VELVET NIGHT
Night had drawn her soft black wings over the city; she tolerated with a superior smile the feeble streetlights and the dim glow from curtained windows. The darkness pooled in alleys, under trees and awnings, around corners that no smart man would turn alone. The air was warm and velvety; it was high summer. For these short hours of complete darkness, the city of Vennstein was his playground.
He sat perched on top of a large wooden chest in front of the carpenter's, and looked down at the only mortals that were out at this time of night -- the citizen watch. Armed with shuttered lights and what weaponry their failing funds could afford them, they roamed the streets looking for their monsters. Demons. Leeches. Parasites.
Vampires. Raziel smiled at them, benevolently. They were no threat to him. Their watchful eyes glided over him like the soft summer wind; they saw him, and yet they did not. He wore trousers and a sleeved vest of the softest fabric imaginable, tailored to cover his body completely without impairing his movements. A wide hood shielded his raven black hair and pale skin from view, and the entire vesture was done in shades of dark grey, the colour of the drab stone walls that surrounded him, the colour of the cobbled streets. The colour of night in Vennstein. It made him invisible.
The watch's feeble attempts at catching him amused Raziel, and some nights, he would play a game with them. A game of barely heard sounds and barely seen shadows, of running and shouting, ghastly discoveries and death dropping silently down into dead alleyways. But not tonight, not while she awaited him. He allowed them to pass, and stepped out to vault onto the roof of the shop. His soft boots allowed him to land almost soundlessly, and he tiptoed over the edge of the roof to the far corner. At the other side of the street was the low end of the theatre hall. He crouched, planting his feet carefully, tensing his muscles. He looked ahead. The street was wide and the drop daunting, but he did not hesitate a moment. On nights like these, Raziel could fly.
He sprung his powerful legs and sailed through the air for a moment, silent, still, graceful. He braced himself for the landing, and met the theatre's roof with just the right amount of tension in his limbs. Thump. A cat would have made more noise. Flying, he had decided, was all about landing, just as walking was all about putting your feet down the right way, such a way that even on a slick, tin roof they made no sound at all. He climbed the theatre roof, still warm from the day's heat, towards the more well-off part of town.
Large houses with high, whitewashed façades faced the streets here, streets with lush little gardens and succulent trees in orderly rows. The back of the house he was after neighboured the side of the theatre hall. It had a high wall surrounding its grounds, too high to climb, but from here, one could simply drop down onto it, and from there take a leap to the low side building. The back garden of the house was in shadows, as was the wall. Raziel needed little light to see, however, and took an elegant little leap to land, perched, on top of the wall.
An angry hiss escaped his lips, as a sharp pain blossomed in the palms of his hands and soles of his feet. Broken glass! How gauche. But no matter, he was almost here. In three well-aimed bounds he was on top of the mansion's roof. He checked his extremities in the starlight. His flesh healed up quickly and he brushed off the dried blood, but one of his boots was torn. He bared his fangs in annoyance. A sound in the street below snapped his attention back to his surroundings, and he crouched low, his senses set sharply as before. Slowly, soundlessly, he crept to the edge of the roof on the street side, and smiled at the sight that greeted him.
A small group of late-night revellers swayed through the still, orderly street, urging each other to be quiet and failing quite miserably. And was that a dark shape following them? Perhaps it was... He shrugged, he would not let anything else distract him now, he was here. Right above her balcony. Lithely, he dropped himself down onto it, landing, once again, on soundless, velvet feet. The door to her balcony was partly open against the heat. How considerate.
He clicked the latch off, and pushed the door open, slowly. Yes, this was her, he knew as soon as he stepped inside the room. It was filled with a sweet, flowery perfume, and below that, on a more secret stratum of smell, the spicy scent of her sweat. A tingling sense of anticipation spread from his heart through his body as he approached the bed. Oh yes, this was her.
In the hot summer night, she had struggled with her sheets until she lay uncovered from the waist up, on her back, her mouth slightly open. Her soft, silken skin was covered only by a thin, white shift, through which her dark nipples showed clearly. Her delicious arms were bare, and that alone was almost enough to make him succumb to the bloodlust then and there. But no, she was too precious to take hastily...
Gently, as gently as he could, he sat down on the bed beside her. Her breathing was deep and steady, a rhythm like the breaking of waves that stirred his passion ever higher. Tenderly, he reached out and touched her brow, stroking her forehead and cheek with his cool, soft fingertips, tracing the shape of her delicate eyebrows. But it was her lips that broke his heart. A perfect cupid's bow, and a full, soft, slightly pouting lower lip. Pink and fresh as the morning dew. His face hovered over hers as his hand slid down to her breast, cupping the tender mound of flesh through the thin cotton of her shift, rolling the taut nipple under his thumb.
She moaned sleepily, and shaped her lips around a half-pronounced word. "Shhh..." he whispered. "Go back to sleep." She turned her face towards him, and seemed to obey his command, for soon her breaths were deep and regular again. He sighed, the edge of his desire was whetted by every detail his senses reported, the slightly sweet scent of her breath, the gentle heaving of her chest, her blushing, velvety skin, those perfect, glistening wet lips. He kissed her, his cool, dry lips, darkened with his unnatural blood, pressed gently against hers. It set off a spark deep inside him, and his bloodlust roared in victory.
"Yes," he breathed, yes, this was her, pure, fresh and undefiled, ripe for the plucking. His for the taking. It was time. He closed his hand over her mouth as he bit down. In this case, it was an unnecessary precaution, she only made the tiniest little sound when his fangs penetrated her flesh. Her skin parted willingly under his razor sharp teeth, and he began to suckle her neck, relishing the first taste of her blood as she began to stir. She sighed deeply, huskily, when he started to draw out the blood, making it fountain into his mouth, her body trembling against his. She yielded to him, his irresistible will, as he commanded her heart, the very centre of her being, to dance to its own deadly beat for him -- to feed him her life's blood.
She moaned and shook as her life drained away, gushing into his gaping, sensuous mouth. He moaned too as he felt the flow slow to a trickle, and then her heart was beating idly, her blood drained. He shuddered with pleasure as her sweet blood coursed through his veins, rejuvenating him, restoring him, nurturing his very soul.
He drew himself up and looked down, a broad, satisfied smile on his face. She looked pale now, deathly pale, and her dark hair fanned out on the pillow made a perfect contrast with her skin. A few drops of blood coloured the white sheet she lay on, and the stark combination of colour almost struck him dead. Her neck was a mess, two deep puncture wounds with the flesh rent open around them, half-clear liquid leaking from it. There would be no doubt what she died of, but he cared not. She had been meant for him. This was destiny.
Night had drawn her soft black wings over the city; she tolerated with a superior smile the feeble streetlights and the dim glow from curtained windows. The darkness pooled in alleys, under trees and awnings, around corners that no smart man would turn alone. The air was warm and velvety; it was high summer. For these short hours of complete darkness, the city of Vennstein was his playground.
He sat perched on top of a large wooden chest in front of the carpenter's, and looked down at the only mortals that were out at this time of night -- the citizen watch. Armed with shuttered lights and what weaponry their failing funds could afford them, they roamed the streets looking for their monsters. Demons. Leeches. Parasites.
Vampires. Raziel smiled at them, benevolently. They were no threat to him. Their watchful eyes glided over him like the soft summer wind; they saw him, and yet they did not. He wore trousers and a sleeved vest of the softest fabric imaginable, tailored to cover his body completely without impairing his movements. A wide hood shielded his raven black hair and pale skin from view, and the entire vesture was done in shades of dark grey, the colour of the drab stone walls that surrounded him, the colour of the cobbled streets. The colour of night in Vennstein. It made him invisible.
The watch's feeble attempts at catching him amused Raziel, and some nights, he would play a game with them. A game of barely heard sounds and barely seen shadows, of running and shouting, ghastly discoveries and death dropping silently down into dead alleyways. But not tonight, not while she awaited him. He allowed them to pass, and stepped out to vault onto the roof of the shop. His soft boots allowed him to land almost soundlessly, and he tiptoed over the edge of the roof to the far corner. At the other side of the street was the low end of the theatre hall. He crouched, planting his feet carefully, tensing his muscles. He looked ahead. The street was wide and the drop daunting, but he did not hesitate a moment. On nights like these, Raziel could fly.
He sprung his powerful legs and sailed through the air for a moment, silent, still, graceful. He braced himself for the landing, and met the theatre's roof with just the right amount of tension in his limbs. Thump. A cat would have made more noise. Flying, he had decided, was all about landing, just as walking was all about putting your feet down the right way, such a way that even on a slick, tin roof they made no sound at all. He climbed the theatre roof, still warm from the day's heat, towards the more well-off part of town.
Large houses with high, whitewashed façades faced the streets here, streets with lush little gardens and succulent trees in orderly rows. The back of the house he was after neighboured the side of the theatre hall. It had a high wall surrounding its grounds, too high to climb, but from here, one could simply drop down onto it, and from there take a leap to the low side building. The back garden of the house was in shadows, as was the wall. Raziel needed little light to see, however, and took an elegant little leap to land, perched, on top of the wall.
An angry hiss escaped his lips, as a sharp pain blossomed in the palms of his hands and soles of his feet. Broken glass! How gauche. But no matter, he was almost here. In three well-aimed bounds he was on top of the mansion's roof. He checked his extremities in the starlight. His flesh healed up quickly and he brushed off the dried blood, but one of his boots was torn. He bared his fangs in annoyance. A sound in the street below snapped his attention back to his surroundings, and he crouched low, his senses set sharply as before. Slowly, soundlessly, he crept to the edge of the roof on the street side, and smiled at the sight that greeted him.
A small group of late-night revellers swayed through the still, orderly street, urging each other to be quiet and failing quite miserably. And was that a dark shape following them? Perhaps it was... He shrugged, he would not let anything else distract him now, he was here. Right above her balcony. Lithely, he dropped himself down onto it, landing, once again, on soundless, velvet feet. The door to her balcony was partly open against the heat. How considerate.
He clicked the latch off, and pushed the door open, slowly. Yes, this was her, he knew as soon as he stepped inside the room. It was filled with a sweet, flowery perfume, and below that, on a more secret stratum of smell, the spicy scent of her sweat. A tingling sense of anticipation spread from his heart through his body as he approached the bed. Oh yes, this was her.
In the hot summer night, she had struggled with her sheets until she lay uncovered from the waist up, on her back, her mouth slightly open. Her soft, silken skin was covered only by a thin, white shift, through which her dark nipples showed clearly. Her delicious arms were bare, and that alone was almost enough to make him succumb to the bloodlust then and there. But no, she was too precious to take hastily...
Gently, as gently as he could, he sat down on the bed beside her. Her breathing was deep and steady, a rhythm like the breaking of waves that stirred his passion ever higher. Tenderly, he reached out and touched her brow, stroking her forehead and cheek with his cool, soft fingertips, tracing the shape of her delicate eyebrows. But it was her lips that broke his heart. A perfect cupid's bow, and a full, soft, slightly pouting lower lip. Pink and fresh as the morning dew. His face hovered over hers as his hand slid down to her breast, cupping the tender mound of flesh through the thin cotton of her shift, rolling the taut nipple under his thumb.
She moaned sleepily, and shaped her lips around a half-pronounced word. "Shhh..." he whispered. "Go back to sleep." She turned her face towards him, and seemed to obey his command, for soon her breaths were deep and regular again. He sighed, the edge of his desire was whetted by every detail his senses reported, the slightly sweet scent of her breath, the gentle heaving of her chest, her blushing, velvety skin, those perfect, glistening wet lips. He kissed her, his cool, dry lips, darkened with his unnatural blood, pressed gently against hers. It set off a spark deep inside him, and his bloodlust roared in victory.
"Yes," he breathed, yes, this was her, pure, fresh and undefiled, ripe for the plucking. His for the taking. It was time. He closed his hand over her mouth as he bit down. In this case, it was an unnecessary precaution, she only made the tiniest little sound when his fangs penetrated her flesh. Her skin parted willingly under his razor sharp teeth, and he began to suckle her neck, relishing the first taste of her blood as she began to stir. She sighed deeply, huskily, when he started to draw out the blood, making it fountain into his mouth, her body trembling against his. She yielded to him, his irresistible will, as he commanded her heart, the very centre of her being, to dance to its own deadly beat for him -- to feed him her life's blood.
She moaned and shook as her life drained away, gushing into his gaping, sensuous mouth. He moaned too as he felt the flow slow to a trickle, and then her heart was beating idly, her blood drained. He shuddered with pleasure as her sweet blood coursed through his veins, rejuvenating him, restoring him, nurturing his very soul.
He drew himself up and looked down, a broad, satisfied smile on his face. She looked pale now, deathly pale, and her dark hair fanned out on the pillow made a perfect contrast with her skin. A few drops of blood coloured the white sheet she lay on, and the stark combination of colour almost struck him dead. Her neck was a mess, two deep puncture wounds with the flesh rent open around them, half-clear liquid leaking from it. There would be no doubt what she died of, but he cared not. She had been meant for him. This was destiny.