This is a slightly edited version of a story I wrote when I was seventeen. It was originally tiltled "Gift of Blood". I don't usually write in first person present tense, so the style is a bit of an experiment for me. I'm toying with the idea of continuing this. Anyway, enjoy
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Blood always tastes sweeter after a chase, when the victim’s heart is pounding and he looks at you with fear dancing in his eyes. I sink my fangs into in his neck. It nourishes me and I wipe the blood from my lips as he crumples to ground. Lifeless, he stares up at me with glazed eyes. His face is pale like the moon shining through the window and there are deep gray circles under his eyes. Fools, these living ones; there is beauty in the eternal embrace of undeath that cannot be found any other way. Who knew that death would be the price of immortality? These mortals, I do them a service by ending their pathetic existence. They are no better than rodents.
I hear footsteps in the distance. Perhaps in time I shall master the art of restraint, though in life I could never restrain myself either. I can hear her coming down the stairs. The old wooden steps creak under her weight. I run my tongue over my lips as my mouth fills with saliva in anticipation of a savory morsel. I dart into the shadows and wait. She flips the switch and the light stings my eyes. I blink and they adjust. Foolish mortal and her need for light. I hear her gasp and scream; yet she does not run. This shall be interesting. I prefer a chase, but I always enjoy the succulent taste of fresh blood. I step out from the shadows and her eyes grow wide. “Do not be afraid,” I say.
To my ears her heartbeat is the like the sound of a thousand drums all calling to me. Poor living thing; too afraid to scream, to run like the cowardly thing she is. I press my lips together as she stares at me. There is a distinct aroma of fear about her. This, I think, shall be my easiest meal yet. No amount of blood could satisfy my thirst. I was like her once: a foolish mortal. It has been centuries and I barely remember my former life. Not that I wish to remember. The immortality of vampirism suits me well. Perhaps I shall share the gift with this one. The meekest mouse always makes the meanest vampires. And this one seems to be the meekest of them all.
It would be a great irony, I think, the daughter of the vilest of slayers transformed into the very thing he hunts and despises. He stalks me, hunts me with the determination of starved wolf caught wind of prey. But now I hunt him. In the end I shall be the cat and he the doomed mouse. Tonight he eludes me. But where would be the fun without the challenge? I am Adrasteia, and none can escape me. My vengeance has only begun. His son, his darling precious son, lays scrawled out on the floor, pale and cold as ice. Even his death could not make up for all the vampires that have found death at the end of the slayer’s stake. Vampires are not meant to die.
She takes a few steps back then runs up the stairs. So she does have some guts after all, it seems. She trips on the top step and gasps as I place my hand around her throat and pull her upwards. “Do not worry,” I say, “I have a gift for you. One you that you should appreciate.” And with that, I sink my fangs into her neck, savoring the taste of her warm blood, my ambrosia. She slumps to the ground, dead like the other fool.
Her body is light and caring her to my lair is easy. A good thing my crypt with is ancient stone walls shields me from the sunlight; it allows me to work well into dawn. In the corners, spiders weave their artful webs, which are lovely to look at unless one is the fly trapped within. I am like the spider; as they drain the blood from their victims so do I.
Soon, I shall give her the gift. The ritual commences. When it is over, I feel drained yet satisfied. A new vampire shall be born tonight. I shall have to find a suitable coffin for her, but that is not a hard thing to find when your home is made beneath a graveyard filled with dead souls who are more than willing to give up theirs. Mortals seem to be dying to get in here.
Dusk comes and she awakens. Fangs have grown in and her eyes have taken on a brilliant shade of red. The girl is paler now. She runs a finger over teeth. I smile. “Where am I?” she asks, her voice like that of a frightened mouse ready to scurry at the slightest noise. Her pretty dark hair contrasts nicely with her pale skin. In time she shall realize the gift that I have given her; a gift of life, of death, of blood. She too shall hunger for its ever-quenching taste, and revel in the hunt. I grin.
“My lair,” I say, “and your home…for now.” In time she shall have to leave this place, strike out on her own. I dislike sharing my home with anyone; except for the spiders spinning their webs on in shadow-shrouded the corners of this room and the occasional mouse scampering on the dust-covered floor. But I shall be content in showing her the pleasures of the hunt. And I know exactly who first her prey shall be.
Edit: Fixed a typo (thanks Zzap).
