young woman frowned and went to Cybele’s chart. She stared down at it for a second before shaking her head. “There is a sign off here by the night nurse. You didn’t go anywhere.” “No,” Cybele started to cry. “No, it was real. It was real.” The woman rushed over, “Oh hun, it’s ok. Sometimes those nasty old meds can play with your mind, especially if they get too low.”

Chapter Six

Cybele violently threw her food tray across the room. It had been a week and she was still sick; sick that Marcos had never been real, sick that she was back in the hospital, and sick that all they could serve was wet scramble eggs and burnt bacon. Her clothes felt strange against her skin and every time she walked she felt strange electrical shocks run up and down her body.

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When she’d been forced to take a shower that morning the shocks had left her wet and quivering, as if Marcos’ hands still touched her. She slid two fingers deep inside of herself, sliding them in and out while the water caressed her like hands. She leaned against the cool white tile of the shower, her ass pressed firmly against its slick surface. She brought one hand up to cup her breast, pinching the nipple gently and rolling it between her finger and thumb. The water streamed over it and made her moan. With the other hand, she stroked her clit with her thumb in between long, luxurious glides of her fingers. When she closed her eyes, she could see his face close to hers, elongated fang biting gently into his lip as he looked at her with those cat eyes. She moved the hand from her tit to her ass, gliding lightly over the skin with her nails. Cupping her own ass firmly, she quickened the motions of her fingers. She moaned again. She could feel his lips on her neck, teeth pressed dangerously against her throat and it made her cunt clench in need. She added a third finger and cupped her tit again. The combination of her nails raking against her breast and her fingers slipping wetly in and out brought her, at last, to a precipice. She came with a lingering moan, her body tightening violently against her fingers. When she had finished she was trembling, her breath coming in gasps and the taste of blood on her tongue. It tasted like Marcos’ mouth. She finished her shower with shaking hands. So now, as she stared at the gelatinous mess that slid down the institutional green wall, she nibbled her lip, hoping she could rekindle the memory of him by tasting blood once again. In the end she’d been running for her life, sure he was going to suck the

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marrow from her bones and now all she wanted was to go back to him--back into the delusion. The voices whispered that it had never been a hallucination. They told her she could get back to him, but she couldn’t trust them. They had been telling her to stay away from him the entire time. Why would they now be encouraging her to return to him if it hadn’t been a delusion? She slid out of the robe she’d worn from the shower room, pulling on her panties, plain white briefs with Northern State Psychiatric Unit emblazoned on the rear and started to pull the scrub bottoms on over them, when she notice an huge bruise on her hip. It was the color of a ripe eggplant and was larger than her hand. A vision, of her colliding with the hall table, skittered across her memory. She pressed on it and shivers of pain threaded their way down her leg. She finished pulling on the pants and threw on the top quickly. The communal bathroom was kept mirror less, so she bent down and tried to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the polished steel of the paper towel dispenser. Gently probing the top of her head, she felt a line of crusty scabs across her head hidden by her hair -- The Dragon Plaque. She wished, for the first time, that Marcos had marked her. Then she would have the definite proof she needed. Could these injuries be coincidence? Self inflicted? Cybele threw on a pair of the plain navy blue deck shoes they assigned everyone and cut across the day room to the exercise yard. The exercise yard was little more than a dirt and concrete yard where the highly medicated were herded around like cattle. There was no exercise equipment or anything else to keep the mentally insane busy. Some of them paced, some walked slowly in circles, and some just sat on the few

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provided benches and rocked back and forth, staring into space or gibbering to themselves about invisible fiends that visited them at night. She grasped the edge of the tall brick wall that separated the exercise yard from the huge manor’s infinite expanse of grass and pulled herself up. The house held its secrets like a deaf-mute. No smoke rose from the massive chimney as there had been before. It was just a normal house. She squinted toward the windows, trying to discern if anyone was watching from them, but gave up and slid back down the wall when she realized it was daytime and, if he was real, he wouldn’t be out and about for several hours. She slid down the wall, her stomach heavy with defeat. A Sybil. Who was she kidding? She was just an old-fashioned nut job. “Look now.” the voices whispered just as she heard the slam of a car door. Spinning around, she hefted herself up quickly and was just in time to spot a dark car parked in the driveway. She jumped down from the wall and looked around to make sure none of the orderlies was watching before vaulting fluidly over the stone wall. As she landed, she stumbled, falling to her knees, but regained her feet quickly and sprinted toward the house. Instead of skirting the house as before, she ran straight to the little security room off the left side of the house. It was just as she remembered; even the metal folding chair was right where she remembered it. She pushed through the door and into the kitchen calling out as she went. “Marcos!” A tall woman with short, curly blonde hair looked up from the bag of groceries she was unloading, startled by her appearance. She stared at Cybele for a moment and Cybele’s heart sank. She knew, with a certainty akin to death, that Marcos was not real.

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This woman was the real owner of the manor house and she had merely made Marcos up. She started to back from the room, babbling her apologies and knowing she sounded like the mad woman she was. “You’re Cybele,” the woman said, stopping all of Cybele’s frenetic movement. “Yes,” she replied, feeling herself go very still inside. She pressed the bruise on her hip viciously to prove she wasn’t dreaming. The woman smiled tiredly, “You’ve caused a great deal of trouble here. She held out her hand, “I’m Lauryn, Marcos’ friend.” Cybele shuddered and slid to the floor. “Oh, thank God, he’s real. I’m not crazy.” Lauryn laughed at that, “Oh, he’s real all right; whether or not you’re crazy is another story. What went on here? When we got back from Rome he had locked himself in the crypt, he was a madman. What did you do to him?” Cybele shook her head, confused, “Do to him? I didn’t do anything...” Lauryn cut her off, “We’ve had him in restraints for a week. You did something that drove him over the edge. The first couple of days he raved that he had killed you. We tried to find out where he had put your body. We almost had to call the Order. When he finally came around on Thursday, he told us he had taken you back to the asylum. We still thought, at that point, you were dead. I thought he’d just dumped your body over the wall.” “After all this, your first question was still, “What have YOU done to HIM?” After thinking he’d killed some innocent woman and dumped her body, you still want to know what I did to provoke him.” Lauryn nodded. “I’ve seen a murderous vampire, an animal who only lives for the

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kill. Marcos is not a murderer. He and my husband have been friends since they were infected. He’s no killer; he’s mad with grief and guilt. Now I ask you again, what have you done to him?” Cybele choked on her agony, “I made him love me.” “Wait, what are you saying? Are you saying you slept with him?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Cybele just nodded. She couldn’t get the words past the knot in her throat. She wanted to tell Lauryn that she loved Marcos, that she would do anything to be with him, but everything was so surreal she couldn’t tell if any of this was real or a hallucination. She couldn’t trust her own mind to tell her the truth. “Are you infected?” Lauryn couldn’t believe the little woman’s appearance had actually raised more questions than it had answered. “Did he cum inside you?” They’d been searching for her friend, Chloe who had been turned into a vampire by accident. If she could learn more about Cybele, maybe it would give her some clue where to find Chloe. Cybele didn’t know where to start. “I need to see Marcos. I need to know that all of this wasn’t just some delusion.” “Oh, it was real. I’ve been dealing with the backlash of it for a week.” She went back to the groceries to finish unloading them. One bag was filled with blood packets. “I need to see him. I need to tell...” she said, knowing she sounded desperate, but she didn’t care, she felt desperate. “He’s in the basement,” Lauryn answered, shrugging. “You aren’t going to like what you see,” she warned.

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“It doesn’t matter, I need to see him,” she snapped, getting aggravated at the woman. Lauryn looked at her for a minute, searching her eyes for any hesitation before nodding. “He’s in the crypt. It’s in the old cemetery. You aren’t going to find what you expect. He might not even know who you are.” “He’ll know me,” she replied definitively. “Good luck,” she heard the other woman call out, as she headed toward the cemetery. When Cybele got to the huge stone crypt that stood as the centerpiece of the private cemetery, Marcos was asleep. The crypt door had opened onto a set of stairs that lead down several floors to a huge stone room, buried deep beneath the earth. Marcos was entombed in a massive slab of cement with only his head and one wrist exposed. His wrist was attached to an IV feed of blood. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked so young and innocent, head cocked to one side, face smooth with sleep. “I had wondered if you would get past Lauryn. She can be a tough customer when she wants to be,” a voice said from behind her. She turned to find a man that very well could be Marcos’ twin, sitting in a chair in the corner. His hair was shorter than Marcos’ and his eyes lighter. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked, knowing this was Lauryn’s husband and Marcos’ lifelong friend. “He’s just sleeping. He’ll be fine...eventually. He’s been through this before.” “He’s been in cement before?” she asked. For lifelong friends, she didn’t think they were treating him very well.

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“Back then it wasn’t cement, but yes, he’s been restrained.

After he was

changed... infected.” The man had an accent like Marcos did. “I’m Mikhail.” She didn’t bother to tell him who she was; he knew well enough who she was. She went to Marcos and put a hand on his cheek. He was so cold.

Mikhail started to

speak again, but Cybele turned on him. “NO! This is bullshit.” Then she did something she’d never done, something she’d never even thought of doing. She called upon the power of the dead. She called the spirits to her and when she felt them crouched around her like a stifling cloud, she sent them toward the cement slab that encased Marcos. It cracked down the center, releasing him. She lifted him from the crypt floor and pulled his head onto her lap. She leaned down and kissed him deeply. “Come back to me, Marcos.” Biting her lip she kissed him again, hoping he would recognize her blood and return from where ever he was. She was tired of living a hollow, empty life. She didn’t want the voices to rule her life anymore, and the only one who could fill that void in her was Marcos. He’d been a light in the darkness from the second he stepped out of that door. He had told her he needed her in his life, but that had not been true. He had survived a long time without her. The truth was, she needed him. She needed his voice, the feel of his lips on hers. She needed his eyes on her body, the damp feel of his breath on her skin and, even though he was dead, he made her feel more alive than anyone on earth. She couldn’t live another minute without the feel of his body pressed against hers. She lifted his head and cradled it against her neck. She wanted him to take her, wanted him to pull her down into the wonderful darkness that was his embrace. He awoke with a shudder and his fangs were instantly in her. She felt a piercing pain that

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lasted for a heartbeat before the passion and longing flooded through her. She was paralyzed by the feeling of him pulling the blood from her veins. He rose to his feet and it seemed as if she dangled from his lips. There were his lips, his fangs, her blood and nothing else. “Marcos, you’re going to kill her!” she heard Mikhail’s voice as if it were far away. She found enough power to turn her eyes toward Marcos and he looked down at her, the golden eyes of a tiger burning into her soul and still he drank. She tried to tell him, “Yes, take it all, take my life,” but her lips would not move, only a single voice screamed out in her head, her own. In the end, that was enough, because he nodded once, gathered her in his arms, and began to drain her. She heard violins playing her funeral dirge and felt a fine mist upon her face. It was his tears as they poured from his eyes. He took her into himself and the violins swelled into a symphony of color and emotion. The power in her swelled as the life drained away. “My love,” he seemed to say, but she could not hear him above the sound of violins flooding her head. Her body felt like it was covered in rose petals and her vision began to close in on itself. She knew she was dying. There was no sound of a lessening heartbeat or a bright light that drew her nearer, only the sound of violins, the feel of rose petals, and the dying light. The dying light spread through her heart and soul until everything was dark and there was only silence. She felt as if she were floating on dark waters, weightless and blind with no sense of direction. The last sound she heard was the hollow sound of her own breathing, labored at first, then easier and quieter until there was nothing left. And then she fell.

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Chapter Seven

Lauryn tried to look grim.

She thought of sad things and tried to remain

mournful. “I have paperwork to file.” She passed several papers to the lady behind the desk at the Department of Vital Statistics. The woman looked at her suspiciously and Lauryn wondered if they looked at everyone like that, or if she wasn’t pulling off the mourner’s mask as well as she thought. The old woman took the papers and disappeared into another room. Lauryn stood there and tapped her pencil on the desk, a little giddy from the adrenaline rush she was getting. The woman peeked out of the office several times and Lauryn wished she’d hurry up before she was tempted to dance a jig on the office’s wide counter top. Finally, the old biddy returned. The secretary passed the papers back to her, signed, stamped and notarized. She tucked her pocketbook under her arm, clutching the death certificate and estate papers in her hand. It was handy The Order had doctors and lawyers working for them that were willing and able to forge the necessary documentation. She slid behind the wheel of her car, turning only briefly to place the paperwork and her purse in the back seat. When she was buckled, she turned to the woman beside her and smiled. The woman had a worried look on her face, half doubtful, half grim. It would have been a good look for Lauryn to wear in the office. “Well? How did it go?” the woman asked nervously. Lauryn smiled at Cybele. “Everything went as planned, of course. You really have to learn to listen to those voices of yours,” she said, hitting the gas pedal and

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The Dying Light

Dyana Lunaris