Julia pauses, the door is slightly ajar. Someone is inside, she can sense his presence. She becomes the cautious predator, her hand curls around the handle of a knife, an extension of her blood red talons. She creeps forward, without fear, only vigilance.
She sees his form, sat in a chair with his back to her, a silhouette in the soft glow of a flickering candle. As she enters he turns slowly, so that the iridescent light illuminates the marble of his dead skin. His cold fingers are gripping a crystal goblet, fragile vessel filled with deep red wine.
No, not wine… it is not the fruit of the sun-blessed vine, but a more sinister fruit squeezed from the dying pain of a human heart.
The razor-edged blade falls uselessly to the floor. Her hand trembles, not with fear but anticipation, her dreams sit before her. The steel clatters uselessly as it strikes the floor, the stark sound of metal…
Her throat is dry, her voice a whisper, “Jonathon…”
“Come to me,” not a request, an order. His spell is weaved, the fly entangled in the spider’s web. She could never refuse him, her new dark lord.
She stands before him, expectant, her senses thrilling before the evil which commands her.
“Tell me, my dear, what do you know of Sheraton?”
She knows nothing, entranced, she longs to answer but cannot. She would never lie to him nor deny him.
He draws himself up before her, her skin burns as his icy breath brushes her soft cheek. His hands softly trace her black blouse, then he tears and it falls from her body in tatters. His long, ivory nails hook beneath the strap of her bra and slowly, delicately he removes it, revealing her full, firm breasts. Her excitement, her expectation is drawn up into bold nipples, her breathing is fast and shallow.
His eyes are ablaze with white fire, his irises burning; yet cold, unmelting.
He lowers his head and begins to kiss her breast, his tongue traces around her nipple, so softly.
His fangs sink slowly into her and she starts for a moment at the searing pain at her breast; and then he begins to feed, an image of an infernal Madonna and child.
She is held upright in his strong arms and can feel orgasm after orgasm coursing through her blood, a small trickle of scarlet running down the white curve of her body.
Slowly he drains her, a connoisseur relishing each drop of her life – feeling her passion and her heartbeat as it pulses slower and slower.
She is left a husk, a broken eggshell without life.
Strangely her beauty is enhanced in the paleness of her corpse.
“Now let us leave these fools a gift so that they might understand.”
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan