Every Last Drop

Darkness is my lover, solitude my creed

I will hold you down forever

Love you until you bleed

I was born in 1339, in a small village outside of the town of Modicia in northern Italy. In 1351, my village and many of those surrounding it were wiped out by the spread of plague. For some reason, I did not become infected by the disease and I fled, north and east across the mountains, until I came to Slovakia in my eighteenth year.

It was there I met the vampire who made me. He was already ancient and ready to die, the world was changing too fast for him and the spread of plague across Europe with its attendant persecutions and superstitions had made survival difficult for those of our kind.

The world was very different then. Magic and monsters were still a reality for the population, particularly in the harsher regions. It was a world where survival for anyone, human or monster, was hard, a world where kill or be killed was still the underlying foundations for most.

I made my way west slowly, hunting through the nights and sleeping in graveyards through the day. For many, many years, graveyards, those that held the tombs of the aristocracy and the rich, were simply the safest sanctuary. They were unlikely to be disturbed by people, especially in times of disease when none knew what might bring pestilence down on their loved ones, and people stayed far from the things and places of Death.

I reached Paris in 1413, just a few months after the Cabochien Revolt. I hunted there for a long time, Paris was a wonderful city for vampires in those days. But times changed as they do. London was a rich and fecund hunting ground until the fire of 1666, which killed almost all the vampires living in the city at the time and drove the rest of us out into the countryside, where survival became a much more exacting challenge. It is hard to imagine now, but many of the great towns and cities of England were really just villages in those days. And the plague had returned. I lived on the blood of animals, rats, and the small creatures of the fields and woods. But I did survive.

In 1745 I travelled to the New World. And so I came to the south, to the warm and teeming streets of New Orleans where the distinctions of class and wealth made the city a delightful haven, for few noticed the disappearances of the poor, and the nouveau riche were there in droves, making fortunes in tobacco and piracy, losing fortunes in the gambling halls, and one more well-dressed and coifed lady around the tables was not remarked upon.

New Orleans, 2007

The club was jumping, even by the very high standards of this marvellous town, and I walked among the young and old, the rich and poor like a dark queen among her subjects. Not since the '80's has the club scene been quite so debauched, quite so full of people trying to live out their fantasies no matter what the cost, financially, emotionally, physically. I love the swing in fashions and behaviour, especially when the pendulum moves to the outrageous extreme, it's so much easier for me.

I was sitting at the bar, drinking a deliciously aged French brandy and idly surveying the pickings of the night, when the two men entered, both young, both tall although the younger of the two was several inches taller than the other. Both exuded that animal magnetism that is a combination of pleasing features and strong bodies, confidence and competence. They wove their way through the heaving, sweating mob that filled the floor and found themselves places at the other end of the long glass and timber bar.

Kiki, the bartender, almost ran over to them, so eager was she to attract their attention. I've never understood that particular change in female behaviour, throwing away the game of seduction for a brazen and clumsy approach, evoking no mystery or intrigue, no charm or delicately barbed hook to catch the heart.

The taller man ducked his head at her open flirtation, but the dark-haired man looked at her with bold interest, and I immediately felt my own interest piqued. Shyness is a lovely quality in fawns and rabbits and young maidens, but in men, I prefer the bold, the ones who see what they want and are not afraid to go after it, for those who would share my bed and feed me as long as their strength holds out.

The music changed and I stood, walking to the dance floor as the sensuous song began to play, twisting and moving with the beat of the music that could be felt in the blood. I always danced alone, though several attempted to dance with me, but the dance is a show, the first delicate precursor to a much more intimate relationship, and I've always been very particular about my intimate relationships.

I could feel their eyes on me, the men whose imaginations were so stifled by the excess of visible flesh and the conventions that forbade them to touch it, the women who wanted to be able to be both harlots and ladies at the same time, forgetting the inherent impossibilities of such things. One barely had to do anything to capture their attention, to inflame desire and push cautionary thought far from their drunken, dreaming minds.

When the song ended I slipped from the floor, and returned to my brandy. I was not surprised by the appearance of several men, young and older, minutes later but I wasn't interested in them. The dance had been just for one, and I was careful not to look at him, sipping my drink and passing the time in casual conversation with Kiki. When I saw her face change, the bovinely cheerful expression dissolving into a bad-tempered pout, I was delightfully unsurprised that my strategy had been successful.

"Hey." He stood behind my shoulder, and I looked at his face in the mirror behind the bar, meeting his eyes through the looking-glass, as they say.

I turned to him, smiling slowly, looking into deep green eyes. "Hi."

A ridiculously inadequate word to use at one's first meeting with someone but unfortunately, when in Rome …

"That was quite a dance." He slid onto the barstool next to me, his knee precisely an inch from mine.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." I lowered my voice, making the words intimate, my eyes as bold and interested as his. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, to cover the hitch in his chest as he forgot to take another breath.

"I did." He turned to the bar and picked up his drink, swallowing a mouthful, his eyes never leaving mine. "Do you come here often?"

I couldn't hold back the laughter which bubbled up at the banality of the words. "Of all the things that you want to ask me, that's what you're choosing?"

For a moment he was confused, torn between two paths – the common and unimaginative path, comprising of such lines as the one he'd used, where conversation is treated like a strange ritual neither party truly understands. Or a wilder, freer path where he might say the things that he wants, ask questions that burn for answers, be honest and accept that while it might upset or offend some it would never be boring. I watched him, my lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

He swallowed and leaned closer to me. "All right. Would you like to go someplace … more private … with me?"

My smile widened as I saw him holding his breath as he waited for my answer. To the young everything is so fraught with meaning and desire. I leaned very close to him, looking into his eyes, lifting my hand and letting a fingertip trail down his cheek and smooth over his lower lip. I heard his heart beat begin to race, pumping the blood through his veins faster. His eyes widened and I slid my cheek along his, whispering into his ear.

"I would love to go someplace more private with you."

I moved back slowly, settling myself back onto the seat and picking up my glass. "I'd like to finish my drink, first."

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed a couple of times. "I, uh … that's my brother down there," he gestured to the other end of the bar. "I just need to let him know."

He walked to the end of the bar, and leaned close to his brother.

"Major score, dude. I'll see you in the morning."

His brother, the taller, but younger of the two, turned to look at him, "We're supposed to be working here, remember? Victims drained of blood? Vampires? Any of this ringing any bells, Dean?"

"Come on, Sam, what have we found so far? Just one night?" He turned to look back at me. "Look at her, man – she's so hot!"

I kept my attention on my glass, for how could I possibly hear their conversation from the other end of the bar in a club where the music was playing so loudly? It was interesting that they were hunting vampires. Ironic, even. Two vampires had come to the city recently, I hadn't shown myself to them, but I'd seen them. To another vampire, a vampire stands out as if bathed in light. They must have been particularly careless with their kills if they'd already brought hunters to the city.

The younger man sighed. "Yeah. I'll see you in the morning."

It was, I inferred from the resigned tone of his voice, a not unusual request and capitulation.

When he returned to me, I looked up and smiled into his eyes. He smiled back and I could hear his heart rate increasing again, not a lot, just enough to let me know that he would do anything I suggested. I took his hand and drew it around my waist, and he walked close by my side as we left the club.

The night air was warm and soft, that particular air of New Orleans that held enough moisture to feel like silk on the skin, without being oppressive or debilitating. I led him down the cobbled streets, and across the Square, and we passed under the great trees into deepening darkness, the scent of the river carried to us on a soft breeze. My lodgings were in an old house on Dumaine Street, and I heard his breath quicken behind me as I unlocked the door, taking his hand and drawing him inside.

The four rooms were spacious and elegant, and I turned on only a single lamp when we entered, the soft golden glow hiding the peeling paint and threadbare carpets, giving a romantic glow to the deep French polish on the dark furniture. I closed the door behind us, turning the locks.

He was looking around the room, in the way that people do when they don't quite know what's supposed to happen next. I walked to him and slid my hands up his chest, under the shoulders of his jacket, pushing it off. He looked down at me, an uncertain smile playing on his lips, as he straightened his arms and let the jacket fall to the floor behind him.

Taking his hands in mine, I backed slowly across the room, drawing him through the open glass-paned doors that led into the bedroom. He was watching my face until we entered, his gaze lifting as he looked around the simple room. The bed had been here since the house had first been built, a massive four-poster that was curtained with mosquito cloth and fine silk drapes at each corner. From the lift of his brows, I understood that he hadn't encountered such a bed before.

His lips parted and I pressed a finger against them before he could comment. He was nervous, I could smell the slight tang in his scent and people who are nervous tend to talk. There was no need for talk now. I reached back and unzipped the back of the simple black gown I wore, letting it fall to my feet in a soft puddle of dark fabric. The simple act reclaimed his attention, his breath whistling breathily out as his gaze travelled down the length of my body, and when I drew his head down to my lips there was no resistance.

A vampire is, at one and the same time, dead yet immortal. The cells in our bodies are petrified at the moment of our turning, giving us our immortality. We have no heartbeat, no need to breathe in and out, no sweat comes from our pores, or tears from our eyes. Yet we can still feel, can still desire – if we have fed. I had fed two days ago, a lovely young woman who'd thought that sexual experimentation would be fun. It was – for me. Her body lay in the mud on the other side of the river, hidden by reeds and picked over by the birds and animals that lived there.

So when his lips touched mine, I could feel them, their softness and mobility. His hands touched my skin, lightly at first, then with more confidence as I put my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and again, the thunder of his heart filled my ears, and his touch was pleasurable, awakening desire.

I pushed him back, onto the bed, and fell with him, my lips tasting the soft skin of his throat for the first time. His pulse beat strongly in the great artery there and I closed my eyes, shutting out the almost overwhelming ache to feed on him now. I leaned back, removing my underclothes, watching his eyes as they lingered on fullness of my breasts, the nipples a deep rose and erect, the inward curve of waist, and outward curve of hip, and his fingers fumbled with the fastenings of his own clothes, almost tearing them loose in the fever of his need.

Skin against skin. A delicious torment to the living or dead. Touch and taste and smell, sight and hearing almost forgotten, although they do add to the rising heat, the shiver of hearing another's groan of pleasure, the frisson of looking into another's eyes and seeing their arousal there. His body was hard, the muscle defined and powerful over the bones. I took my time, tasting him and stroking him, and delighted in the trembling of his flesh, the moans that escaped him as he sank deeper into the helplessness of exquisite pleasure. His eyes were unfocussed, his breathing rapid and shallow, and he made no attempt to resist the cords of silk that I looped around his wrists and ankles, even when they were drawn tight.

The human body, in a state of sexual arousal, fills the tissues with blood. The heart pumps faster, the lungs inflate and deflate faster and deeper and the blood in the circulatory system is rich and bright, filled with oxygen. I had, over the centuries, wondered if this was why feeding on a lover was so much more satisfying than drinking the blood of whatever random victim presented themselves.

It's a delicate thing to hold the balance between unbearable arousal and the need for release. But as they say, practice makes perfect and when you've got centuries to practice in … I could feel his desire intensifying as he moved against his bonds, desperate to take back control, aching for release from the torment of my tongue, my lips and hands. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes, pupils dilated until the iris was barely visible, pleading with me mutely. My lips covered his as I moved over his hips, and I felt the rumble of his groan deep within his chest when he arched up under me, and I gave him what he so fervidly needed, heat and the irresistible pressure surrounding him, waves of pleasure that stroked and cycled and throbbed through our bodies. His eyes rolled back as our duet reached its crescendo, his cry cracked and breathless.

As he lay limp and exhausted under me, his eyes closed, his breath easing but his heart still pumping fast, I lowered my lips to his neck. He turned his head away, giving me greater access, and a shiver ran through his body at the lightness of my touch. I bit down, gently, my lips forming a seal around the small wound, and drank as his blood was pumped by his heart into my mouth.

Some vampires will drain a body in minutes, fastening onto the big arteries in the body. But having lived so long, and having learned to sip my pleasures rather than gulp them down, I preferred to keep my victims alive and feed from them gently for as long as they can last. I took only a quart from him and closed the wound the first time. He was still drowsy, a combination of post-coital exhaustion and the blood loss, and he barely opened his eyes when I moved away from him, leaving him bound and helpless on the bed.

Dawn was close and like the man in my bed, I was exhausted. I pulled the curtains tightly closed around the apartment and stretched out on the long couch in the living room, sleep coming instantly.

I woke as the last of the sun's rays disappeared from the edges of the curtains, the apartment shadowed in mauve and indigo and soft dove grey. I stretched out luxuriously, my body filled with life, my skin warm and soft and flushed.

Getting up, I pulled on a filmy peignoir against the non-existent chill of a New Orleans evening, and walked into the bedroom, seeing him stir, his eyes opening as I came to the edge of the bed and sat down.

"You're a vampire," he said, his voice slurred and husky, his eyes squinting at me in the dimness of the room. I knew that to him my eyes would be bright, the colour of the irises vivid, and my skin would appear to be glowing with health, tinted rosily from the blood I had drunk.

I used to play with my victims, oh, two centuries ago. It was an idle vice, a mean game brought on largely by dissatisfaction with my state at the time. Now, though, I found that doing so reduced my pleasure with them. I lifted my finger to my lips and ran my hand from the inside of his ankle, up to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He closed his eyes, stiffening as the touch awoke his nerve endings, sending a jittering shock of arousal through him. I could hear clearly, loudly even in the quiet of the room, his heart starting to pound.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes closed tightly, his face turned away as I let the peignoir fall and moved onto the bed next to him. I looked down at him with a smile, knowing that his attempts were in vain. And very soon I could hear the racing beat of his heart, the rush of the blood through his body, the quick gasps and hitches as his breathing caught and faltered. He had no defences against what I was doing, and despite his best efforts, no ability to block out the feeling, the way the nerves responded to being stimulated, the increase in blood flow that was as natural as breathing.

He fought the bonds that held him, but silk is very strong, and he had no leverage against which to break them. His body betrayed him, his thoughts and his intentions fogged and broken by the sensations that coruscated through him, his flesh under my control, shaking when I led him to a deeper state of arousal, trembling as I extended each moment of pleasure for a greater length of time. He couldn't stop himself from wanting more, couldn't hold back when at last I enclosed him, his face contorted in agonised euphoria, rutting helplessly against my heat and flesh, his climax coming in shuddering convulsions.

"No. Don't – no," he whispered, turning his head weakly as I lifted the dressing from the wound in his neck. "Please …"

His blood pumped into my mouth, filling me with life as I swallowed steadily, the metallic copper tang of it covering my tongue and lips. He moved a little but the strength of his muscles, of his will, was gone, taken by the lassitude of his release and by the loss of the vital fluid.

I had almost taken two more quarts from him, when I heard the noise on the street outside. Lifting my head, I pressed the dressing back against the wound. I licked my lips, and bent over him to press a kiss against his mouth. His eyes were half-closed, staring at me, but unfocussed, barely aware.

The voice and the scent that accompanied it were both familiar. I glanced back at the man who lay on the bed. His brother.

I went to the wardrobe and dressed, without haste, but without wasting time either. The French doors at the end of the room led into a garden shared by the houses surrounding it. I crossed out through them as I heard the knock on the front door, slipping into the inky shadows beneath the huge magnolia tree and leaping lightly over the stone wall that led to a narrow walkway to Chartres Street.

In the concealing shadows of a sycamore, I stopped and listened.

"Dean!" His voice was filled with fear. I heard the door splinter around the lock as he kicked it in.

"Dean?" He was in the living room, turning around, the scrape of the gravel trapped in his boot soles harsh on the thin Persian carpets. He took two long steps and I heard the squeak of the hinges of the bedroom doors.

"God, no. Dean?" He crossed the bare boards to the bed, the hiss of a steel blade against the graphite-coated leather lining of a sheath, the soft burr of the blade cutting the silk cords.

"Dean?"

I could hear the catch in his voice, the rustle of the sheets as he lifted his brother, the sharply indrawn breath as he saw the wound.

"No. Dean! Hold on, you hear me? Stay with me!"

Three small beeps, the first a different tone from the last two. Dialling for an ambulance.

"I need an ambulance at 26 Dumaine in the French Quarter. Ah, blood loss, I don't know how much but he's unconscious. Yes."

The click of the phone as it was closed. Ragged breathing and the subtle hiss of cloth as he tried to wrap his brother's dead weight in the silk sheets that covered the bed.

"Dean, come on, man, you're stronger than this. Don't give up."

The soft splash of a tear falling onto skin.

"Please, don't give up. Keep fighting, man." Another splash, then another.

"Ss … a ..m?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here. I'm here." A shuddering indrawn breath, and a sniff, the faint burr of rough skin over smooth. "You're going to be okay."

I turned and walked away. Taking care of his brother would occupy Sam for a couple of days. I would be in San Francisco before either thought to come looking for me. The world is big and one of the things that one learns about immortality is that there always enough time, time to move on, to deflect and hide. Time to remain safe and hunt well.

END