Spoiler
I'm trying to make this more Dracula than Twilight, but I don't know much about vampires. I'm planning to read Dracula as soon as I can. If I've done anything wrong, weakness wise or changed any facts about the original vampire, please tell me. I'm not used to this kind of writing as this is more of a spur of the moment kind of thing, so I need all the advice I can get. Please rip this to shreds.
Want to read chapter two?
Want to read chapter two?
He put his lips to her neck, pushing himself to the very limits of his control. His tongue darted past his lips to feel her jerky pulse.
Passion or fear?
He brushed his fangs against the tender flesh, the sensitive nerves almost paining him at the feel of the warmth of life rushing beneath the cover of skin. He smiled darkly at a moan from deep within the throat of his victim.
His mind flinched from the word that appeared naturally, and he hissed in his lover's ear, “Afraid yet?”
A shaky laugh echoed in the dark room, and she breathed, driving him slowly insane with the slight movement that pushed her skin against his teeth, “Afraid? Never.”
“You should be.” But she would be dead already if she was.
Again, his mind skirted around such vile thoughts, twisting them into partial truths that were easier to except.
His teeth sunk into her lower lip slightly to make her arch against him in delight.
The slight tang of iron filled his mouth; the scent of such ambrosia filled his flared nostrils.
She escaped that night, leaving as the pale flush of dawn spread over the horizon, pulling a shawl over her wrinkled bodice to ward of the chill of early spring.
He grew bored, pushing himself farther and farther until he was wild with hunger, while she became tentative and afraid, the rougher he got. Soon, she would never laugh breathlessly again, her sightless eyes staring at the flush of a pale dawn.
. . .
Damion Norwood was oddly still in his sleep. His dreams were dark stillness and peace, mimicking the final of stage of life he would never reach. He had never truly been bothered by his lifestyle, not even in the beginning. He slept soundly, never bothered by the dark centuries that separated the present and his rebirth.
There were the rare days, however, where sleep evaded him, where the lust for fresh blood crawled from the recesses of his soul, or rather, non-soul, but time stretched between them like a vast ocean. Because his memory wasn't as long lasting as his life, the long sleepless hours faded in his mind before he was marooned on another island of guilt and mindless need.
He tossed and turned that day, muttering in his restless sleep, seeing the terrified faces of his victims. He felt the blood, warm on his lips, smooth down his throat. He smelled it and, despite his horror, found he still pined for the crimson wine. Sweat coated his normally smooth forehead, and his cold, calculating eyes had a wild, unhinged glaze when he sat up abruptly with a soft cry that ended as soon as it began.
Damion stood slowly, giving up the hope of sleep, and rubbed his face with a rough hand though late daylight still struggled through his closed blinds, casting odd patterns on the floor that had he avoided with a stumbling stride. He found his large, empty house oppressing in a time where he should be asleep, where every creak of the mansion that had changed as much as he was multiplied in the silence. He considered going out in the hot, sticky Louisianan summer with his thick trenchcoat and dark pants paired with his sunglasses and black gloves, only to frown in distaste.
Fleeing Europe centuries ago, where various hunters and zealous priests were hot on his trail, may have been the best decision of his life. Trading a young Boston that was quickly growing suspicious for the rural South as he continued his killing spree may have been one of the worst. He wouldn't move back, despite the fact that his hunger had diminished as he lived through the centuries to the point modern Louisiana had no suspicions of a vampire in their midst. His home was beautiful, steeped in history, which, like his, was dappled with evil, and, most important, an hour away by car, there was New Orleans with a thriving night life. Louisiana fit him perfectly until the damned summer.
He moved down the steps with an easy grace that came with the fading of his dreams and glanced out the entryway window that painted the light different colors of dark origin, warping the tunnel of ancient magnolias leading to the porch though he knew nothing would be in his isolated span of historic land.
There was a short bark of question from the parlor, and a sheep dog walked towards its master on stiff, arthritic legs to see what was wrong.
As it touched his hand with a gray nose, Damion crouched before his friend and murmured quiet reassurances. He wouldn't care about the dog if he hadn't bit the poor beast in a moment of powerful hunger and failed to kill it. Now, Mack was caught in an eternity of old age and joint pain, eased only by the medicine Damion could provide. Damion felt a need to tend to the dog and did so with compassion his kind was said not to have.
“How are we doing today?” he asked softly, glancing out the stained glass again when the light changed to signal the setting of the sun. “Have I woken you early?” He smiled at the single lick to his cheek and scratched behind Mack's ears, standing when it began wagging its tail in delight. “How about some food before I leave?” Padding into the kitchen with Mack at his side, Damion scooped a bowl up off the floor and took a blood bag from the fridge.
Mack barked in anticipation.
“Hold your horses.” Damion wrinkled his nose at the cold liquid as it rushed into the blue bowl and set it before Mack with a bow. “For your pleasure,” he muttered for his own amusement and allowed himself a small smile as he moved back upstairs to get dressed for the night. He needed to feed.
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