Spoiler
This is for the First Chapter Contest.
The dark scared him when he was little, but it was as it is with all children. He wasn't afraid of the dark itself but what would manifest in his blindness. There were the strands of lullabies that never failed to haunt his rare dreams, that came from a faceless, nameless woman that must have meant something at some time, centuries ago. There was beatings and loneliness and harsh, bright laughter mocking him that resounded firmly in his subconscious, that overcame the cobwebs of song.
They came in the night, swiping him from a bed that wasn't comfortable for a reason he had lost in the sea of years. They had raised him in some twisted version of a family, waiting for him to grow into a beautiful young man, full of life. Then they killed him before he could use any of it.
...
Damion Norwood was unnaturally 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, 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.
There was a short bark of question from the foot of the bed, and a sheep dog jumped onto the bed with stiff, arthritic legs to see what was wrong.
As it touched his hand with a gray nose, Damion looked up 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 at the gray of his room, wondering what time it was. “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 down the hall with Mack at his side, Damion scooped a bowl up off the tile floor and took a blood bag from the fridge.
Mack barked in anticipation, rushing around his legs as quickly as he could in his aged state.
“Hold your horses.” Damion wrinkled his nose at the cold liquid as it rushed into the blue bowl and set it before Mack after adding three multicolored pills 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.
“How're you doing, son?”
Damion swore as he banged his head on the clothing rack. “How the hell did you get here?”
“You know I have secrets of how to get around the rules.”
Damion turned to face a serious man blocking the windows covered with blinds and normally smothered with curtains until he had moved them back, so the orange light, telling of sunset, surrounded him.
“You could know these secrets if you'd come back.” He turned and opened the blinds, groaning slightly as the light hit him.
Damion retreated into the closest, hissing angrily, “Are you insane?”
“Just hurt and insulted that you have yet to come back to us,” he laughed, leaning against the window as if soaking in the sun when he shouldn't be able to live through the contact. “Really, I think I'm just angry, and you know how I am when I'm angry.”
“I'm just taking a break, Malachi.”
He turned toward me and spat, “That's what you said a hundred years ago.” He opened the window, allowing the humid heat of a Louisianan summer. “Do you really love this place? It's so...” He looked out on the lawn dipped in the gold of sunset. “...Sunny. It only rains when you have hurricanes.”
Fleeing Europe centuries ago, where various hunters and zealous priests were hot on his trail, may have been the best decision of Damion's life. Trading a young, suspicious Boston for the rural South as he continued the killing spree that had carried on throughout the centuries may have been one of the worst.
Damion looked out at the lawn, cut to perfection thanks to a lawn service company. The shadows of many oaks darkened the bright green almost everywhere, their shadows long, their trunks highlighted by the sliver of sun peering behind them. Pride and affection rose inside of him at the sight. He had worked for this place, to even get to America had been a challenge. He wouldn't be leaving. “Close the blinds.” He moved forward, out of the shadows, as Malachi drew the heavy curtains together. “Now, leave.” He decided not to mention the fact that his creator was exaggerating on the amount of rainfall.
“You haven't been home for years, Damion.”
“I'll be back when I have a taste for Italian blood.”
Malachi glanced up slyly, approaching his prey slowly. “Caroline misses you.”
Damion groaned sightly, thinking of the many, many years of tireless passion spent with Caroline, a willing vampire with a charming smile and a surprising, endless thirst. “I'm sure she's found someone new.”
“Many. They don't live up to you. She has a knew guy almost every year.” He frowned in distaste. “It's off putting to see how she sleeps around.” He had slowly sauntered toward the closet until he was filling the door with his lithe form as Damion continued to dress. “Are you feeding tonight?” he asked.
Damion nodded slowly. “You're not invited.”
“So cold. Why, my son?” He pushed his way farther into the closet, pushing Damion's boundaries as he did so. “I created you, made you what you are. You should be grateful and obedient.” He frowned at the gray invading his creation's hair and the wrinkles fanning around the eyes and mouth, complaining of too much time spent in a frown. “How long has it been since you've been on the hunt?”
Damion turned away from Malachi, deciding against the heavy trench coat, and tried to remember.
Silence stretched on for long seconds, and finally Malachi whispered dangerously, “That long?”
Damion grabbed his black dress shoes and shoved past Malachi, using his broader physique to do so. “I can't kill everyday like you can. The people practically offer you a meal every week.”
“Are you in love with one of them?” he demanded as soft as before, anger bubbling below the low dynamic.
Damion sat on his bed, pulling black socks on, and scoffed. “I've forgotten what love is if I ever really knew. If I didn't and don't love Caroline who practically gave her soul to me on a silver platter, begged me to take it, why would I love a weak human who couldn't match her beauty?”
“So you pity them. You don't want to do what's natural. Your damn dog is drinking cold blood.”
“I don't pity them. I do feed off of them. I just haven't been hungry, and can't attract too much attention to myself. Mack is hungrier than I am.”
“I look younger than you, Damion! I was created as a man in his forties. You're starving yourself.”
Damion was on his feet in a moment and placed his shoes on the floor slowly, taking a moment to search for calm. “I'm feeding tonight as I've said.” He straightened, clinging to the thought of nonviolence, knowing the older, more powerful vampire could kill him in a moment. He barely glanced at the alarm clock as it began to beep, signaling the conquer of darkness. “Leave, Malachi. As much as I look forward to these meetings, I have to go on the hunt now, and I do so alone.” He motioned toward his bedroom door and followed Malachi to the front door, making sure he exited, watching his warped form through the stained glass windows guarding both sides of the door until he seemed to just disappear.
Fuming, he made sure Mack had finished his meal and put his shoes on as his faithful dog followed him around. “I'll be home soon, boy.” The dog just grinned at him, his head cocked to the side, his tail beating against the rug in an enthusiastic wag.
Damion could barely drum up a smile as he patted Mack's head before striding out of the house. It was time to feed.
