He hunted in the shadows of the night, venting his rage and his grief in the mindless shedding of blood.
He stalked his prey relentlessly, feeding on their fear, letting his quarry see what he was, letting them see the bloodlust in his eyes, smiling as he bared his fangs. He was hurting, hurting as he had not hurt in four centuries, and he wanted to strike out in retaliation, hoping that by inflicting pain on others, he might ease his own.
He hunted prey as he had not hunted since he was first made Vampyre, hunted until the scent of blood and fear clung to his skin, his clothing, infiltrated every pore.
He had forgotten how intoxicating it was, to drink and drink and drink, until he was filled with the blood of life, until his heart beat in time with that of the unfortunate soul in his embrace, until his body swelled with the vitality of another's life force. Ah, to drink his fill, to drink in someone's life, their hopes and dreams and memories, their very essence.
He refused to consider the morality of it. What need had he of morals? He was not human, but Vampyre, a race apart. The laws of men meant nothing to him. Men preyed on helpless beasts for nourishment. Vampyres preyed on men. No one preyed on the Vampyre.
For too long he had denied what he was, denied the need that burned within him, denied the exquisite pleasure that could only be found in taking the blood of mortals. How close he felt to those he preyed upon as he cradled them in his dark embrace. How grateful he was for the swift surge of energy that flowed from their veins, filling him with vitality, making him feel like a young vampyre again, newly made.
And yet, for all that he drank his fill, he never drained his victims to the point of death. Strong as the desire was, he could not do it. Rhianna was to blame for that. She might understand his need for blood; she would never condone the taking of a life. And though he would never see her again, he could not be less than she thought him to be.
He reveled in the darkness that covered him, all his senses alert, hearing sounds in the night that mortals never heard - the soft splash of a single drop of rain falling on dew-damp grass, the sound of a mouse tiptoeing through the shadows. He saw the beauty hidden within the darkness of the night - the changing shapes and shadows of a world at sleep.
For weeks, he prowled the shadows of the night, a silent phantom preying on those foolish enough to cross his path.
He was hunting now. Dark clouds covered the moon and stars, promising rain before dawn. There were but a few people on the streets - an elderly couple heading for home, a father and son huddled in a doorway, a young couple who walked hand in hand, staring into each other's eyes, blissfully unaware of the coming storm.
And then he saw her, a young girl running down a dark street, her hair blowing in the wind, the heels of her shoes clicking on the cobblestones.
He rode the wings of the night, silent as an owll stalking its prey, until he was beside her, his hand silencing her scream.
The scent of her fear mingled with the scent of her perfume. He could hear the frantic beat of her heart, hear the very blood that flowed through her veins.
He bent over her, his cloak enfolding them like the wings of a great black bird. And then he saw her eyes. Dark blue eyes filled with unspeakable terror. Eyes as blue as a summer sky, as blue as Rhianna's eyes...
With an oath, he reared back, shaken to the core of his being. He saw himself as Rhianna would see him, no better than a monster masquerading in human form, a wild beast unable to control the awful craving within him.
Filled with shame and self-loathing, he wiped his memory from the girl's mind, then vanished from her sight in a blur of swirling black velvet.
He hunted no more humans after that night. He took refuge in a crypt that held the lingering odor of moldering flesh and flowers long dead. Huddled in a corner, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, he stared into the darkness.
He was Vampyre. Undead. This was where he belonged.
The days passed in mindless sleep, the nights seemed longer than any he remembered. Nights when the hunger burned through his veins, when it clawed at his vitals, when, seeking relief, he gashed his own flesh looking for nourishment.
In the way of the world, time passed. Outside, the seasons were changing. Mortals were born. Mortals died. Yet he stayed ever the same.
Pain became his constant companion, striking deep, taunting him, urging him to go out and hunt.
Phantoms took up residence in the tomb beside him - their cries of pain like knives cutting into his soul, their faces distorted with fear as they looked into his eyes and saw death there. So many ghosts come to haunt him, empty eyes filled with accusation. Had he truly killed so many in those days long past?
Individual faces had long ago been forgotten, all but the face of the first mortal he had killed. He had been a young vampyre then, ruled by the fierce hunger that refused to be satiated, ignorant in the ways of his kind. He had found the woman hurrying down a dark street. She had sensed his presence long before his hand closed around her arm. He would never forget the horror he saw in her eyes, or the sound of her voice, desperate with fear as she begged for her life. He had not wanted to hurt her, had not wanted to kill her, but the hunger had held him tight in its grasp, the pain more than he could bear. Clumsy in his haste, his fangs had ripped into the tender flesh of her throat. Her blood had gushed into his mouth, hot with life. And with that blood, he had tasted one of her tears. Horrified and ashamed, he had lowered her body to the ground. The look in her eyes had haunted him for more than a century.
He huddled deeper into the folds of his cloak, seeking escape, seeking solace. He cursed the hunger that licked at his vitals like the flames of Hell, cursed himself for what he was, cursed Rhianna for bewitching him, for giving him a taste of what he could never have. And, above all, he cursed Lysandra...
Lysandra!
All these years, she had kept a house but a league away. He had often sensed her presence but, like all vampyres, she was distrustful of others of her kind. She had never sought him out, nor had he gone looking for her, though, in the first days after he had been made, he had thought often of finding her, of destroying her for what she had done to him. Lysandra... She had made him what he was; if there was a cure, she would know it. If not, he would seek his destruction in the arms of the one who had made him.
Muttering an oath, he closed his eyes and sent his thoughts into the night.
"Rayven." Lysandra smiled warily, heartily surprised to find him waiting in her parlor when she arose that night. "Whatever brings you here?"
He felt a ripple in the air as she gathered her power close. "I mean you no harm."
Crossing the room, he took her hands in his. She was the oldest vampyre he had ever known, yet she looked exactly the same as she had when he had seen her last, her luxurious black hair arranged in thick curls atop her head, her eyes as black as pools of ebony beneath thick lashes, her alabaster skin aglow with a pearly translucence.
"Still beautiful," he murmured.
"As are you," she replied. She lifted one pale hand to his hair, smoothing it back from his brow. "But then, we never change, do we?"
"No," he said bitterly. "Never."
"And yet... You are thin, mon petit. What has happened to you?"
"Nothing." He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I want to know if there's a cure for what we are."
"A cure?" She lifted one delicate brow. "You make it sound like some dreadful illness."
"It is the devil's own curse, and I wish to be free of it."
Lysandra frowned. "Whatever for? You look prosperous enough, though a trifle undernourished." Her eyes narrowed. "You've not fed recently, have you?"
"That's none of your concern," he said sharply. He took a deep breath. "Tell me," he said. "Is there a way to end it?"
"A walk in the sunlight, perhaps?" she suggested, the shadow of a smile teasing at her lips.
"Do not play games with me, Lysandra. I want an answer."
"I know of no cure."
His hands curled into tight fists as she spoke the words. "Then I want you to destroy me."
She trailed her finger over his cheek. "Has living become so unpleasant?"
"I can no longer abide what I am. It has cost me too much."
She regarded him through all-knowing eyes, and then smiled. "You've fallen in love with a mortal."
It was not a question, but a statement of fact, neither approving or condemning.
He did not bother to deny it. "Yes."
"There's no need to end your existence, Rayven. Simply bring her over."
"No."
"You would give up immortality for this woman?"
"Do not mock me, Lysandra. Have you never been in love?"
"You surprise me, Rayven. I did not think our kind was capable of such a human emotion."
"I wish that were true." He ran a hand through his hair. "I cannot bear it anymore. I want you to end it.
Now."
"Why not stay here, with me instead?" she suggested. "We could hunt together." She placed her hands on his chest and looked up at him, her dark eyes alight. Her hands slid seductively down his chest, over his belly. "And play together."
Slowly, deliberately, he removed her hands from his body. "I did not come here looking for a hunting partner, nor a bed partner, only a way to end what I am."
He stared at her, watched the emotions chase across her face - disappointment that he would not hunt the night with her, anger because he had scorned her affection, a flicker of confusion because she could not understand his desire to end his existence.
And then he saw the blood lust rise in her eyes, quelling all other emotions. Her lips drew back in a feral smile, exposing her fangs.
He knew a moment of fear, a wave of gut-wrenching regret that he would never see Rhianna again, and then he bared his throat, wondering what it would be like to feel Lysandra's teeth tearing at his flesh again after so many years.
"No!" Rhianna woke, a scream on her lips. "Rayven, don't!"
Moments later, Bevins burst into the room, the candle in his hand sending a wash of yellow light over Rhianna's face. She had lost weight in the weeks since Rayven had left her. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, eyes that were haunted with sadness. He feared for her health, yet nothing he did, nothing Montroy did, had been able to assuage her grief.
"What's wrong?" he asked, searching the shadows for the source of her distress.
"Rayven..." She stared at him through eyes wide with terror. "He's in danger."
Bevins set the candlestick on the table beside the bed. " 'Tis just a dream, milady."
"No." She shook her head. "No, it was real."
"There, there, milady. I'm sure he's fine."
"No." She shook her head again. "Can you not feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"He wants to die." She screamed Rayven's name aloud. "I will not live without him." She stared, unseeing, into the night, her hands clenched into tight fists. "Do you hear me, Rayven, I will not live without you!"
She sobbed his name one more time, then collapsed on the bed.
"Milady." Bevins bent over her, frightened by the sudden lack of color in her face, the slackness of her skin. He shook her slightly, shook her again when there was no response. "Rhianna!"
He shivered as a cold chill swept through the room and knew, in his heart, that she was right. Rayven was seeking to end his existence.
And Rhianna was going to meet him there.
"Not here," Lysandra said. She ran her nails down the length of his neck. "Come."
He followed Lysandra to her lair, stretched out on the red velvet settee that was the room's only furnishing save for a sleek mahogany coffin.
Lysandra sat beside him, her fangs bared, her breath coming hard and fast in anticipation. She would drink his blood, drain him to the point of death, and in so doing, she would gain the strength he had accumulated in the last four centuries. And then, when he was too weak to resist, she would carry him outside and leave him there. The sun would do the rest, burning away all evidence that he had ever existed.
He stared into Lysandra's face. Her black eyes burned with the hunger. His fists curled in the folds of his cloak as he felt Lysandra's hand move in his hair, lightly stroking, and he imagined it was another hand, Rhianna's hand.
Rhianna... Rhianna...
He felt the whisper of Lysandra's breath against his cheek, felt her lips, cool as a winter wind, brush his.
Cold, he thought, when Rhianna's had ever been warm.
He flinched as Lysandra's hands folded over his shoulders, holding him in place. He had forgotten how strong she was.
Rhianna... Rhianna...
"Do it," he said, and closed his eyes.
He swallowed against the fear rising within him as he felt the prick of Lysandra's fangs against his throat.
There was a sharp pain, the sensation of blood being drawn from his body. He forced himself to relax.
This was what he wanted, an end to his wretched existence, the sweet oblivion of eternity.
He felt himself sinking into a swirling red mist, felt himself growing weak, weaker. Pleasure wrapped itself around the darkness, and he knew a moment of gratitude that she had decided to be kind and not cruel.
It was fitting, he mused, that he should find oblivion in the arms of the one who had made him.
Tremors wracked his body. Cold devoured him. Rhianna... Rhianna ... He would never see her face again, never feel her warmth, see her smile. He began to struggle as his body's instinct for self-preservation took over. He felt Lysandra's hands tighten on his shoulders as he tried to escape her hold, felt his cloak gather around him, enfolding him, loving him, and he knew the end was near.
Rayven! Rayyen! I will not live without you.Her voice, crying in his mind. Rayven, come back to me.
He tried to open his eyes, tried to fight his way through the smothering layers of darkness that dragged him toward eternity, but he lacked the strength. His heartbeat was slow and heavy in his chest. As from far away, he heard Lysandra's voice.
"I hope you find the peace you seek on the other side."
He wanted to speak to her, to tell her he had changed his mind, that Rhianna needed him, but he was empty, helpless. He had a sense of movement and knew Lysandra was carrying him outside. She carried him effortlessly, moving with preternatural speed through the dark streets.
He felt the wind upon his face, as cold and final as death itself, as she carried him away from her house, out of the city, into the middle of a graveyard that had been abandoned long ago. The sun would find him there, find him and destroy him, leaving no trace behind.
He was aware of Lysandra bending over him, felt the brush of her lips against his one last time. He could feel the vibration of her footsteps as she walked away, leaving him alone in the stillness of the night, alone to face the dawn.
Rhianna...
He was alone, weightless, helpless, floating in a sea of darkness that had no beginning and no end. The scent of damp earth and grass teased his nostrils, reminding him of the newness of life, of all that was forever lost to him.
Rayven! Come back to me. I will not live without you...
Rhianna's voice echoed in his mind, over and over again, filling him with soul-deep regret and the knowledge that, in seeking to end his own life, he had failed her.
Hours passed. He began to shiver uncontrollably. He curled into a tight ball, drawing his cloak around him. Rhianna's voice pounded in his head, begging him not to leave her.
Rayven, don't leave me... Please... Come back to me...
Her heartbeat echoed in his mind, growing ever weaker, until it beat in time with his, slow and heavy, and he knew that when death found him, it would find her, as well.
Rhianna... Rhianna..."Forgive me..."
