Disclaimer: Hello dear reader, please enjoy this humble tale and I ask you to please review, or at least consider reviewing. I do not own the various characters, settings, objects, and concepts that are in one of my most beloved series of books, Harry Potter. I do own an old paper-back copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula, (which I highly recommend) and you can see the obvious influence of that novel in my dear little story. Enjoy and yes, I use flamers to roast cats in my backyard.
Danse de Macabré
Prologue:
His nostrils filled with the copper scent associated with blood. Waiting in the shadows cast from brick townhouses and an old streetlamp, he closed his eyes and engrossed himself in the odor of his prey. The lamp flickered out leaving in the dark thick with fog and soot. An autumn moon cast no light on the city; it waned crimson, peeking out from behind a cloud ever so often.
In drear silence, he waited, closed his eyes once more, concentrating. A murmur, a whisper drifted next to his body. Terrible blue cold pressed against his back. Delicate arms wrapped around his lithe frame. A pallid cheek brushed up against his. Her wine-red lips slightly parted, she moaned in his ear and licked her gritty blood stained teeth. An arm curled around his neck to find the top button of his shirt. Another hand brushed away his silky black hair exposing his long elegant neck.
In one fluid turn on the balls of his feet, he faced her, his right arm now fully extended holding the hilt of a silver tipped steel blade. With the tip at he neck, he forced it into her, a small stream of blood trickled down her chest in scarlet snake patterns. A wicked smile materialized on her placid face.
"We live within the shadow of the Almighty, sheltered by the God who is above all gods."
With two hands on the blade's grip, he thrust it deeper into her throat, through her esophagus and trachea. Cold blood gushed from the wound. Flecks of red began to dot his pale face as he torn through veins and arteries. pools of blood collected at her feet.
"This I declare, that he alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I am trusting him."
With one hand on the grip, he lowered his arm, running the edge down her chest, splitting her black camisole down the middle and slicing the thin flesh over her sternum open. A surge of blood poured from the body. She placed a hand to the laceration. Soaked and stained crimson, she brought the hand to her mouth and let her tongue lap up every morsel. The rise and fall of her chest became more rapid and pained, a crooked smile contorted her face. Onto her knees and into the red pool around her, splashing the blood upward and onto the hem of the hunter's faded trench coat. She knelt down on all fours to slurp the blood in front of her. Teased hair covering her face, she drank. With one step forward, he brought the blade through her neck, leaving a bloody stump and a head rolling on the cobblestone street.
"He is my God, and I am trusting him," he whispered as he kicked the head across the street leaving a trail of blood. He opened his eyes and went on his way. Not even bothering to glance at the entrails he had left behind.
Danse de Macabré
Prologue:
His nostrils filled with the copper scent associated with blood. Waiting in the shadows cast from brick townhouses and an old streetlamp, he closed his eyes and engrossed himself in the odor of his prey. The lamp flickered out leaving in the dark thick with fog and soot. An autumn moon cast no light on the city; it waned crimson, peeking out from behind a cloud ever so often.
In drear silence, he waited, closed his eyes once more, concentrating. A murmur, a whisper drifted next to his body. Terrible blue cold pressed against his back. Delicate arms wrapped around his lithe frame. A pallid cheek brushed up against his. Her wine-red lips slightly parted, she moaned in his ear and licked her gritty blood stained teeth. An arm curled around his neck to find the top button of his shirt. Another hand brushed away his silky black hair exposing his long elegant neck.
In one fluid turn on the balls of his feet, he faced her, his right arm now fully extended holding the hilt of a silver tipped steel blade. With the tip at he neck, he forced it into her, a small stream of blood trickled down her chest in scarlet snake patterns. A wicked smile materialized on her placid face.
"We live within the shadow of the Almighty, sheltered by the God who is above all gods."
With two hands on the blade's grip, he thrust it deeper into her throat, through her esophagus and trachea. Cold blood gushed from the wound. Flecks of red began to dot his pale face as he torn through veins and arteries. pools of blood collected at her feet.
"This I declare, that he alone is my refuge, my place of safety; he is my God, and I am trusting him."
With one hand on the grip, he lowered his arm, running the edge down her chest, splitting her black camisole down the middle and slicing the thin flesh over her sternum open. A surge of blood poured from the body. She placed a hand to the laceration. Soaked and stained crimson, she brought the hand to her mouth and let her tongue lap up every morsel. The rise and fall of her chest became more rapid and pained, a crooked smile contorted her face. Onto her knees and into the red pool around her, splashing the blood upward and onto the hem of the hunter's faded trench coat. She knelt down on all fours to slurp the blood in front of her. Teased hair covering her face, she drank. With one step forward, he brought the blade through her neck, leaving a bloody stump and a head rolling on the cobblestone street.
"He is my God, and I am trusting him," he whispered as he kicked the head across the street leaving a trail of blood. He opened his eyes and went on his way. Not even bothering to glance at the entrails he had left behind.
