Blood, Altar, and Fang

Blood is the source. An imitation of the sea water that ancient creatures abandoned for the land, but red as the flower that summons the sexless bee, enslaving it to the sexual dance of the plant world. Blood is the life. Without the crimson flood coursing throughout the flesh, the fires of vitality cease to burn, and the mortal creature falls to dust. Blood is sustenance. I must consume the life of another, for I have none of my own. I drink deeply from the fountain of life, whenever I am able. Blood is my joy. I revel in the taking of life's precious liquid from the flesh of foolish mortals. It is the greatest pleasure of my immortality. Lesser creatures than I complain of a curse, for so they call the burden of bloodshed. Fools. They have only to give themselves over to the blood feeding, and they would experience the most divine ecstasy. Do not the gods feed upon the blood of mortals? I know why they do, and when in that ecstatic baptism, I am one with divinity. By my communion, the mortals meet their divinely appointed destiny, and go to replenish the earth. This night I choose a new sacrifice to slake my eternal thirst. They are so like lambs, so ignorant, so far beneath me. The simplicity of their minds is such that they find my form repulsive. They cannot understand that I am great, and terrible, and glorious. So I must take them unawares. It makes no difference. They can never resist the might of my body.

Though I do not require breath, I draw the air into my nostrils, so that I may smell the blood of my prey. The pleasurable scent is everywhere in this place. It seems that there are few who take the precaution to seal themselves indoors when the loathsome daystar hides behind the horizon. The moon reflects some of the blazing solar light back beneath the arch of night, but only those rays which I am able to withstand. Yes, the sun has the power to drive what is left of my mortal soul out of my animated corpse, if I were to be ensnared in it's presence for a time. It keeps me from my prey for half of every day, but the evening always comes, and then I feast upon the crimson fluid of life, which the sun had hitherto sustained. Glorious!

The streets of this ever lit city run over with young men who would make suitable sacrifices, but my tastes are more specific, and my standards are high, for the sake of the challenge. I would take any one of them, were I in dire need, but as I am in good condition, I seek a healthy unspoiled female. Pale haired and pale skinned is my preference, for reasons of my perverted sense of humor regarding the currently dominant religion, but even the darker complected of them are not safe from my thirst. All of humanity are my cattle, all are my sacrificial lambs.

Ah, I see one now. Oh she is marvelous. Hair died bright red, although I can tell she is a natural blonde. Multiple piercings, but all of them steel, not silver. That is fortunate. Her metal is meant to give the impression of weaponry, or armor, but will be no defense against me. I shall pluck it out of her, and use it to open her up. She is walking along the other side of the street. I will need to leave the shadows to reach her. All the passers by will see me, but they will not see me as I truly am. My power of glamour will blind them to my nature, as long as they do not come too close, and I am too nimble for that to happen. I pass among them, a lion among lambs. How very like a god I am, so far above these frail beasts. Oh, my quarry has just turned down a side street. I'll give her a minute to get some distance. I wouldn't want to spook her yet. I can hear her footsteps, gauge her position and speed. I can smell her blood, the aroma mingling with the scent of filth from the street. She has turned again, so now I must follow. I track her with such ease, she is completely oblivious to the danger she is in, makes no effort to conceal her vulnerability. I no longer see her on the street, but I can follow her scent. There is a building, some sort of warehouse by the look of it, and she has gone inside. A public place, as well. There is a sign hanging on the door that says Come On In, We're Open. It will be unprotected, not that many places in this modern world employ the old charms against my kind. I shall not have to request permission to enter.

I am inside, and the hunt draws near to it's conclusion. Soon, the ecstatic feast is to commence, the sacrifice to be slain, and the sacred blood poured upon the altar of my jaw. The rapture of my expectation fills me with an excitement both carnal and sublime. Her scent grows stronger as I near a door. I shall break it down, rather than enter quietly. The shock will cause her blood to quicken, and give me the more satisfaction. Now the door shatters at my mighty blow, flinging splinters aside as I leap through the portal. I expose my fangs, and drop my glamour, allowing the full glory of my godlike predator's form to be seen, and... Wait, what is this?

The girl stands far off, looking directly at me, but she smiles. Her nostrils flare above her perfect teeth in an expression of, what; triumph? I see others in the room, many others, but they are all me. My reflection, in a myriad of mirrors, without the silver backing which would reject all light that has touched me. Why? The girl has disappeared! I shall smash the mirrors, escape my own hideous image. I am striking the surfaces, but they are not destroyed. They are not made of glass, but some sort of strong metal and plastic. I can barely make a dent, and they are anchored to the floor, unmovable. I must retreat. I cannot. The portal through which I entered has vanished, and I am surrounded by the mirrors. I try to smash through the floorboards, and they splinter but do not yield. I look to the ceiling, seeking an avenue of escape, but there I find a great spider's web, a net made with silver strands. It is dropping upon me, and I cannot avoid it. I strain against the lines, but the silver burns me, weakens me, drains me of my power. I have fallen to the shattered floor, and I cannot rise. A man has appeared before me. Where did he come from? He is speaking to me, and I hear as though through an ocean of water. I try to reach out and grab him by the throat, but my fingers are all that fit through the net, which burns the flesh all the more. He taunts me, mocks my weakness to the noble metal. I swear that I shall kill him. I will tear his very limbs from his torso, and fling them to the winds.

This man seems to know things that the rest of humanity has long forgotten. I observe that his dress, while deceptively contemporary, is rife with occult preparations, specifically designed to thwart one such as myself. Silver threads, crosses in the weave, silver plates hidden at vulnerable points where vital veins and arteries are close to the surface of the skin. He produces a flask from his jacket pocket and strides toward me, chanting an ancient prayer in the Aramaic tongue. I hiss my curses at him, yet he is not dissuaded. He thrusts the flask toward me, flinging it's contents into my face. It is true holy water, and where it falls, my undead flesh dies anew. His prayer is a binding spell that freezes my joints and seals my mouth. He has rendered me helpless. I still have the use of my eyes, and now I see that which I had missed before. Beneath the wood splinters of the floor is a slab of stone, reminiscent of the altar at ancient Salem of Zadok. My preternatural senses detect traces of blessings and the scent of anointing oils. I have been made a fool. The man, who I now know for a thaumaturge of great skill and piety, draws forth a sword, worked over with silver and engraved with the names of an ancient deity.

The thaumaturge thrusts his blade down through the net and into my body. It is as if the sun had appeared in the form of a blade, to push itself into my muscle and bone. The ichor in my own veins seeps out onto the stone, draining into a puddle of darkness around me. I want to scream, but I cannot. My nerves shriek to thrash, to writhe, but I am immobile, even in this agony. How long, I wonder, will they torment me. The girl has returned, I realize. The pair of them chant more prayers. On and on they drone, mercilessly. It continues just like this for several hours. Then, I feel it. The sun is coming up. Now I am truly trapped in this place. Why have they done this? What is their purpose? I watch the thaumaturge as he goes to a set of ropes on the other side of the room. The ropes run through a pair of pulleys and up to the ceiling. He hauls down on one of the ropes, and a mechanical creaking of iron gears sounds from above. The ceiling slides away, and the roof parts, opening itself to the morning sky. Now I see their awful plot, and am terrified. They mean to give me to the sun. It's rays are already beginning to pour over the roof's edge. I can only watch in horror as over the course of the next few hours, the dreaded daystar rises into place above me. It anoints me with it's terrible light, and my mortality returns to me, with savage vengeance. All of the years that I have avoided time's cruelty now come upon me at once. The spell of undeath burns away and I begin to turn to ashes. The girl mocks me. She says that I am ugly, twisted, depraved, and that I deserve my fate. I can only reflect on the irony that she who was to be my sacrifice now bears witness as I die in the manner of a sacrifice. I am bound upon the altar, drained of life, and burned into nothingness.

So long ago, was I a son of the dust, and now it is to dust that I return.