The Streets Ran With Blood
I
want it known before this tale begins – I am not a hero but a villain. I
want no sympathy from whomever reads this recalling of my story; no
mourning for the tragedy that befell my life. I am not an innocent man
but a sinner forced to face the ravaging demons and ghosts of his own
creation.
My story began as many do – a lie, a fire and murder.
One of my kind murdered the woman I loved in the coldest of blood in one
of history’s darkest times at the behest of a possessive noble.
After
a run in with him in Nottingham, I soon found myself fleeing for my
life from hunters, framed for a murder I had not committed.
Forgive me, I am getting ahead of myself.
Let me begin where this part of my story took place.
A
bloody civil war ravaged London followed shortly by the Great Fire in
1666. A glorious time for me and those like me to take advantage of the
chaos and remain hidden in the shadows.
I managed to pursue the
one responsible for nearly getting me killed two centuries prior to the
plague which befell London before the fire.
Within the shadows of
the flickering flames of St. Peter’s Cathedral, I struck him down and
departed the city, thus avoiding my demise.
I had yet to escape him, however, when his vengeful spirit devoured the souls of the innocent in a mad bloodlust.
Though
greatly injured, I managed to drive his spirit to my new home Raven
Hollow Manor in London, imprisoning him in stone coffin in the crypt
beneath it.
Peace resumed in my life and nobles of all kinds enjoyed lavishly hosted parties within the halls of my estate.
Unfortunately,
the short lived splendor at the hands of the hauntings filled the ears
of the locals and my beloved home decayed into a tangled web of
blood-filled rumors and superstition.
My once glorious halls
became infested with dust, its crystal chandeliers covered with cobwebs,
their spiders fat on the insects buzzing around the decay and
mold-covered wallpaper.
Yet, there I remained as it proved a decent place to not only contain my greatest sin but served also as a castle of solitude.
The
tides of time swept by in a cacophony of modernization and the movement
from superstition to things only mortal science could explain.
I still needed to venture into the city, not only to feed but also to purchase other items needed for everyday living.
It
wasn’t until the winter of 1910 that my silence would be disrupted in
the form of a girl named Holly, a young street urchin accused of theft. I
took her with me after using a bit of “persuasion” on the local
officers to let her go.
They did not need to know where I would
take her and she soon grew into a wonderful messenger on my behalf. She
became a rather attractive young woman with bouncy blonde curls who kept
me company with stories of what went on in the city.
I am sure,
at one time, she became infatuated with me. It did not surprise me. To
mortals, my kind held a certain allure they found difficult to ignore. I
ended her infatuation quickly following a stern talking to and dousing
with cold water.
One day, while in my labyrinthine garden, Holly came to me in tears.
When the people of London learned where Holly lived, the townsfolk dubbed her a practitioner of black magic.
One
day, I found Holly sitting on one of the marble benches in the garden,
sobbing. I picked a flower and put it in my daughter’s hair, sitting
next to her beneath the statue of a praying angel.
“You need not worry about them, dearest. Mortals are always quick to place labels on what they do not understand.”
Holly sniffled and sobbed, wiping her nose and offering me a smile. “But why do they avoid this place, Jonathan?”
“Mortals
fear what they cannot comprehend. Pay them no mind. You are a wonderful
young woman,” I purred, brushing a blonde curl from her face.
The words appeared to have placated her as she smiled and joined me in a moonlight stroll through the garden.
***
Around midnight, after dinner with Holly, I dismissed her to bed. Once she departed, I sought out sustenance in the city.
A dense fog rolled in due to the cool winter weather and the recent days of rain.
Combined
with the darkness of the streets and alleyways, I managed to meet a
young working woman on the corner and wooed her into joining me for a
walk to the park. As with other women, I made sure she understood I
respected her body with gentle caresses and loving words murmured into
her ears.
Once I placed her deep under my spell, I kissed the
tender flesh of the woman’s throat and exposed shoulder, thanking her
for her gift.
My fangs pierced her flesh, earning a moan of
pleasure as her body surrendered its precious life force without any
significant damage. Her body pressed against mine, her moans increasing
with pleasure at my kiss.
I preferred this method to those of many
of my other brethren who tore their victims apart during a feeding,
choosing power to subdue instead of sexual allure.
When signs of
weakness began manifesting I released my hold, picking her up after
licking the small puncture wounds, my saliva healing them, leaving no
marks or scars.
To assure she received care, I took her to the nearest hospital and deposited her on the steps without anyone noticing.
As always, I used hypnotic suggestion to erase her memory and leave her with a pleasant dream.
During
the wee hours of the morning, I tended to enjoy the calls of the birds
and the chirping of the crickets to help relieve the burden on my mind.
Not a soul roamed the streets near the bridge where I liked to sit and write poetry or read a book.
In the midst of the silence, a horrifying shriek caught my attention, almost startling me.
My
pupils narrowed to those one might see in a viper or a cat. I let my
body dissipate into the form of a black mist, hovering over the city in
search of the source of the scream.
I found it in the shape of the body of a mangled man.
The whites of his eyes consumed most of the portion of the glossy orbs in his skull, mouth gaped open mid-scream.
I
knelt before him, my own brows furrowed in frustration at the
recognition of the familiar puncture wounds on the man’s throat.
This cannot be. No other has hunted here in centuries.
The disturbing find made something clear.
Many
of my kind preferred not to hunt in one place occupied by another of
higher status, or in another’s territory for that matter. We changed due
to the growing number of human hunters who would kill any of us they
came across.
Despite the city’s size, my reputation often kept others out of my hunting grounds, for which I remained grateful.
This new kill had been malicious.
If I allowed such behavior to continue, it could draw the attention of the hunters or the local police to my home.
Whomever the responsible party, I needed to locate them and have a word with them or kill them if necessary.
My
eyes closed, a heavy sigh drawing up from within my lungs. I placed my
fingers over the man’s eyes, using a gentle touch to close them.
“Forgive whichever of us did this to you. You did not deserve to die in
such a horrific manner.”
Searching through the pockets of his
trench coat, I located his identification card and vowed to send some
money and roses to his family.
Sounds of sirens and the calls of
the corner watchmen announced the arrival of the authorities. I left
them the man’s wallet so they could inform his family of their loss.
I lurked in the shadows listening to the inspectors scrutinizing the scene.
“Bloody
mystery, it is. This is the second mangled body we found this week. One
has to wonder if we might be witnessing the birth of another blighter
of a serial killer.” One of the inspectors scratched his head beneath
the dome shaped hat.
I recognized him as Bertrand Abrams, a well-known officer and one of the only men who aided Holly during her visits to town.
From
his looks, one would expect him to hail from Scotland. A bushy mustache
and stringy hair with the consistency of sheep’s wool held the color of
fire. Dimples set into high cheekbones and a double chin made me smile.
A portly belly betrayed his affinity for too many scones and perhaps
Scotch.
He had been wrong. This death held no mystery. I merely
needed to find the one responsible before it resulted in too much of a
personal dilemma.
Following the release of the corpse to the medical examiner, I took the form of black mist and drifted back to Raven Hollow.
The beginnings of my night would be haunted by dreams of a past filled with love, vengeance and pain.
It would be filled with shining auburn locks and eyes the color of the fresh leaves of spring.
Wolf Rebel
Beneath London's Fog
Flamebringer
