On Parliament Hill. Part 3. Autumn 1880.
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gen_storytellerTitle: On Parliament Hill
Author: Cass
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Becoming a vampire is a profound and powerful experience. I could feel this new strength coursing through me. Getting killed made me feel alive for the very first time.”
Autumn 1880
She danced for him in the moonlight. Sinuously swaying in the silver night, she unpinned her long black hair and let it snake free down her back. He lunged for her and she slipped through his arms, laughing, dark eyes flashing. He laughed with her, lunged again, chasing her shadow among the myriad moonshadows on the night-greyed ground as she twisted and twirled and teased.
The moon dazzled him. She dazzled him. He threw back his head and laughed at the sky.
He looked for her again and saw her silhouetted against the sky, holding out her arms to him. He ran to her, exulting in the newfound strength of his limbs, effortlessly scaling the hill, filled with a new potency. At the top he caught her, pulled her into a tight embrace, alive to the feel of her slim form pressed against his. His mouth was ravenous on hers, voracious, and she laughed against his lips. His body ached with an unknown hunger that burned hard in his gut, a craving that tore through him, howling for release. Need. He needed… needed… this… more than this… something…
And there it was. He pulled his mouth from hers, searched the hill, blue eyes sparked with new gold. The smell… the taste of it in the air… warmth, humanity, life… the essence.
She followed the direction of his gaze. “Fee fi fo fum,” she smiled slowly. “Ah, I know what you want, my darling, deadly boy. I think it’s time.” She slipped from his embrace and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him to burn with the intensity of anticipation.
When she reappeared she was leading a girl; thin, her clothes worn and much repaired, sharp features a mixture of apprehension and boldness, hunger and desperation at war with fear. “Mummy’s brought you a present. See? Pretty little dolly.” She gave a short laugh. “Says she’ll let you kiss her for silver sixpence.” She brought the girl towards him, gave her a push to send her into his arms.
The girl gasped, but stood firm, tilted her chin toward him. “Sixpence first,” she muttered defiantly.
He grinned, reached into his pocket and drew out the small silver coin, held it up then snatched his hand closed as she went to grab it, pulling her harder against him.
Behind him, his dark lady ran a hand up his back, caressed the nape of his neck beneath the tangle of soft curls. “Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day,” she leaned against him, whispered in his ear. “Playtime, my wicked, wicked boy…” she growled, her hand locked tight in his hair.
He looked down at the wide-eyed girl, felt the pull of her hot fear. The shift of his features, the feel of the sharp teeth descending, was black ecstasy, embodiment of the darkness that yammered its need in his core. The girl’s sudden frantic struggles meant nothing to him – everything ceased to exist except the vulnerable pulse in her slim throat, the hot smell of the blood beneath the pale, dirty skin. He hesitated only a second before instinct took over and he drove his fangs into her neck.
Part of him cried out against what he was doing, some remnant of humanity shuddered in horror as the rush of dark blood filled his mouth. He gagged in panic, swallowed reflexively, felt he was drowning in the sudden overwhelming surge of heat. For a brief moment he fought against the vice-like grip on the back of his neck as he tried to pull away, the struggle only serving to drive his fangs deeper, tearing the flesh. But then the essence of her blood filled his mind, and all other thoughts were gone in the need to drink, to consume, to devour. He could taste her, beyond the hot, metallic salt-tang of the blood – he could taste the complexity of her individuality, her strength, her weakness, her hunger and, intoxicating in its intensity, her surging terror.
Potency. Power.
He swallowed compulsively, growling in frustration as the pulse of her life weakened and the warm flood slowed, as the exhilaration of the blood-rush began to fade.
He dropped the lifeless body, gasping for breath he didn’t need, looked up to find her watching him and gave a slow, rapacious smile.
“There now. Isn't that better?" She reached up, smiling seductively, wiped a smear of blood from his lips and licked her fingers clean slowly, purring with pleasure. She held his head, turned him to look out over the city huddled under its blanket of thick air lit orange by gas lamps. “Look down there - all the pretty ones for us to play with. Shall I show you? Shall we prick them until they bleed?” She took his hands and stepped back, looked up at him from under lowered lashes. “Ripe cherries ready for the picking. We’ll feast ourselves on their sweetness.”
She dropped his hands and drifted over to the crumpled shape on the ground. “Oh, dear. Dolly’s broken.” She looked down, sighing sadly. “Won’t play anymore.” She smiled over at him, demon to demon, yellow eyes glinting with wicked glee. “Never mind. Plenty more in the toyshop.”
He swung her into his arms and they danced to the wild joy of his laughter under the cold, bright stars. His body sang with possibilities, his mind burned with hunger.
He was dead.
What was left of what he had been cringed within him; a sad, pathetic creature, mewling its fear at the night. He shut it from his mind in disdain, buried it deep. The grave-dirt clung to him still, but he had never felt so alive. The raw desire that coursed through him, the sense of power, the wild recklessness that set his nerves flaming with cold fire – this was alive. A sudden hard calm washed over him.
“HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER.”
They would blaze a trail of terror across Europe, he and his dark queen, and he would write his name in blood and glory.
On Parliament Hill she taught him what he was.
And he revelled in it.
Author: Cass
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Becoming a vampire is a profound and powerful experience. I could feel this new strength coursing through me. Getting killed made me feel alive for the very first time.”
Autumn 1880
She danced for him in the moonlight. Sinuously swaying in the silver night, she unpinned her long black hair and let it snake free down her back. He lunged for her and she slipped through his arms, laughing, dark eyes flashing. He laughed with her, lunged again, chasing her shadow among the myriad moonshadows on the night-greyed ground as she twisted and twirled and teased.
The moon dazzled him. She dazzled him. He threw back his head and laughed at the sky.
He looked for her again and saw her silhouetted against the sky, holding out her arms to him. He ran to her, exulting in the newfound strength of his limbs, effortlessly scaling the hill, filled with a new potency. At the top he caught her, pulled her into a tight embrace, alive to the feel of her slim form pressed against his. His mouth was ravenous on hers, voracious, and she laughed against his lips. His body ached with an unknown hunger that burned hard in his gut, a craving that tore through him, howling for release. Need. He needed… needed… this… more than this… something…
And there it was. He pulled his mouth from hers, searched the hill, blue eyes sparked with new gold. The smell… the taste of it in the air… warmth, humanity, life… the essence.
She followed the direction of his gaze. “Fee fi fo fum,” she smiled slowly. “Ah, I know what you want, my darling, deadly boy. I think it’s time.” She slipped from his embrace and disappeared into the shadows, leaving him to burn with the intensity of anticipation.
When she reappeared she was leading a girl; thin, her clothes worn and much repaired, sharp features a mixture of apprehension and boldness, hunger and desperation at war with fear. “Mummy’s brought you a present. See? Pretty little dolly.” She gave a short laugh. “Says she’ll let you kiss her for silver sixpence.” She brought the girl towards him, gave her a push to send her into his arms.
The girl gasped, but stood firm, tilted her chin toward him. “Sixpence first,” she muttered defiantly.
He grinned, reached into his pocket and drew out the small silver coin, held it up then snatched his hand closed as she went to grab it, pulling her harder against him.
Behind him, his dark lady ran a hand up his back, caressed the nape of his neck beneath the tangle of soft curls. “Boys and girls come out to play, the moon doth shine as bright as day,” she leaned against him, whispered in his ear. “Playtime, my wicked, wicked boy…” she growled, her hand locked tight in his hair.
He looked down at the wide-eyed girl, felt the pull of her hot fear. The shift of his features, the feel of the sharp teeth descending, was black ecstasy, embodiment of the darkness that yammered its need in his core. The girl’s sudden frantic struggles meant nothing to him – everything ceased to exist except the vulnerable pulse in her slim throat, the hot smell of the blood beneath the pale, dirty skin. He hesitated only a second before instinct took over and he drove his fangs into her neck.
Part of him cried out against what he was doing, some remnant of humanity shuddered in horror as the rush of dark blood filled his mouth. He gagged in panic, swallowed reflexively, felt he was drowning in the sudden overwhelming surge of heat. For a brief moment he fought against the vice-like grip on the back of his neck as he tried to pull away, the struggle only serving to drive his fangs deeper, tearing the flesh. But then the essence of her blood filled his mind, and all other thoughts were gone in the need to drink, to consume, to devour. He could taste her, beyond the hot, metallic salt-tang of the blood – he could taste the complexity of her individuality, her strength, her weakness, her hunger and, intoxicating in its intensity, her surging terror.
Potency. Power.
He swallowed compulsively, growling in frustration as the pulse of her life weakened and the warm flood slowed, as the exhilaration of the blood-rush began to fade.
He dropped the lifeless body, gasping for breath he didn’t need, looked up to find her watching him and gave a slow, rapacious smile.
“There now. Isn't that better?" She reached up, smiling seductively, wiped a smear of blood from his lips and licked her fingers clean slowly, purring with pleasure. She held his head, turned him to look out over the city huddled under its blanket of thick air lit orange by gas lamps. “Look down there - all the pretty ones for us to play with. Shall I show you? Shall we prick them until they bleed?” She took his hands and stepped back, looked up at him from under lowered lashes. “Ripe cherries ready for the picking. We’ll feast ourselves on their sweetness.”
She dropped his hands and drifted over to the crumpled shape on the ground. “Oh, dear. Dolly’s broken.” She looked down, sighing sadly. “Won’t play anymore.” She smiled over at him, demon to demon, yellow eyes glinting with wicked glee. “Never mind. Plenty more in the toyshop.”
He swung her into his arms and they danced to the wild joy of his laughter under the cold, bright stars. His body sang with possibilities, his mind burned with hunger.
He was dead.
What was left of what he had been cringed within him; a sad, pathetic creature, mewling its fear at the night. He shut it from his mind in disdain, buried it deep. The grave-dirt clung to him still, but he had never felt so alive. The raw desire that coursed through him, the sense of power, the wild recklessness that set his nerves flaming with cold fire – this was alive. A sudden hard calm washed over him.
“HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER.”
They would blaze a trail of terror across Europe, he and his dark queen, and he would write his name in blood and glory.
On Parliament Hill she taught him what he was.
And he revelled in it.
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