There's a certain way of telling when a lady is in the house; you can sense it, practically smell it from the carriageway. All the more potent for the fact that there hasn't been a female on the estate since my Wife was killed. I vaguely recall a night, many years ago now, a crimson night. The blood from her throat had trickled between her breasts, like a luscious ravine. Rivulets of scarlet nectar trickled from the icy flesh, to my eager tongue. She had always tasted wonderful, even without the metallic sweetness. Ah but that was a long time ago. I truly believe I am too old to find another wife. Then came Gwen Conliffe, and what a sight she was the day my boy presented his fiancée to me. I remember it clearly, the sapphire blue dress and the deathly pale complexion, just like Solana's on that glorious evening. She looked half frightened to death by the very sight of me. Damn it all if I wasn't going to have her! Little does she know that I have her crypt all planned out beside my beloved Wife's. Her addition to the shrine will be truly magnificent.
Her scent drifts down the dark hallways at night, always at night, while the silent moon watches and waits until I can claim what should be mine. I must be grateful, I suppose, that she chose Ben instead of Lawrence. I'd have hated to cut my line short, but Ben will never take after me. I'm glad it's him. I Should be unhappy that one of them must go at all, but he keeps me from what I desire. The beast simply won't allow it any longer. Every few nights he plagues my dreams with images of her, drowning in her own blood and begging me to save her but when I extend my hand she transforms and the wolf drags me below into the suffocating blackness. I awaken in a cold sweat, screaming my lungs out and so highly aroused my groin aches. I never touched myself as a young man, before I was married, but the first time I woke in this state I was so desperate for some kind of relief I took myself in hand and tried to imagine the silk of her skin and the blue-tint above her veins. After several minutes of what felt like heaven, I stopped, resolved to resist the perverse urges the wolf brought upon me. Perhaps it was unwise to taunt the beast. The next night, the ache was so strong I could do nothing but pant and whine as the wolf viciously gripped me, and wrenched with all his might. When he eventually forced me to climax with a snarl of satisfaction, I rolled over and sobbed like a child into my pillows, weeping out the blinding pain. The next day my manhood throbbed, and I did my very best to suppress the growling in my throat whenever she passed by me, all pulsing veins and temptation. The full moon was rising. How sweet would she taste after the bitterness of my offspring? Through the haze of brandy, whiskey and the contents of my bedroom wine rack I remember his bitter after-taste.
A wise man once said that good things come to those who wait. So I waited. I waited and waited, waited until her tears had dried up and she could cry no more, grieving for my son. I grieved too, in my own way, and my abstinence from self-gratification was punished again most severely. Another savage release granted, followed by a day of wincing and whining. How pathetic and foolish I was to fight it time and again, but all good things to those who wait. Alas, I waited too long and she returned from London with my son in tow, my heir and ultimately my destruction. Once I baptised him in the name of the wolf, his arousal in her presence almost rivalled my own, and I could never be sure whose pheromones were clouding up the dining room. Still, I had to give his restraint it's due credit. He never touched what was mine. Oh he wanted to, and oh how the beast tortured him too. Our strangled cries in the empty nights became indistinguishable.