Absolution.
A World Of Darkness Story By Jamie Thomas Durbin
Jonothan Hellesmere had no knowledge that, within the next ten minutes,
he was going to die. If he had known, it would perhaps have made life a lot
longer. But then, nobody seems to think about their death much, so he would
most probably have had no warning, even if it was there for him to see.
To tell us some more about Jonothan Hellesmere, we must first examine
what he had been doing previous to this fateful ten minutes. He had, to be
exactly precise, been out clubbing. He stood 5 foot 11, with short black hair,
piercing blue eyes, with an athletic figure. He was handsome, if you could
call his chiselled, somehow feminine looks handsome, or his thin, almost
slit-like lips. You could even call him well-dressed, if you were very much
into black satin shirts, leather jackets and jeans, engineers boots, and
shades. Unfortunately, nobody had called him handsome, or found his clothes
somehow compelling, so he walked home alone, an uncomfortable prospect in
Bradford in any case.
And so it was that death was to find him.
* * *
Jonothan could feel someone following him. He had an instinct for
that sort of thing, as he had spent most of his early life being hunted or
followed by one group of thugs or another. He could tell that the person
following him was trying to stay very quiet, something quite rare at this
time of night, when the drunken slobs decided to drag themselves out of their
sleazy booze joints or somehow gaudy bars. And that unnerved him immensely.
As such, he was greatly surprised to find the woman blocking his path.
She was quite beautiful, in a slight, almost elfin sort of way. She
had long brown hair, reaching down to her waist, and was wearing a long leather
trenchcoat, currently closed. Her almost angelic face showed no traces of
makeup, and her eyes were closed, as if communing silently with the lamplight
framing her slim form.
Naturally, he stopped. It wasn't every day you met a beautiful girl
on the streets of Bradford, and it wasn't every day you met one so obviously
a hooker, like this one. For, truth to tell, Jonothan Hellesmore had a strange
attraction towards hookers, and would often hire their services on a whim.
His instinct was to prove his undoing. When she opened her trenchcoat,
he could see nothing underneath, except the slim knee high leather boots she
wore. She was totally nude! His mind tried to comprehend it all, but his
drink fuddled mind added two and two together, coming up with Lust. He moved
forward, straight into her waiting arms. They kissed. A sharp pain on his
lower lip and a feeling of intense ecstasy was all the warning he had of his
impending doom. He welcome it, thrusting into her, his thrusts getting weaker
as everything faded to black...
* * *
*blood* It was all he could think of. Blood, feeding, hunger, blood,
feeding, hunger blood feeding hunger bloodfeedeatbloodfeedeatbloodfeedblood
feedbloodbloodbloodblood... His newly heightened senses, no more understood
than his desire to eat, to rend, to joy in blood and feeding, told him that
food was close by. It smelt good, a coppery tang in his nostrils and on his
tongue that meant satiation was close by. He then realised he was confined.
It was dark. It was claustrophobic. It was weak. With a raging outward thrust
of his arms, his prison was destroyed, and he stepped into the room. The
naked female form on the bed in no way resembled his predator of... how long
before? (rational thoughts began to intrude. He pushed them aside)
But she seemed good enough. She was thin, this one, but with a bust
to her. He lusted. He lusted more when he noticed her helplessness, her
exposure. Her taste. He tasted her, tasted the blood of her breast, fed, and
screwed as he fed, sating both his great hungers in one orgasmic feeding
frenzy. When he was done, he rolled onto the floor and slept.
In the shadows, his soon to be mentor smiled...
* * *
Awakening from a sleep, in which he had vague dreams of raping someone
and drinking their blood, Jonothan Hellesmere awoke to a nightmare. The lady
of last night stood by the closed window, a smile on her gore-covered lips.
As with last night, she stood clothed in only a leather coat and similar knee
high boots. And... Jonothan tried to look away, *wanted* to look away, but his
own inner lusts couldn't be denied.
He vomited, depositing ashen gobbets onto the floor as he convulsed
in a mixture of sheer nausea and horror at what he had done. The girl he had
dreamed of lay there. She wasn't as pretty as she had been last night. In
fact, she was damn near unrecognisable. Lacerations (from his nails?), bites
(from his teeth?!?), and broken limbs (his doing?!? oh, GOD!) made sure of
that. He looked back, back towards the window, towards his ex-mistress, and
now, he realised, his creator. She merely smiled, and nodded, as if this were
a particularly excellent piece of artwork he had perpetrated, not a brutal
sexual killing.
And then it hit him. He could hear the girl. Was she still alive? He
got to his feet, almost spasmodically, and cupped his ear to her bloodied
face. Was she really alive after... The realisation hit him, and he began to
scream...
She was in his fucking HEAD! She was begging him to stop, begging him
not to hurt her, please god, not to hurt her, not to do this anymore, begging
for an explanation, for an apology, for *something* to somehow make things
right, instead of like this... He screamed some more, and then howled, an
almost bestial cry of denial against the universe... She would be with him
forever, that begging girl, no no nonononononononononooooooo!
And, for the third time, he lapsed into unconciousness, the girl's
voice hounding him all the way...
* * *
It was the following night that he woke. He could tell it was night,
for the full moon was shining full through the window, bathing the nude
features of his serene creator, his angelic tormentor, his beatific torturer,
highlighting the brutal scene of his uncontrolled desires. Again, the voice
resounded in his head, no longer screaming for reprieve, instead plaintively
asking him why he had done this, why he had killed her so brutally, why he
had not simply left her, and found some other person to prey on? He could
find no answers, and, looking out towards the moon, he wept, his sobs carrying
across the room. The venus that created him, this nubile black widow, turned.
In her face remained her beatific smile, that look of communion, and he now
noticed the almost vacant look in her eyes, as if not really noticing the
world. Her smile broadened when she saw him weeping, and she beckoned to him.
The voice cried out for him to fear this person, this *creature* that
had tied her there, so that he would kill her, and not another. He scrabbled
backwards, pushing himself up against the wall, driven by his guilt and the
young woman's voice. The Dark Eve, as he decided to call her, merely moved
forward, her hand held, not in beckoning, but in offer. She said not a word.
And, despite the increasing protests of his victim's spirit (as he believed
it to be), he took her hand.
The scream of rage and loss reverberating in his head made him recoil,
clutching his temples as she railed at him, berating him for siding with her
captor, condemning him for his brutal rape and torture of her poor innocent
body. And still Dark Eve, seemingly mute, offered her hand toward her young
ward. He clung to it, and wept into her pale, smooth shoulder as he held her
close, driving away the demons for a while...
* * *
A short while afterward, Jonothan Hellesmere and Dark Eve left the
small building, Dark Eve beckoning, mute and angelic, Jonothan walking slowly,
as if fighting some inner battle. Through the streets they wended their way,
through alleyways and back streets previously unknown to the tortured and
bemused Hellesmere. A short while later, Dark Eve seemingly found what they
were looking for. He was not impressed. A ramshackle warehouse, seemingly, but
there was no light within, except for a small room on the top floor. Office,
he decided. Still beckoning, Dark Eve opened the door and entered.
The scene that greeted him was nothing short of breathtaking. In
between the rows upon rows of stacked crates, there lay small squares, in
which men and women, and... Jonothan shuddered, trying with all his will not
to look away... *things* were engaged in animated discussion. Using his new-
found ability, he attempted to listen in on conversations. What he heard
confused him. What were "kine"? What did they mean by "the mortal herd"? to
which "prince" were they referring in their hushed whispers? Jonothan, wisely,
decided to listen no more. And waited, with Dark Eve at his side.
A short while later (a seeming eternity, with this damn girl screaming
at me! thought Jonothan) a large, denim clad tough, holding what seemed to be
an oversized combat knife (easily. In one hand), purposefully strode up.
"Here to introduce the whelp?" Jonothan bristled, but kept his temper.
Why shouldn't he, when this man was easily a foot taller than him,
and twice as well-muscled?
Dark Eve simply nodded, then frowned at the thug. Putting one hand to
his temple, he nodded in return.
"Sure, sure, let's take the-" he almost sneered the word "-*childe* to
the Prince..." Again, Dark Eve frowned. The thug frowned in return,
shrugged, and went on his way.
Dark Eve beckoned, and he walked further, the voice in his head swearing
profusely at his casual stroll into damnation. He ignored it for a while. This
"prince" would come first, atonement would come later. He understood very
little of this flip side of the world he lived in, and very badly needed a
guide. Until then, he would remain subservient.
Their walk took them through many crowds of people (vampires?), most
of whom either made way or stared at them in passing, some making asides to
their friends, some snickering, some fearful. However, when they got to the
end of the warehouse floor, two heavies (almost identical to the first)
stepped together, neatly blocking the way to the stairs.
"Why isn't Louie with you?" Dark Eve frowned, and closed her eyes.
The guards frowned also (he assumed they were guards). They stepped aside.
Jonothan began to feel new respect towards this Dark Eve, perhaps wondering
how powerful she really was.
The rest of their journey was uninterrupted, although he could still
hear the occasional comment made about him or his guide, even through the
loud clanging his shoes and her boots made on the walkway. They soon came to
an oaken door. Again, Jonothan gaped. An oaken door? In a warehouse? Who the
hell is this "prince"?
He was soon to find out. The doors opened, seemingly by themselves,
and Dark Eve strode calmly in.
With rather more hesitation, Jonothan Hellesmere followed...
* * *
As with the outside of the Prince's chambers, Jonothan was totally
unprepared for the opulence that surrounded the richly clad figure in the
centre of the room. Masterful tapestries and pieces of artwork covered the
walls, and the floor was covered in deep carpet, that felt like clothen
grass as he walked, yet looked like the sea undulating gently. Candlebras
lit the room, yet left vast areas of shadow. Peering cautiously into the
shadows, Jonothan could make out several figures, both male and female,
all casually dressed. All, to Jonothan's eye, deadly. In returning his
gaze to the Prince, Jonothan was almost brought to his knees by the fear
he felt on gazing upon this diminutive, richly dressed figure. It was not,
Jonothan decided, the Prince's figure, for the man would barely have stood up
to Jonothan's shoulder. Nor, he decided, was it the open, smiling face. That,
if glanced at first, radiated friendship and warmth. It was the Prince's eyes,
filled with the animal hungers and lusts that somehow managed to communicate
themselves to Jonothan. Jonothan did kneel then, and the Prince smiled. His
voice, again, was filled with warmth, friendliness, kindness, yet held that
undercurrent of violence and bloodlust and hatred.
"Your little one has learnt respect for his elders early, it would
seem, Angelique." Angelique. How bitterly amusing! thought Jonothan.
Angelique (he preferred Dark Eve), merely nodded, smile still fixed
on her pretty face. The Prince leaned further back in his chair, smiling back.
He turned his face to Jonothan.
"And how do you intend to repay Angelique's courtesy in introducing
you to immortality?" courtesy? immortality? an eternity of screams, and threats,
and bitter pleadings? Jonothan could say nothing, yet... yet he knew his life
depended on it, somehow... A feeling...
He looked up at Dark Eve (angelique! he told himself angrily...).
She merely smiled wider. Jonothan gulped inaudibly.
"I... I intend to serve her, until such a time as she has taught me
all I need to know, and then I shall not disappoint her as a student, living
her teachings well." The words rankled to Jonothan, a normally dominant man,
but, as before, the feeling that his life depended on subservience (angelique's
thoughts, not his? he didn't know.) impressed itself on his mind (angelique's.
He attempted to send gratefulness in return. The voice in his head drowned it
out in it's screams.)
He waited.
Angelique waited.
The figures, previously hiding in the shadows, began to step forward.
The Prince gestured. They stopped, retreated slowly. He smiled.
"Welcome to the Nightlife, Mr. Hellesmere." he paused, savouring the
waves of relief from Jonothan's mind, then pounced "Don't disappoint her." the
aura of threat again began to gather. "And don't disappoint me either." The
forms again slank forward, halting at the edge of the shadows "My power is
wide, and my justice is swift."
"Yes, my Prince." Then, with a casual nod, the Prince revolved his
chair to face the window. It appeared that they were dismissed.
* * *
Trying to put together his thoughts, desperately attempting to make
sense of this new life, Dark Eve and Jonothan Hellesmere walked, calmly,
almost serenely through the streets, having passed by the University,
seemingly heading towards the red light district. However, the calm, like
the quiet of the night, was an illusion to Jonothan, who did his utmost best
to think, to appear normal, while the voice in his head screamed its own
brand of fire and brimstone at him, still berating him, hating him for the
dark alliances he had been forced to make. He tried to tell it that he had
been forced into this, first by Dark Eve's (angelique's!) predations, then
by circumstances of excessive need. The voice screamed him down.
As they both walked, they paid no attention to their surroundings.
This was a time for gathering of thoughts (well, as best as possible when you
have a dead girl screaming at you, thought Jonothan) and for enjoyment of each
other's company (as best as possible when you both lust after and despise your
companion...). As such, they strolled, the Dark Eve and the damned one, both
blissfully unaware of the trailing shadows...
The first warning Jonothan had were the whoops of destructive joy,
and a sharp blow to the small of his back. He fell to his knees, then leapt
to the side, watching the baseball bat snap in two on the pavement as he
dodged. *My god* he thought *That could have been my spine!*. The voice, as
he would have expected it to, simply screamed now. Jonothan Hellesmere, with
nothing more on his mind but survival, told it to shut up. He was extremely
gratified when it did. Now he could see. And plan.
There were three of them, presumably vampires, if the strength of the
leader (still holding his baseball bat's tattered handle) was anything to go
by. Had the Prince decided to kill them after all? He put that thought to the
back of his mind for the moment, and concentrated. The leader seemed the worst,
but if the other two were vampires, he would not know. Dark Eve lay on the
floor, with a long gash on the back of her neck. For all he knew, she was
dead. They would pay for that. Or rather, they would if he had a weapon.
Looking again at Angelique, he noticed the small knife she had been
about to draw, perhaps sensing something was wrong. He leapt for it, then
screamed with pain as a heavily booted foot almost crushed his hand. Using
new reserves of toughness and strength he had not found before, he twisted
and kicked his aggressor in the groin. Predictably, the boot came off his hand,
and the thug's head came down. To meet Jonothan's knife coming the other way.
The thug barely had time to register this before he collapsed, an
almost *annoyed* expression on his face. Jonothan turned his attention to
the other two. And saw the knife hurtling towards him. Again, he instinctively
dodged, and the knife imbedded itself in a door behind him. He yanked it out.
Now he had two weapons. But how many did the enemy have, and how many of those
were mundane? He fought bravely, blocking blows, cutting off one attacker's
hand, slicing open the other's throat, but he was then shocked by someone
grasping him from behind. He twisted, trying to see his attacker. He screamed,
then, and didn't begrudge the voice in his head screaming along.
The shadows were holding him fast! No, it couldn't be, it just couldn't!
But it was, and Jonothan Hellesmere was helpless. And all *three* of the thugs
had survived the assault. In fact, the leader and the one with the cut throat
no longer had wounds! Jonothan blanched, and, unable to attack, he waited for
death... And witnessed a maelstrom. For angelique, recovered from her wounds,
now moved expertly among his attackers, cutting one here, winding another,
always keeping two disabled so she could deal with the third. One lost his
head, then another... The shadows binding Jonothan disappeared, with good
timing. Angelique was fighting the third, and it seemed unbalanced, for
Angelique was slowly being forced back, back against the wall...
With a scream of unadulterated rage, Jonothan Hellesmere leapt onto
her attacker (the leader, although in his bloodlust, he had no way of knowing)
and did the only thing he felt he could do. He sank his fangs into his neck.
Again, that ectsasy, made purer by the fact that the girl's voice, the voice
in his head, was urging him on, quieter and quieter now, almost faint, now
gone, leaving happily... As he fed, and his opponent grew weaker, Angelique
struck. Jonothan did not care, lost in the frenzy of feeding. He did not
care that she had ripped out his heart, having plunged her hands into his chest.
He did not care that she feasted on it even now, drinking the rapidly cooling
blood, and he did not care that his feeding would soon be over. He did not
even care about his new strength.
He had found absolution.
A World Of Darkness Story By Jamie Thomas Durbin
Jonothan Hellesmere had no knowledge that, within the next ten minutes,
he was going to die. If he had known, it would perhaps have made life a lot
longer. But then, nobody seems to think about their death much, so he would
most probably have had no warning, even if it was there for him to see.
To tell us some more about Jonothan Hellesmere, we must first examine
what he had been doing previous to this fateful ten minutes. He had, to be
exactly precise, been out clubbing. He stood 5 foot 11, with short black hair,
piercing blue eyes, with an athletic figure. He was handsome, if you could
call his chiselled, somehow feminine looks handsome, or his thin, almost
slit-like lips. You could even call him well-dressed, if you were very much
into black satin shirts, leather jackets and jeans, engineers boots, and
shades. Unfortunately, nobody had called him handsome, or found his clothes
somehow compelling, so he walked home alone, an uncomfortable prospect in
Bradford in any case.
And so it was that death was to find him.
* * *
Jonothan could feel someone following him. He had an instinct for
that sort of thing, as he had spent most of his early life being hunted or
followed by one group of thugs or another. He could tell that the person
following him was trying to stay very quiet, something quite rare at this
time of night, when the drunken slobs decided to drag themselves out of their
sleazy booze joints or somehow gaudy bars. And that unnerved him immensely.
As such, he was greatly surprised to find the woman blocking his path.
She was quite beautiful, in a slight, almost elfin sort of way. She
had long brown hair, reaching down to her waist, and was wearing a long leather
trenchcoat, currently closed. Her almost angelic face showed no traces of
makeup, and her eyes were closed, as if communing silently with the lamplight
framing her slim form.
Naturally, he stopped. It wasn't every day you met a beautiful girl
on the streets of Bradford, and it wasn't every day you met one so obviously
a hooker, like this one. For, truth to tell, Jonothan Hellesmore had a strange
attraction towards hookers, and would often hire their services on a whim.
His instinct was to prove his undoing. When she opened her trenchcoat,
he could see nothing underneath, except the slim knee high leather boots she
wore. She was totally nude! His mind tried to comprehend it all, but his
drink fuddled mind added two and two together, coming up with Lust. He moved
forward, straight into her waiting arms. They kissed. A sharp pain on his
lower lip and a feeling of intense ecstasy was all the warning he had of his
impending doom. He welcome it, thrusting into her, his thrusts getting weaker
as everything faded to black...
* * *
*blood* It was all he could think of. Blood, feeding, hunger, blood,
feeding, hunger blood feeding hunger bloodfeedeatbloodfeedeatbloodfeedblood
feedbloodbloodbloodblood... His newly heightened senses, no more understood
than his desire to eat, to rend, to joy in blood and feeding, told him that
food was close by. It smelt good, a coppery tang in his nostrils and on his
tongue that meant satiation was close by. He then realised he was confined.
It was dark. It was claustrophobic. It was weak. With a raging outward thrust
of his arms, his prison was destroyed, and he stepped into the room. The
naked female form on the bed in no way resembled his predator of... how long
before? (rational thoughts began to intrude. He pushed them aside)
But she seemed good enough. She was thin, this one, but with a bust
to her. He lusted. He lusted more when he noticed her helplessness, her
exposure. Her taste. He tasted her, tasted the blood of her breast, fed, and
screwed as he fed, sating both his great hungers in one orgasmic feeding
frenzy. When he was done, he rolled onto the floor and slept.
In the shadows, his soon to be mentor smiled...
* * *
Awakening from a sleep, in which he had vague dreams of raping someone
and drinking their blood, Jonothan Hellesmere awoke to a nightmare. The lady
of last night stood by the closed window, a smile on her gore-covered lips.
As with last night, she stood clothed in only a leather coat and similar knee
high boots. And... Jonothan tried to look away, *wanted* to look away, but his
own inner lusts couldn't be denied.
He vomited, depositing ashen gobbets onto the floor as he convulsed
in a mixture of sheer nausea and horror at what he had done. The girl he had
dreamed of lay there. She wasn't as pretty as she had been last night. In
fact, she was damn near unrecognisable. Lacerations (from his nails?), bites
(from his teeth?!?), and broken limbs (his doing?!? oh, GOD!) made sure of
that. He looked back, back towards the window, towards his ex-mistress, and
now, he realised, his creator. She merely smiled, and nodded, as if this were
a particularly excellent piece of artwork he had perpetrated, not a brutal
sexual killing.
And then it hit him. He could hear the girl. Was she still alive? He
got to his feet, almost spasmodically, and cupped his ear to her bloodied
face. Was she really alive after... The realisation hit him, and he began to
scream...
She was in his fucking HEAD! She was begging him to stop, begging him
not to hurt her, please god, not to hurt her, not to do this anymore, begging
for an explanation, for an apology, for *something* to somehow make things
right, instead of like this... He screamed some more, and then howled, an
almost bestial cry of denial against the universe... She would be with him
forever, that begging girl, no no nonononononononononooooooo!
And, for the third time, he lapsed into unconciousness, the girl's
voice hounding him all the way...
* * *
It was the following night that he woke. He could tell it was night,
for the full moon was shining full through the window, bathing the nude
features of his serene creator, his angelic tormentor, his beatific torturer,
highlighting the brutal scene of his uncontrolled desires. Again, the voice
resounded in his head, no longer screaming for reprieve, instead plaintively
asking him why he had done this, why he had killed her so brutally, why he
had not simply left her, and found some other person to prey on? He could
find no answers, and, looking out towards the moon, he wept, his sobs carrying
across the room. The venus that created him, this nubile black widow, turned.
In her face remained her beatific smile, that look of communion, and he now
noticed the almost vacant look in her eyes, as if not really noticing the
world. Her smile broadened when she saw him weeping, and she beckoned to him.
The voice cried out for him to fear this person, this *creature* that
had tied her there, so that he would kill her, and not another. He scrabbled
backwards, pushing himself up against the wall, driven by his guilt and the
young woman's voice. The Dark Eve, as he decided to call her, merely moved
forward, her hand held, not in beckoning, but in offer. She said not a word.
And, despite the increasing protests of his victim's spirit (as he believed
it to be), he took her hand.
The scream of rage and loss reverberating in his head made him recoil,
clutching his temples as she railed at him, berating him for siding with her
captor, condemning him for his brutal rape and torture of her poor innocent
body. And still Dark Eve, seemingly mute, offered her hand toward her young
ward. He clung to it, and wept into her pale, smooth shoulder as he held her
close, driving away the demons for a while...
* * *
A short while afterward, Jonothan Hellesmere and Dark Eve left the
small building, Dark Eve beckoning, mute and angelic, Jonothan walking slowly,
as if fighting some inner battle. Through the streets they wended their way,
through alleyways and back streets previously unknown to the tortured and
bemused Hellesmere. A short while later, Dark Eve seemingly found what they
were looking for. He was not impressed. A ramshackle warehouse, seemingly, but
there was no light within, except for a small room on the top floor. Office,
he decided. Still beckoning, Dark Eve opened the door and entered.
The scene that greeted him was nothing short of breathtaking. In
between the rows upon rows of stacked crates, there lay small squares, in
which men and women, and... Jonothan shuddered, trying with all his will not
to look away... *things* were engaged in animated discussion. Using his new-
found ability, he attempted to listen in on conversations. What he heard
confused him. What were "kine"? What did they mean by "the mortal herd"? to
which "prince" were they referring in their hushed whispers? Jonothan, wisely,
decided to listen no more. And waited, with Dark Eve at his side.
A short while later (a seeming eternity, with this damn girl screaming
at me! thought Jonothan) a large, denim clad tough, holding what seemed to be
an oversized combat knife (easily. In one hand), purposefully strode up.
"Here to introduce the whelp?" Jonothan bristled, but kept his temper.
Why shouldn't he, when this man was easily a foot taller than him,
and twice as well-muscled?
Dark Eve simply nodded, then frowned at the thug. Putting one hand to
his temple, he nodded in return.
"Sure, sure, let's take the-" he almost sneered the word "-*childe* to
the Prince..." Again, Dark Eve frowned. The thug frowned in return,
shrugged, and went on his way.
Dark Eve beckoned, and he walked further, the voice in his head swearing
profusely at his casual stroll into damnation. He ignored it for a while. This
"prince" would come first, atonement would come later. He understood very
little of this flip side of the world he lived in, and very badly needed a
guide. Until then, he would remain subservient.
Their walk took them through many crowds of people (vampires?), most
of whom either made way or stared at them in passing, some making asides to
their friends, some snickering, some fearful. However, when they got to the
end of the warehouse floor, two heavies (almost identical to the first)
stepped together, neatly blocking the way to the stairs.
"Why isn't Louie with you?" Dark Eve frowned, and closed her eyes.
The guards frowned also (he assumed they were guards). They stepped aside.
Jonothan began to feel new respect towards this Dark Eve, perhaps wondering
how powerful she really was.
The rest of their journey was uninterrupted, although he could still
hear the occasional comment made about him or his guide, even through the
loud clanging his shoes and her boots made on the walkway. They soon came to
an oaken door. Again, Jonothan gaped. An oaken door? In a warehouse? Who the
hell is this "prince"?
He was soon to find out. The doors opened, seemingly by themselves,
and Dark Eve strode calmly in.
With rather more hesitation, Jonothan Hellesmere followed...
* * *
As with the outside of the Prince's chambers, Jonothan was totally
unprepared for the opulence that surrounded the richly clad figure in the
centre of the room. Masterful tapestries and pieces of artwork covered the
walls, and the floor was covered in deep carpet, that felt like clothen
grass as he walked, yet looked like the sea undulating gently. Candlebras
lit the room, yet left vast areas of shadow. Peering cautiously into the
shadows, Jonothan could make out several figures, both male and female,
all casually dressed. All, to Jonothan's eye, deadly. In returning his
gaze to the Prince, Jonothan was almost brought to his knees by the fear
he felt on gazing upon this diminutive, richly dressed figure. It was not,
Jonothan decided, the Prince's figure, for the man would barely have stood up
to Jonothan's shoulder. Nor, he decided, was it the open, smiling face. That,
if glanced at first, radiated friendship and warmth. It was the Prince's eyes,
filled with the animal hungers and lusts that somehow managed to communicate
themselves to Jonothan. Jonothan did kneel then, and the Prince smiled. His
voice, again, was filled with warmth, friendliness, kindness, yet held that
undercurrent of violence and bloodlust and hatred.
"Your little one has learnt respect for his elders early, it would
seem, Angelique." Angelique. How bitterly amusing! thought Jonothan.
Angelique (he preferred Dark Eve), merely nodded, smile still fixed
on her pretty face. The Prince leaned further back in his chair, smiling back.
He turned his face to Jonothan.
"And how do you intend to repay Angelique's courtesy in introducing
you to immortality?" courtesy? immortality? an eternity of screams, and threats,
and bitter pleadings? Jonothan could say nothing, yet... yet he knew his life
depended on it, somehow... A feeling...
He looked up at Dark Eve (angelique! he told himself angrily...).
She merely smiled wider. Jonothan gulped inaudibly.
"I... I intend to serve her, until such a time as she has taught me
all I need to know, and then I shall not disappoint her as a student, living
her teachings well." The words rankled to Jonothan, a normally dominant man,
but, as before, the feeling that his life depended on subservience (angelique's
thoughts, not his? he didn't know.) impressed itself on his mind (angelique's.
He attempted to send gratefulness in return. The voice in his head drowned it
out in it's screams.)
He waited.
Angelique waited.
The figures, previously hiding in the shadows, began to step forward.
The Prince gestured. They stopped, retreated slowly. He smiled.
"Welcome to the Nightlife, Mr. Hellesmere." he paused, savouring the
waves of relief from Jonothan's mind, then pounced "Don't disappoint her." the
aura of threat again began to gather. "And don't disappoint me either." The
forms again slank forward, halting at the edge of the shadows "My power is
wide, and my justice is swift."
"Yes, my Prince." Then, with a casual nod, the Prince revolved his
chair to face the window. It appeared that they were dismissed.
* * *
Trying to put together his thoughts, desperately attempting to make
sense of this new life, Dark Eve and Jonothan Hellesmere walked, calmly,
almost serenely through the streets, having passed by the University,
seemingly heading towards the red light district. However, the calm, like
the quiet of the night, was an illusion to Jonothan, who did his utmost best
to think, to appear normal, while the voice in his head screamed its own
brand of fire and brimstone at him, still berating him, hating him for the
dark alliances he had been forced to make. He tried to tell it that he had
been forced into this, first by Dark Eve's (angelique's!) predations, then
by circumstances of excessive need. The voice screamed him down.
As they both walked, they paid no attention to their surroundings.
This was a time for gathering of thoughts (well, as best as possible when you
have a dead girl screaming at you, thought Jonothan) and for enjoyment of each
other's company (as best as possible when you both lust after and despise your
companion...). As such, they strolled, the Dark Eve and the damned one, both
blissfully unaware of the trailing shadows...
The first warning Jonothan had were the whoops of destructive joy,
and a sharp blow to the small of his back. He fell to his knees, then leapt
to the side, watching the baseball bat snap in two on the pavement as he
dodged. *My god* he thought *That could have been my spine!*. The voice, as
he would have expected it to, simply screamed now. Jonothan Hellesmere, with
nothing more on his mind but survival, told it to shut up. He was extremely
gratified when it did. Now he could see. And plan.
There were three of them, presumably vampires, if the strength of the
leader (still holding his baseball bat's tattered handle) was anything to go
by. Had the Prince decided to kill them after all? He put that thought to the
back of his mind for the moment, and concentrated. The leader seemed the worst,
but if the other two were vampires, he would not know. Dark Eve lay on the
floor, with a long gash on the back of her neck. For all he knew, she was
dead. They would pay for that. Or rather, they would if he had a weapon.
Looking again at Angelique, he noticed the small knife she had been
about to draw, perhaps sensing something was wrong. He leapt for it, then
screamed with pain as a heavily booted foot almost crushed his hand. Using
new reserves of toughness and strength he had not found before, he twisted
and kicked his aggressor in the groin. Predictably, the boot came off his hand,
and the thug's head came down. To meet Jonothan's knife coming the other way.
The thug barely had time to register this before he collapsed, an
almost *annoyed* expression on his face. Jonothan turned his attention to
the other two. And saw the knife hurtling towards him. Again, he instinctively
dodged, and the knife imbedded itself in a door behind him. He yanked it out.
Now he had two weapons. But how many did the enemy have, and how many of those
were mundane? He fought bravely, blocking blows, cutting off one attacker's
hand, slicing open the other's throat, but he was then shocked by someone
grasping him from behind. He twisted, trying to see his attacker. He screamed,
then, and didn't begrudge the voice in his head screaming along.
The shadows were holding him fast! No, it couldn't be, it just couldn't!
But it was, and Jonothan Hellesmere was helpless. And all *three* of the thugs
had survived the assault. In fact, the leader and the one with the cut throat
no longer had wounds! Jonothan blanched, and, unable to attack, he waited for
death... And witnessed a maelstrom. For angelique, recovered from her wounds,
now moved expertly among his attackers, cutting one here, winding another,
always keeping two disabled so she could deal with the third. One lost his
head, then another... The shadows binding Jonothan disappeared, with good
timing. Angelique was fighting the third, and it seemed unbalanced, for
Angelique was slowly being forced back, back against the wall...
With a scream of unadulterated rage, Jonothan Hellesmere leapt onto
her attacker (the leader, although in his bloodlust, he had no way of knowing)
and did the only thing he felt he could do. He sank his fangs into his neck.
Again, that ectsasy, made purer by the fact that the girl's voice, the voice
in his head, was urging him on, quieter and quieter now, almost faint, now
gone, leaving happily... As he fed, and his opponent grew weaker, Angelique
struck. Jonothan did not care, lost in the frenzy of feeding. He did not
care that she had ripped out his heart, having plunged her hands into his chest.
He did not care that she feasted on it even now, drinking the rapidly cooling
blood, and he did not care that his feeding would soon be over. He did not
even care about his new strength.
He had found absolution.