Eve’s sylph drew near.

The emissary is mortal, disciple.

“Yes.”

The shadow waited.

“Andreas knows that the decisions of the council are inviolate, Mistress. He has no choice but to obey.” There was the sound of grinding molars. Aemaelia doubted her own power for the first time in decades.

In doubt, there is only weakness. Andreas is the catalyst. He will bring the downfall of all in his failing. The only choice is the death or conversion of the emissary. The seraphim has taken female form and abandoned innocence even in this brief moment of mortality! Yet, he hesitates.

“I will not allow it! I would sacrifice any to protect our kind, Mistress! He will pay dearly for his transgression, council or no council!”

Aemaelia shook with anger. She had been unable to feed; her obsession with the heavenly interloper consumed her. She knew that she had been mistaken in allowing the council to give Andreas the choice in undoing his blunder.

Hunt, my minion. You are beyond your time and you will require control in this battle.

Aemaelia felt the shade dissipate. She reached out to trace the chiseled surface of the orb. When her delicate fingers found the points of the blood teeth they found a spot that had remained sharp and it sliced into the pad of her index finger. She brought it to her mouth. Her dilute blood felt pathetic and weak to her own palate and she swept angrily from the room. She stalked determinately through stairways and long halls, those she passed stepping quickly from her path. Her power preceded her, and she cut a wide swath as she found her way to the rooms she called her own. She stripped the lovely velvet dress from her slim figure and dressed in jeans, boots and t-shirt. She despised the garb of this age; it was ugly and she avoided going out in public specifically for this reason. Often her subjects offered her their prizes, sharing conquests, but tonight she required solitude, and had no desire to divide the spoils. She combed her fingers through her hair, letting it fall below her waist; the length and thickness of that honey-colored fall attracted boys more than her slim figure ever could.

She left the Serpent, looking for all the world like the fourteen year old she had once been, her smooth innocent face betrayed no hint of the power within. Woe to the first solitary human she encountered.


While Aemaelia hunted young boys and pedophiles, Andreas Regali woke in the silence of his inner chamber from confusing and disturbing dreams. Beside him, Chiara still slept, curled contentedly on her side, her hair spread like flames across the pillows, and mixed oddly with his own. He heard her heart beating slowly, watched the pulse in her temple for a moment, and then turned away. Hunger rose dragon-like in him, pushing rudely to the forefront of his mind. Quickly and quietly, he rose and dressed. Beyond the window, he felt that the chill of autumn had crept again into the city. He snatched the black leather duster from the chair and stalked, his manner mimicking Aemaelia in his determination, out into the night.

His steps took him once again to the alleyway that Chiara had occupied. He passed it, feeling no trace of her attacker in the concrete beneath his feet. Within blocks, he had reached the edges of Central Park. He slowed and listened, joggers thumped rhythmically through the trails, horse drawn carriages wandered with tourists, and lovers cuddled on benches, but none called to him. He walked on, letting the hunger lead him this once, and at last, he saw them.

Just beyond the pathway, a couple argued.

“I can’t stay like this, Derrick!” the female voice was pleading, but she kept her tone low. She clearly wanted to keep the argument private. Andreas crept upon them silently, and they came into full view. A tall, brutish man hulked menacingly over a small woman. He held his fists clenched at his sides and he was radiating a dangerous anger. The girl that had spoken sported a spectacular black eye and swollen, split lip poorly covered with makeup. Andreas felt little more from her than a tiny flitting wisp of hope and resignation. She knew that this would be their last confrontation. She was pretty in a sad way; her blond hair was in a haphazard ponytail, her blouse buttoned wrong, and her jeans were ill fitting, as though she had lost weight quickly and been unable to purchase more.

“You know better, Bitch,” Derrick growled. “You and me, we’re not done unless I say it.” His voice sounded like the whisper of razors over the barber’s belt, and Andreas knew that this girl was finished; either now or within months. She would fold her hand and stay, receiving ever more severe beatings, or she would stand her ground here and this animal would turn her slight form to pulp in the next moment or two. Andreas stayed within the cover of the trees, but came close enough to see that the girl had packed a duffle bag with her few belongings. Derrick had caught her with it, obviously, because it now lay twenty feet from her, its contents scattered in the bushes and trash.

“Please,” she whispered, but her tone was losing strength, and her shoulders slumped.

“C’mon, Allie,” the brute had the balls to sound like a chiding parent. “Let’s get you home. Get the whuppin’ over with, then it’ll be done.” Stupefied by the Neanderthal’s careless reference to his abuse, he stepped from his vantage point and walked casually into the pool of light cast by a nearby street lamp. As always, his manner remained inscrutable, and, hoping this mostruosità would attack, he kept his power in check.

“Mister,” Allie whispered. “Don’t.”

Derrick turned, blocking Andreas’ view of the girl and her injuries. He was easily 6’4”, and his manner radiated violence. Finally, Andreas thought, unleash it…This cowardly trash would hardly be missed, and he would feel the fear he had propagated.

“This is a private discussion, Dickhead,” Derrick snarled, his dim features lighting with the prospect of confrontation.

Andreas only smiled. He kept his blood teeth sheathed, yet the slow grin caused Derrick to back up a half step. His thick brow furrowed, and he brought his fists up to compensate. The strike, precise as it was, thrown from his shoulder, yet the brute’s face opened in comical surprise when he found his target had relocated. In an instant, Andreas had kicked his knees from behind, forcing Derrick to fall heavily to the ground. The pressure of his hands alone kept the brute from rising. He could hear Derrick’s heart thundering, fear building, arcing through his mind, and for once Andreas enjoyed terrorizing his prey. He glanced at the girl behind them. Her face was impassive. She watched the bully’s comeuppance without comment.

“Know only that your death will free her, Scemo,” Andreas growled into his ear. “Beyond that, you will disappear into the memory of few, and you are missed by none!” The vitale, his heart-blood, called, and Andreas let his hunger follow into the blackness, and he lost himself to the singular pleasure of Derrick’s death. A snake-like plunge and the sweet flood gushed into his mouth. A vampire has the ability to make feeding painless and even enjoyable. This prey felt the taking in its entirety. In the heightened plane of sensation that a vampire's touch creates, the tearing of skin over the vessels of the neck felt and sounded similar to heavy linen pierced with a thick seamstress' needle. Without the goodwill of the vampire, the shock brought on by the injury could not numb the area, and the sternocleidomastoid muscle that controlled and supported his head shrieked in protest of the invasion. In response to the hurt, his body flooded the torn area with blood and compounds to combat the injury, each pump of his heart filling the killer's mouth with sustenance. Andreas gulped, trembling with pleasure, and then pried the wound open further, feeling muscle and sinew tear with its awful sound of butchery.

With Derrick's heart stuttering in its final seizure, Andreas let him fall and his body thudded heavily to the ground. Andreas felt the strength and peace of satiety infuse his body as he straightened and turned to face Derrick’s former punching bag. She was quietly rescuing her scattered clothing, trying to fit them into her duffle. He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. She avoided his eyes not from fear, but of habit. As a male, she assumed he would want to claim his prize. She had not processed the manner of Derrick’s death, only its occurrence.

“What do you want?” she asked quietly. There was no challenge, just the question. Andreas said nothing, only cupping her wan face in his long-fingered hands and brought her gaze to his face. Her fledgling will collapsed immediately—her pale blue eyes were blank in an instant. He caught her as she swooned and brought her wrist to his mouth. His blood teeth barely pierced the skin of her wrist, and he sipped superficially—just enough to gain the power to give her peace in forgetfulness.

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