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Beyond Nocturne Ch. 01

By: bluefox07



"The Color of Blood"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

Author's Note:

"This was one of the first stories I posted back in 2004. I'm currently working on the novelization of this short story, which was easily one of the more popular ones I did. Cheers!"

***

Lydia Renee stood quietly in the downpour, relaxed in the eave of a small bookstore, her eyes alive and silent, her presence unnoticed. It seemed like thousands of people walked by her, each one of them consumed by their own thoughts and passions. She could easily enough peer into their minds and read their innermost thoughts with a simple thought, but often knowing what they were thinking wasn't enough. She needed to feel the power behind those thoughts, the emotions that fueled them.

Would the fat man at the corner decide to have pork or beef for dinner? Would the woman in the gray trench coat stepping into the cab actually cheat on her husband with her boss? A young girl waiting for the bus not more than ten feet away was deeply considering suicide. The man behind her could only fix his eyes on her ass, lusting after her even as thoughts of his wife and children flashed before his eyes.

Lydia could feel them all as they passed by, their emotional states radiating off their bodies in an unseen electrical field. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened every time she came in contact with that field. It was a physical reaction to the intangible qualities of the human spirit, qualities that because of her very nature, she could somehow quantify into substance. The heat of anger burned on her skin, the coldness of despair and grief could chill her and the fires of passion affected her as if it were her very own.

She stepped out into the sea of faces and began walking, her hands held out slightly as she the electricity of their souls pass through her. Would the fat man at the corner decide to have pork or beef for dinner? Would the woman in the gray trench coat stepping into the cab actually cheat on her husband with her boss? The young girl waiting for the bus deeply considered suicide as the man behind her could only fix his eyes on her ass, lusting after her even as thoughts of his wife and children flashed before his eyes.

Lydia turned away, feeling the pressure of all these people multiplying as she opened herself up to them, trying to understand them. She had once known what it meant to be one of them, but that understanding had been lost with her humanity a long time ago. It was now only a concept that came to her in dreams, and even then so fragile that even looking at it in would cause it to evaporate from her mind as if it had never existed. She hoped to find in these humans the answers to her questions.

But thus far she had rarely seen anything but anger, hate and hypocrisy. With each man and woman that passed by, she found more and more reason to forsake that understanding of what it is to be human. Occasionally, she would touch upon a child, simple and innocent, too young to have been marked the world yet. She would relish those moments, because they were few and far between. When it did happen, it made her heart beat just a little faster. With that small change, she knew she was still alive. 

But still, there were no answers for her. 

At least not yet.

The rain splashed on her head and trickled down her face, the length of her neck and into the folds of her coat and shirt. A single drop made it past the neck of the white blouse shirt and rolled into the deep crevasse of her breasts. A shudder ran through her as the cool rain droplet warmed against her skin and then disappeared. She supposed that everyone, man and beast, was like a water droplet, falling, gaining speed from the infinite cradle of it's creation and then colliding with destiny. It didn't matter what happened after that because the same thing happens to every drop of rain that has ever fallen from the heavens. And when it has returned to the sky, it falls again starting the cycle anew.

It was such a cliché. Profound perhaps, but a cliché nonetheless.

Lydia swam in the crowd, and with a small groan she felt the thirst inside of her stir. It clenched her, making her both nauseous and aroused at the same time. It was so seductive in it's reasoning, trying to hide the evil of it's being by promising such pleasure and satisfaction if she would only hunt. Her hands curled into fists inside the warm pockets of her black overcoat, her mind considering the inevitable series of events that was about to unfold. 

She hated the part of herself that craved like this, possessed by an insatiable need to hunt and feed. It was the dark side of her gift, or rather the telepathy she so enjoyed was a side effect of this black disease inside her. She had come to love the ability to feel other people's thoughts, and as long she never opened herself up too much to all the voices, she could amuse herself for hours listening. Sometimes, when she actually found someone who wasn't demented, crazy, hateful, sadistic or lecherous, she could almost feel normal again.

But that never lasted very long... there was always the thirst.

She passed a phone both, strangely luminescent with it's neon lighting and bright blue billboard sign that read PACBELL. In the reflection of the glass, she saw the lights of the streets, buildings and cars distort into an abstract world, a world in which she was the center of all things. Her reflection regarded her, a questioning expression on its face as she cocked her head and looked at herself. She saw her thick auburn hair was wet, hanging and dripping from her skull, her light blue eyes still eerily bright in this gray world of reflections. Her skin was milky and pure, eternally the age of twenty-five for the rest of her life and preserved like a porcelain doll. That was she felt most of the time, empty and hollow like a porcelain doll. 

Her lips were full and naturally red. Though they once had seen birth to a thousand different laughs, passing so often as to create slight lines around the corners, there was no smile to be found now. Her reflection leered a hateful smile back at her anyway.

The memories of her first kill began to filter through again. She closed her eyes as the nightmare played out across her mind's eye in a brief eternal second...

Suddenly, she feels a presence in the back of her mind. 

Lydia glances around as rain pelts her skin, her eyes scanning the crowd for the origin of this new feeling. She can tell that whomever she is sensing is a man, a very strong man by the radiance of heat she now feels inside. She slowly turns and seeks him out in the ever-changing sea of people. In her mind's eye, she can see his face as being broad, strong and with kind eyes. She can almost taste the blood pumping through his veins, as though she had just bitten him. 

He was so close. 

Her heart pounds as she searches the crowd. She walks further down the street and realizes he is within a foot or two of her. An electric sensation snaps and arcs through her body as gooseflesh breaks out across her skin. Her nipples harden involuntarily as her mind reaches out for him and touches him. Lydia licks her lips as her thirst becomes intoxicating. She knows she should not do this, that she should go and hunt elsewhere. 

But he is irresistible.

His elbow grazes her arm as he briskly walks past her, head tilted down in the upturned lapels of his dark pea coat. A matching knit cap is pulled down close to his skull. The man is tall, at least six foot and has dark features, eyebrows and a goatee to match the pitch black of his clothes. Like her, he is clothed in dark garments to better blend in with the world around him. He doesn't want to be noticed.

He stops at a coffee stand.

Lydia watches him breathlessly, trying to subdue the rabid thirst building inside her chest. He has no malice in him, no anger. He is a simple heart that desires only the simple things in life. His blood is pure and untainted, a life force untouched by the essence of another woman. Lydia cannot believe that a man like this, despite his beauty, is a virgin. 

The thirst is becoming unbearable as she walks over to him, observing her prey. She runs her tongue along the edges of her teeth, taking care to not cut herself on the two elongated canines that had become a part of her life a few days ago. She hates the craving inside her, the simple argument it makes to her in the hopes of being satiated for a few days.

"Hello," Lydia smiles warmly and stands beside him casually.

He turns, a little startled at her voice, and then relaxes. He is even more handsome up close, his face clear of blemishes and young. His eyes are almost as black as the night itself, showing know signs of his irises. His neck is thick, and beneath his pale skin she can see traces of the blue veins carrying his blood.

"Hi," he replies, smiling courteously. His gaze lingers for a moment, uncertain and suddenly suspicious.

"What kind of coffee you drink?" she asks, sensing a fear inside him, a fear of her. Does he know what she is? Can he sense the unrelenting thirst that was consuming her?

"Just good old black coffee," he says amiably and hands the vendor a five-dollar bill. The vendor makes the change and gives it back.

"You got a name?" Lydia asks bluntly.

The man eyes her for a second and then says, "Steve."

Lydia knows he is telling the truth.

"My name is Lydia," she says as she pulls her umbrella out from under her long, black coat. "Care to share?"

Steve looks at her hair. "It must not be a very good umbrella, you're soaked."

"Sometimes I just like to play in the rain."

Steve smiles, and she feels some of the fear go away.

"I'd like that," he says finally.

Lydia pops the umbrella open and they walk together. She lets herself slip slowly into his mind and begin soothing him, preparing him for the moment. She isn't even aware she is doing it at first. There is no resistance to her intrusion, if he even was aware of it. She begin to stimulate him with vivid images of sex. She slipped images of herself naked into his mind, her soft skin backlit by some ethereal light causing it glow. In these fleeting visions, her full breasts were hanging freely in the almost tangible light, her nipples erect and begging for his touch. To her surprise, she was enjoying the imagery almost as much as he was.

'Don't do this,' a small voice called from the back of her mind dismally, 'you know this is wrong. Don't do this...'

"What do you do?" she asked as she tried to justify what she was about to do.

"Huh?" Steve stammered, almost dropping his coffee.

"I asked what do you do?"

"I'm an architect," he said and tried to not stare at her. Steve cleared his throat and as he walked, he clearly tried to re-adjust himself.

"That's great," she smiled. Lydia had made it a point, ever since she had first been turned, never to hunt the innocent. It had been the only she could accept what she had to do in order to survive. It was the only way she could go to sleep and not feel like committing suicide over what she was. Lydia knew it was a shitty deal all the around, this business of murdering to stay alive. But she could not fight off the inevitability of what the thirst would make her do any more than she could stop breathing air. 

Her stomach clenched violently and she almost doubled over as the thirst demanded attention. Lydia was running out of time and her desperation to know this man better and taste him broke down the logic that kept her from killing the innocent. Her mind screamed to stop, begged her not to commit to this act, but she was falling to temptation. When the sun set tomorrow night, when she awoke from her sleep, she knew that she would regret her impulsive and selfish decisions tonight.

With a simple thought that she could hardly believe she was thinking, she caused the essence of his sexuality to flood through his body, enriching his blood. If she had wanted, she could have made him orgasm right there. She knew it would only take the right amount of stimulation. The mind is a powerful device, the translation of what is real and what is not. Steve trusted his own thoughts like everyone else did, but he could not know that he was beginning to trust Lydia in the same way.

"You look so familiar to me," he cleared his throat, a blush rising to his cheeks. Lydia began creating memories of them together, as though she had been his lover for years. She twisted his past to include her, to include the passion that she so desperately wanted for herself but could never have. And as she instinctively manipulated the fabric of his being, she found that she could barely hear that small voice of protest. It was an echo now, lost in the rage of her vampiric thirst.

"Well, I should Steve," she said innocently and then added, "We've only been dating for six years."

He looked confused for a moment, and Lydia thought maybe she had underestimated him. She could feel him thinking about what she had just said, part of him knowing it wasn't true and yet unable to deny the new memories she had implanted into him. As they walked, she could see him processing the information and digesting it, coming to terms with it and finally accepting it. Finally, he looked over at her and smiled sheepishly. "What a stupid question."

"No kidding," Lydia breathed as they continued walking. The lights from the surrounding buildings were reflecting off the deep puddles of rainwater as the gutters started to overflow from the torrential downpour. Lydia saw her distorted reflection in the water briefly and then looked away. She could not bear to see the monster within.

They walked several blocks out of the downtown area to one of the residential neighborhoods. Fat drops of water formed and plummeted from the leaves and branches of the large oak trees that lined the street. The street lamps buzzed and hummed to life, slowly casting warm sodium light into the streets as the day died and night returned. He lived in a complex that probably boasted ten or twelve upscale town houses and stood out like pale white ghosts against the shadows surrounding them. 

As they walked up the path to his front door, Lydia holding his hand gently in her own, Michael rambled on about his day. She knew that she had no right to be listening to him, no right to share in his life as though she were a welcomed part of it. What she was doing was wrong all the way around, and there was a part of heart that knew that. Perhaps that's why the thirst gagged and hid that part of her, shoving it away with reckless hate and need. The thirst needed no conscience to feed and made sure that Lydia was sufficiently dulled, at least until the deed was done and it was satisfied.

I'm weak, she smiled at Steve as they reached the door to his home. Her mouth felt dry and felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her cheeks. She thought, I'm sorry Steve.

Lydia opened her coat as they stood under the eave of the front porch to reveal her leather vest and pants. She wore a white, billowy shirt that had been made in a different time, a keepsake from her childhood. The fabric was sleek and silky, almost as silky as her pale skin. Her breasts were pushed together and very generously revealed by the open v-neck of the tunic and vest she wore. Steve only could stare as they walked inside.

Lydia stretched out with her mind, and held her grip on him. Her prey looked to her with hungry eyes and smiled as he pulled his keys out of his jacket. Steve fumbled with the keys for a moment, his hands trembling until finally he found the right key and unlocked the door. He stepped inside and turned when Lydia stood where she was on the front porch.

"You coming in?" he asked, believing now that she was in fact his beloved girlfriend of six years so whole heartedly that she could feel a pang of rejection from him when she wouldn't come in.

"Well since you seemed to have forgotten who I am," she said slyly, all the while hating herself more and more with each passing second, "You'll just have to invite me in."

"Please come in," he said immediately and held his hand out to her.

Lydia smiled warmly and took his hand as she walked in. Steve closed the door and they were in the dark, the only light in the hall a hot orange glow from the neon sign across the street flooding in the series of windows that framed the left side of the door. The rain was driving hard in a sudden wind as it spattered against the windowpanes. She didn't look at his furnishings or décor and she stopped him in the small hallway that led to the living room. The less she knew about him, the easier it would be. 

Lydia placed her hands on either side of his face, her fingers spread out as her palms grazed the prickly stubble on his cheeks. His blood was racing through his body, fueled by an unnatural attraction to her that she had forced on him. His breath was hot against his lips as she drew his face near to her own, her hands steady against his skin but unable to stop the impulses surging through her body.

Lydia kissed him gently on the lips in a slow roll of her tongue, deliberately taking her time as he placed his hands on her hips.

It's wrong, she thought weakly as her body suddenly heated up, a blush rising from deep inside her long-frozen heart. 

The feeling was so alien, so inherently mysterious that she almost drew back from him. She had not been ready to feel the emotions that she now sadly remembered went hand in hand with seduction. She had been killing predators for so long now that she had forgotten about sex, let alone the wonderfully simple sensations such as the brush of a man's lips against her own. Hundreds of years hunting the refuse of society had left her lobotomized on the subject of affection and tenderness. Never once had she had to lure a criminal, rapist or molester to her through the means she had utilized tonight.

But who was the predator now? Lydia fought off that thought as she allowed herself to experience the feelings of a first kiss again. Again, she was convicted by her morality and she recoiled from the guilt over her actions. But the thirst knew no master, not for her or anyone else like her.

She took off his hat and removed his jacket. She could feel his sculpted body under the dress shirt he wore, and the bulge in his slacks against her thigh. Steve responded quickly as he began undoing her vest, tugging at her shirt, finally able to act out on the images that had been storming his mind for the last half hour. His need for her was ravenous as they kissed, undoing each other's clothes. Lydia felt herself enjoying him and the sexual sensations sparked throughout her body. She felt the thirst beginning to overtake her.

Not yet, she thought, not yet...

Lydia let her shirt fall away and down her arms. She looked at Steve and reached behind her back, her fingers seeking out the hooks of her lacy white bra. She deftly unclasped the hooks and slid her bra off. Her heart was hammering in her chest relentlessly as she revealed herself to this stranger. You don't have to do this, she reasoned as a shiver electrified her flesh, you don't have to do all this. Just feed and go. Don't violate him like this. Please. 

Lydia dropped the garment to the floor and watched as Steve looked her over, drinking in the curves of her heavy breasts. She surprised herself as a genuine moan escaped from her throat as he placed his large, rough hands on her swells and cupped her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing as she tried to reason, to put some sort of logic to why she was doing this. But all she could do was tentatively explore the feelings this man had awakened in her. Her inner sex was alive again, her womanhood slowly waking up and heating her soul again.


Beyond Nocturne Ch. 01



You could leave right now, she thought, you could leave him right now and go find a couple gang bangers to drain dry...

But I miss this, she replied to that small voice that had somehow escaped the bondage of the thirst, I miss knowing what it is to be loved...

This isn't love, the voice told her, This is a lie.

Lydia looked into his eyes as he massaged her breasts and gently kneaded them with a tenderness she had never known existed until now. He seemed so sincere as he touched her, and that sincerity both intensified her need for him and her guilt over her actions. Lydia could hardly breathe as the battle for Steve's life raged inside. It was a losing battle to be sure, and she knew this even before she gave in and released her body to the thirst.

Steve knelt down and began kissing her left breast delicately, working his tongue over and around her sensitive nub in small circles. Lydia tilted her head back, completely lost in his touch and a powerless slave against her nature. Before her mind clouded over with the blind physical attraction she was feeling, she felt the need to cry, to lash out and mourn this man. She knew that when this was done, he would be dead. She would be truly guilty of murder and that would be the simple truth. 

She pulled him up and began to undo his slacks. When the belt wouldn't give, she sighed and flexed the powerful muscles in the fingers of her right hand. A moment later, five one-inch long claws sprang out of small openings in each of her finger tips. With one deft move, she sliced the leather of the belt. The claws retracted immediately as the fabric and leather ripped part under her otherworldly strength. Amazingly, he didn't even get scratched in the process and never saw her nails retract. He wore no underwear, and the sight of his manhood made her flush red.

"Hey, those were good pants," he protested as Lydia tore his shirt off, exposing his body. She felt the lust inside her becoming as prominent as the craving for his blood. Lydia kicked her boots off and removed her pants as they embraced as lovers. Their skin was a conductor, a perfect channel in which their sexual energy could pass and jolt their bodies. They back up through the living room, never breaking the kiss and somehow made it to his bedroom. She threw him to the bed and felt dizzy from all the wild sensations that were overwhelming her. 

Time seemed to slow down as she felt closed her eyes and felt them coupling. Her heavy breathing echoed through her mind like a voice in an amphitheater as the distinctive feeling of being penetrated tickled her. Thus followed the hot presence of Steve within, not just physically but emotionally now, the both of them truly connected and sealed as they expressed their feelings. 

It's a lie, an echo faded away just beyond her hearing.

Lydia could feel Steve's heart racing as she found her rhythm and made love to him, her hands braced against his chest. It was beating so hard, so furiously as they joined. She could sense his feelings for her, and now she realized that they were feelings he too had long been denied. He was a lonely man, forever apart from other people and yet desperately wanting to be with someone. He wanted to be loved as badly Lydia wanted to be, maybe even more so. And Lydia was taking advantage of that very human need now.

She wanted to believe that what he was feeling for her was real, that she had somehow earned it and it was as pure as he believed it was. But she knew better. She that no matter what happened, his love for her had been planned and artificially cultured. It had been an elaborate hoax to hide the fact that she wanted to take something from him that did not belong to her. 

But oh, how she wanted to believe.

She felt the stab of self-loathing as she tilted her head back and shook under the heat boiling up inside her. She felt a sudden bloom of intense heat from her inner sex, an undeniable flowering of a seed long since forgotten. Her lips trembled and she knew that she was close to the plateau of a climax. A wave of sadness threatening to crest the physical fire of her fruition rose up against her. She ran her hands over her body, slick with a fine mist of sweat and struggled to find some way to keep from shaking as she was. She slid her hands up to her neck, feeling the twin puncture wounds just below her right ear

In the middle of the storm inside as she reached her point of no return, Steve spoke three simple words that cut through her heart like a hot blade and changed her life forever. He whispered, "I love you."

Lydia paused for a moment, and realized that she had just destroyed him. She had violated him not only physically and mentally but now emotionally as well. The power she felt inside him was love, and it was a gift he had been saving for someone else. It was a simple, priceless treasure that she had exploited and plundered. She had taken his most precious possession from him and now, as she stood poised to take his life along with it, she felt pure unbridled hate for what she had become.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

I love you...

She threw her head back as the orgasm seared through her body.

I love you...

Lydia cried out.

I love you, he echoed in her mind as her body was ravaged under the heat of her culmination.

Her teeth unsheathed, growing longer and she could hold back no more. 

"I'm so sorry," she wept and buried her fangs in Steve's neck as deep as they could go. She ravenously fed on him, swept away in a bloodlust that seemed to go on forever. His blood exploded from the wounds and pumped out in a long stream from under the seal of her lips to his skin. She drank deep, his connection to her ebbing and losing power as he struggled against her. He convulsed and tried to hit her as she fed on him, and she could sense his mind spinning as he screamed in pain and ecstasy. Ecstasy turned to fear as the toxin secreted from her fangs paralyzed him. 

Lydia was an animal now, her humanity shredded and reduced to nothing more than a memory as the thirst commanded her and took control of her ever action. After a few futile jerks and spasms he slowly began to be still. Gurgling, shallow breaths bubbled from his mouth as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and snail-trailed to his ear. His beautiful black eyes rolled back into his head as she drained him, his skin turning a pale white as his life slowly left his body.

I love you, he had said to her.

Of all things Lydia had imagined saying in response to that very rare phrase over the last three hundred years, "I'm so sorry" was the very last reply she had ever wanted to give. Nevertheless, it was the honest truth. She was so very sorry for what she had done.

I am sorry, she thought as her cold tears ran down her face and mixed with his blood, I'm weak and sorry.

She continued for an hour, sucking and feeding, appeasing the darkness within as she clasped his dying body to her own. She would not let him become what she was; she could at least give him that. She would kill him and spare a lifetime of loneliness and hate. She would make certain that the virus that damned her to eternal hell on earth could not establish itself in this man's body. No matter what, he would not suffer her evil anymore than he had to.

A strangled gurgling sound drifted from his open throat as his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Lydia felt the essence of his life pass out of him like a warm breeze and into the next life, a place she was cursed to never see. She envied him. 

One last rattling breath hailed his departure from this world, and he was no more.

Lydia stood up, naked and streaked with blood. Her eyes glowed blue, and reflected in the window of his bedroom. She looked down at his body and the horrible wound she had made, so bright and raw against the white skin of his corpse. Tears were flowing heavily down her face as she came back to her senses. Lydia clasped a hand to her face, covering her mouth as she tried to control the sobs that heaved her chest. Her eyes burned with tears and her stomach felt sick despite the content fullness of her thirst.

She knew the police would be here soon. She suspected that his neighbors probably heard him scream when she bit him. Even if they didn't, hanging around the scene of a murder was never a good idea. She walked around the bed and mourned this stranger. She placed her hand gently on his chest over where his heart was now silent and still and cold. She leaned in and put her lips to his in a kiss that she knew she did not have any right giving him. The kiss last only for a moment and then she closed his eyes with a delicate sweep of her fingers. She stood back and could look at him no more. She covered him with one of his blue satin sheets and left him there.

She had committed murder. 

The thirst had been fulfilled, but it was still murder no matter what anyone said or how she tried to justify it. Steve hadn't been a rapist or wife beater or sex offender. He was an innocent man who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. After a few minutes of standing there, she decided to stop rationalizing it. She was a murderer, and she felt it was disrespecting him even more by trying to label it as anything else. 

She showered in his bathroom, her body caressed and soothed by the stream of hot water. The blood fell from her body as she washed the physical evidence of her sin off. The blood-tainted water circled around the drain and disappeared into the blackness and out of sight but unfortunately not from memory. It swirled the open hole in a hideous vortex that cried out her guilt. That steady jet of hot water caressed her skin and enveloped her in a plume of steam. 

She had become accustomed to killing, to taking lives and feeding. Her prey had always been men of a murderous nature, wife beaters, rapists, and criminals. Lydia had consoled herself and justified her actions by attacking people who sought to hurt and take life. Their blood, soured by their malevolence was never as fulfilling as the pure, sweet blood of the innocent. But she knew if she crossed that line, if she started feeding on the innocent and giving in to the thirst completely as she had so foolishly done tonight, she would lose what little bit of herself she had been able to hold on to.

So Lydia went after the evil in the world, searching for atonement in weeding out the bad. Really, she was doing society a favor, she had reasoned. The world loses two more assholes a week every week, and she got to live that much longer. She had feasted on the bad men of the world for over three hundred years now across two continents. She had saved lives, and she had known the appreciation of those spared by her nocturnal nature. Sometimes she even felt like she was winning over the darkness in her heart. Sometimes, she almost felt like a hero.

But not tonight. 

Tonight her dark half had gotten the best of her so easily that she was in shock. Tonight she had crossed her own self-imposed line. She had fed on an innocent man. A good man.

Lydia dressed and left the apartment, taking great care not to look back at the man she had just murdered. 

Once she was back out on the street, she found the rain had stopped and a lonely fog was rolling in from the ocean. It was viscous and thick, seeming to have a life all it's own. She walked away as the sounds of approaching wailing sirens filled the night. The police were racing to the scene, hoping to save a life and nab a bad guy. They would bring forensic experts and investigators but would find nothing. They would never find fingerprints or DNA samples, as she had none to give. She was a vampire, a creature outside of humanity and therefore no longer subject to what made a woman human. 

Inside her, she felt the darkness abated and slumbering silently, giving her peace for now. As she walked down the street, she felt a new emptiness inside her. The moments in which she had felt Steven's misguided love for her had touched her deeply, and as result left a scar. 

"Maybe that's the price I have to pay for this," she said to no one, turning down a blind alley and letting the shadows hide her. She added, "Maybe to be damned is to never know love again."

For all the amazing things she could do, for all her strength and knowledge and intuition, she couldn't hold the thirst back. She had let her guard down for a moment, and it had slipped by like an experience thief.

She thought again of Steven and wept.



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 02



"THE DRAWING OF FOUR"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

"While a lot of the people who have followed this series guessed the meaning of the subtitle to this chapter, some found it vague. It simply refers to the full introduction of the four main characters, Lydia, Michael, Maricel and Steven into the story. Also, I've put the original opening back in because I think it establishes some important facts about Michael's character that come up in the later chapters. Thanks everyone!"

***

The late hours of night slowly changed over to the early moments of morning.

Michael Wolverton lay back on his couch, arms comfortably behind his head, naked and completely content. His short dark hair was wet with perspiration, his strong features caught up in the intense physical feelings he was experiencing. His trim body was taut and expectant, waiting for the inevitable.

He settled back into the cushions as Miranda George sucked on his almost painfully erect seven and a half inch cock. She had a special knack for knowing just how to swirl her tongue over his head and send shivers up his spine to the base of his neck where the hair would stand at attention until she finally made him orgasm. When they had first met, Michael had no idea they would end up being lovers. Still, he had secretly fantasized about her full lips and had undressed her fully rounded figure on many occasions. He'd had plenty of chances to do it too, as they both worked together for the San Francisco Police Department.

After his marriage had gone south, Michael finally found himself able to approach Miranda one night after his shift ended. She was working the front desk as she always had done since he started there. Michael asked her out for a cup of coffee, and they ended up fucking until breakfast the next morning.

"Shit," Michael smiled. The slurping sounds coming from his groin was an extra incentive for him to cum. Miranda was one of those quiet types who just happened to be a kinky nympho underneath. At the age of forty, she was still in great shape and sported a heavy bust that pulled at her uniform. Her blonde hair was cut short and feathered, a look that many women tried and few pulled off. She had a hardened professional edge to her that was both quietly intimidating and irresistibly sexy.

"You're going to make me cum," Michael whispered, running his hands through her hair.

Miranda paused for a moment and looked up. "Good," she smiled.

Michael laughed and she resumed her work. He could feel the hot sensation building up inside him. It electrified his cock into a rod as rigid as any piece of steel. She massaged his balls, working them over and getting ready to milk him. Her heavy tits were rubbing against his thigh as she furiously sucked on his shaft, moaning and groaning. Michael's whole body seemed to jump up as he cried out and blew his wad. Miranda moved back, the first spurt having gone down her throat.

"Yes," she whispered as he ejaculated hot semen out across her face, his chest and stomach.

"Fuck me running," he moaned, head thrown back and nipples hard.

"All in good time," she said. Miranda finished polishing off his cock with her tongue, grasping the thick shaft with her fingers delicately.

"You are way too good at that," Michael smiled as he pulled her up to his face. His semen was sliding between their bodies, lubing them up and creating an incredible slick friction.

"It was the least I could do," she shrugged and kissed him, the taste of his own cum still on her tongue, "After all, you've already given me two orgasms tonight."

"I'm a cop," he licked her neck, "I gotta fill my quota."

"Mmmm," she purred as she slid a hand down to his recovering penis. She rolled it in her hand, coaxing it to revive. "Abuse of the badge..."

"Sounds naughty, doesn't it?" Michael laughed.

"Very," Miranda breathed into his ear as she started stroking him.

"We still have three hours until your shift starts," Michael noted, looking at the clock on the VCR, "What are we going to do for three hours?"

Miranda kept stroking his growing shaft. "I think we should fuck each other again," she suggested thoughtfully, "And then you should fuck my tits and cum all over me again... and then I want you to eat my pussy out again. How does that sound?"

"You read my mind," he grasped her ass cheeks and pulled her tight.

Miranda grasped his cock and positioned her cunt over the head. Michael closed his eyes as she slid her sex down on to him, enveloping him. Miranda let out a soulful, lusty moan as his cock stretched her out and filled her up. She buried her face in his neck as she started riding him, licking and suckling. Michael worked his hips slowly in rhythm with hers as they humped, sweating and breathing faster and faster.

As good as Miranda was at this, and as much as he enjoyed her, Michael still felt a sad, loneliness in his heart. When he had been married, his wife Barbara had filled up that empty space. All the fucking they had done prior to falling in love was great, but when he finally told her he loved her, that was when he felt it all change. Suddenly, fucking became "making love." And that was what Michael had been used to. Making love.

He knew Miranda liked him, and he knew they shared a special bond. At least as special a bond as two fuck buddies can have. But she didn't love him, and Michael was damn sure he didn't love her. So, what he had now was what he had before Barbara. He could always have a good fuck, but in the end, he was left alone and contending with loneliness.

The phone rang suddenly, startling them.

"Let it ring, baby," Miranda moaned as she leaned back, still riding him. Her large breasts were bouncing up and down as she looked to him with her puppy dog eyes.

"I gotta get this," he grunted and reached for the phone, "But don't stop..."

"I can be quiet," she put her finger to her full lips and smiled.

Michael smiled and picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Mike?" came a distinctly Italian accented voice.

"Rossetti," Michael said, "What's up?"

"We got orders from Hollins," his partner told him, "We gotta get downtown."

"Right now?"

"No, next week," Bill Rossetti quipped, "Tell Miranda to get off your rod. You got work to do."

Miranda smiled as she kept on going. "Fuck you Rossetti..."

"Tell her I heard that," he said.

Michael reached out and massaged Miranda's left breast as she rode him, "Bill says he heard that."

"Good," Miranda squeezed her pussy around Michael's cock hard, contracting the muscles as she bore down on him. Michael gasped as she fucked him harder.

"You're evil," Michael breathed.

"Man, just hurry up and get your ass moving," Rossetti groaned, "I don't need to hear you two fornicating."

"Fornicating?" Michael rubbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

"Fucking, wise ass," Rossetti was getting irritated. "Meet ya there."

"No sweat," Michael nodded and hung up.

"You gotta go?" Miranda asked, her voice more than a little disappointed. She made pouting expression as she sped her rhythm up, determined not let him go that quickly. She tightened her thighs around his hips as she brought his face into her tits. Michael licked and suckled at her breasts, tweaking her nipples and making her moan. She held his shoulders tight, working for her orgasm.

"Yeah," Michael said in between licks, "Chief has something... for us downtown... somewhere."

"Nice," she tilted her head back, feeling the hot sensation of her orgasm building up deep inside her sex. She felt a chill spread out across her body as her nipples went rock hard. She pounded her cunt down on his stony cock, their skin slapping together wetly and echoing in the quiet room. Michael raised his hips and locked himself into position, getting read for her climax. He could feel her juices trickling down his balls and to his ass as she rode him.

"Yes baby," she whimpered, "Yes..."

Michael braced himself as his own orgasm suddenly began to swell. He fought a losing battle for as long as he could before he finally gave in. Michael gritted his teeth as he shot his load deep into her pussy where he hoped the contraceptive she had placed there would prevent any little miracles from happening. Miranda screamed as she came hard, hot fluid squirting out of her pussy and onto Michael. They both collapsed in a tired, sweaty heap of spent flesh.

"You are so good," she huffed into his neck.

"Not as good as you," he smiled, hugging her.

Miranda dismounted and stood up. She grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the coffee table and wiped her vagina clean. She smiled at Michael, "I'm leaking spunk."

"That's my fault," Michael said and shuffled to the bathroom.

He flipped on the light and turned the shower on. Hot water streamed and sprayed from the nozzle, spattering the white stall with its artificial rain. Michael sighed and grabbed a towel from the cabinet. He scratched his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The faint beginnings of dark circles under his blue eyes were forming. Stubble peppered his rugged face betraying his professional appearance. He looked worn out and tired. Michael shook his head as he realized at thirty-eight years old he looked like he was fifty-eight and felt like he was seventy-eight.

Michael opened the medicine cabinet and looked at the small orange prescription bottle of morphine tablets next to his aspirin. The small white pills sat there in their bottle, waiting to be used. He could already see the reasoning to take a few of them, to just pop a few back and let that empty place in his soul be filled for a few minutes. Just let that sweet morphine dull the pain to ghostly throb. He'd been filling his soul with this temporary fix for years now, and he never seemed to get anywhere with it in the end. He'd realized that fact two weeks ago and hadn't touched the bottle of morphine since.

Despite himself, he reached out and grabbed the bottle, shaking the pills inside. The sound of the pills bouncing against the plastic only tempted him further as he placed his thumb on the lid.

Two weeks. He hadn't touched the shit in two long weeks.

But God, how he wanted to.

"You know those will kill you eventually," Miranda said softly from the doorway, startling him. He almost dropped the bottle.

"I know," he nodded, gazing at the drug.

Miranda hugged him from behind and rested her chin on his shoulder, "Mike, what happened to you?"

Michael was seized with the sudden urge to yell at her, to summon all his indignation at her blunt and personal question. It had become second nature to defend his habit, or deny it to whoever was questioning him. She was implying something was wrong with him? Bullshit! He wanted to argue with her, to make her believe as he had so many others that there was nothing wrong with him. He had a thousand excuses and arguments to prove his innocence, and he knew every one of them by heart.

In the end though, he raised a helpless eyebrow and shook his head. "I don't know."

"How long has it been?" she whispered.

"Two weeks," Michael nodded and licked his lips.

"Could've fooled me," she laughed, "You don't look like you're going through withdrawals."

"I am," Michael said and raised his hand. It was shaking, small tremors causing the muscles to spasm. 

Miranda gently took his hand in hers and held it to his chest. "You're a good cop, Mike. A damn good cop, and everyone knows it. Everyone but you."

Michael only looked at the bottle in his free hand.

"You lost you wife and son over this shit," she said, "You want to lose everything else too?"

Michael put the bottle back in the cabinet and closed the door. "No," he said finally.

"Maybe you should through it away?" Miranda suggested.

Michael considered that for a moment. How many times had tried to do just that. How many times had he grabbed that goddam bottle, squeezed it in his hand with all his strength and held it over the trashcan? Or out the window? Or over the sink? How many times had he done just that, come to the point of no return and then stepped back, unable to let go?

"I can't yet," he said simply, "I just can't yet, Miranda. I want to... but I need time."

Miranda smiled sympathetically, but could not hide her disappointment. She kissed him on the back of the neck and ran her hands over his naked body. Her breasts were full and comforting pressed against his bare back and yet he could already feel the loneliness picking at him. Michael was beginning to understand that it would always be this way for him. He would always be just this close to a person, but no more. The bullshit in his life would always keep him close enough to look and even touch sometimes, but to keep? No, you couldn't keep anything if you feared everything. It wasn't his regret over losing Barbara and his son, or the pain of his rapidly dwindling career. It was his fear.

Both he and Miranda knew this, and maybe that's why they both couldn't let themselves go any further than just fucking. No dating, no romance, no love and no future. Just fucking.

"Get showered," Miranda told him and squeezed his hand gently, "Go save the world."

Michael smiled and motioned to the steaming shower, "You want in?"

"Nah, I'll shower at home," she declined, "I only live a block away. Besides, we get in there together and you'll be late for work."

Michael turned and kissed her, "When do you want to meet up again?"

Miranda shrugged. "You tell me."

"I'll call you," he replied.

"You better," Miranda pinched his ass, "I work for the police and I know where you live."

***

Lydia woke an hour later, her eyes dry and irritated. There was a light drizzle in the air, the mist curling in and out of the cracks of the city. From the fifth story fire escape that she rested on, Lydia could survey much of the alley below and the street beyond. She knew it was a little past two in the morning as she rolled onto her side, her brilliant blue eyes casually looking over to the building across from her. Among the many "gifts" she had received upon being turned, an internal clock was of the smallest and yet most vital. A vampire's life depended on knowing when the sun was going to rise, and over the centuries she suspected that their keen sense of time was an evolutionary adaptation acquired at a terrible price.

In the window across the way, a light went on revealing a happy couple returning home from a date. She could smell alcohol on both of them even from here, and their desire for each other was almost tangible as they stumbled in the door. The man had his hand up his date's skirt, revealing her round buttocks and g-string as they kissed and grinded on each other. 

Lydia stood up, leaning against the railing as she took out a pack of cigarettes. She gripped one of the Camel Lights with her lips and pulled it from the box. With a flip of her silver Zippo lighter it was smoldering. The closing of the lighter cap clicked and echoed through the alley's wet, trash cluttered walls. She dragged deeply on the cigarette, letting the smoke permeate her lungs and then releasing it gently through her nose.

Another perk to being a vampire, she thought, is being able to regenerate sick, wounded or dead parts of the body, even cancerous cells.

The couple fumbled their way into the bedroom, turning on the bedside lamp as the woman let her blonde hair fall loose at her shoulders. The man waited eagerly on the bed as she pulled down the straps of her dress and exposed her breasts to him. Lydia could sense his lust for her as she continued to undress, but despite the evidence to the contrary, the woman seemed a little ambiguous. The blonde woman was exceptionally beautiful, her breasts small but firm, her stomach tight and muscular. The man, by comparison must have been ten years older than her and slightly paunchy. He reminded Lydia of a homely John Travolta as he took his shirt off.

The blonde pulled his pants off and yanked his underwear down, revealing what had to be a five to six inch cock. Lydia supposed that wasn't bad, but it wasn't much to ride either. Her thoughts drifted to Steve, the man she had fed on just six hours ago. He had been a prime specimen, with a thick eight-inch cock that had filled her up so completely. His body had been toned and his blood was pure. It was virgin, unspoiled by another woman and completely free of any drugs or diseases. He was a rare find indeed.

She remembered in his final moments of life, before she had plunged her fangs into his so deeply that she scratched the vertebrae, he had professed his love for her. It had caught her off guard and surprised her. His words were misguided and based on a lie, a lie that she had planted in his head. She had made him believe that she was his beloved girlfriend, a lover with which he could not live without. 

She had killed many men over the years, and she had never felt guilt over tricking them or misleading them because she picked bad men. She hunted men who beat their wives, raped, murdered and molested. She had found a righteous purpose in her unwanted new life, and when she hunted those pricks it helped ease the pain of the truth. It eased the fact that no matter what she did, no matter what the act of atonement was, she was a killer. Because her womb was now as dead as anyone she had ever loved before the turning, she could only take life and never give it back.

So she hunted the darkness of the world, again seeking comfort from the truth about herself.

But Steve had been different. She had sex with him, for the first time in a hundred years, and let herself feel emotions again that she had long since buried. Steve's love had not only reminded her of the past, but also intensified her guilt and loathing over what she was. In that moment of hesitation, as she felt him orgasm inside her and relished the sensation of feeling something hot touch her frozen insides, she considered sparing him. She wanted to turn her back on this life and be with him. She was desperate to the live the lie she had created in order to lure him to the kill. The hopes she thought she had exercised from herself long ago revenged upon her. He was what she had wanted all her life and now that she had found it, there was no way to ever have it. And in her frustration, she gave into the thirst and killed him.

"A killer," she whispered, a curl of smoke passing over her shoulder and into infinity.

A scream from across the alley caught her attention, bringing her back to reality. The blonde woman had apparently changed her mind about the Travolta-look-alike as she writhed on the bed, pulling at the leather restraints that bound her hands together and to the bedposts. Her feet were tied up as well, and all she could do was arch her naked body and scream into the sock he had used to gag her with.

The woman's fear was genuine and overpowering. Lydia shut her mind off to it as her own hands began to tremble. Sometimes, when she left herself open too long to the feelings of others, those feelings could pass to her like lightning on water. Lydia exercised the fear from her body, breathing deeply and standing up straight. 

Her knuckles cracked as she looked into the man's mind, opening up a world of twisted sadism beyond what any human could call sexual gratification. He intended to kill her, but not before fucking her for the next two days and torturing her to his black heart's content. 

The man looked nervously out the window, and looked directly at Lydia. She clouded his mind and he simply did not see her, standing on the fire escape staring at him, her blue eyes beginning to glow furiously. He yanked the drapes shut. Lydia took another drag on her smoke and flipped the butt into the alley below. She walked off the fire escape and levitated over to the window, her black overcoat billowing in the early morning breeze.




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 02



And then she kicked the window in and flew through, her fangs brought to bear and her claws extended. The woman on the bed screamed again as she saw Lydia, saw the burning rage in her glowing blue eyes. The man fell over backwards, surprised and scared to death, landing on his ass and smacking his head against the wall with a resounding thud. Lydia hovered in the room for a minute more, taking in her surroundings.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" the naked man screamed as he stood up. Lydia could sense his fear, could taste it in the back of her throat as he grabbed a chair and held it over his head by its back. As scared as he was, he had enough anger and rage inside of him, because he moved to attack.

"I could ask you the same," Lydia replied as he lunged at her. She casually raised her forearm into a defensive position, knowing what he planned to do and how he meant to do it. There was a loud splintering crack as the chair shattered against her forearm. Lydia felt nothing, and let herself float gently to the floor. The man stood awestruck as his eyes bugged out of his skull in disbelief, his mouth slung in a stupid gape.

"What the fuck are you?!" he bellowed, charging her again. Lydia estimated he weighed about 250 pounds, and when he put his greasy hand on her, she grabbed his wrist and with a quick motion promptly broke it. 

He howled in agony as she shoved him against the wall. The dry wall cracked and gave in under his weight slightly as she walked up to him. Amazingly, he tried to hit her again. Lydia grabbed his left hand and then his right, and with a squeeze she broke every single bone in his hands. She felt the bones give way and grind under her iron grip. His hands felt like bags of mush.

"You stupid bitch," he cried, looking at his broken hands, "You stupid cunt!"

Lydia frowned. "That's no way to talk to a lady."

"Fuck you!" he yelled as he spit on her. The gob of spit and mucus dribbled down her cheek and she felt a rage building up inside her. She wiped it off and then grabbed his testicles, her claws sheathed but poised to open. He stopped yelling and was quiet, save for his whimpering and mewling over his destroyed hands.

"Now that I have your attention," she said, trying to block out the sour smell of urine and sweat drifting from the man's crotch to her nose, "What's your name?"

"What?"

"What's your name, asshole?"

"Larry," he sputtered as she squeezed his balls and let her claws slowly slide out. They started piercing the soft flesh of his scrotum, and Larry writhed in her grasp. "Agh, don't do that! Shit!"

"Listen closely Larry, " she said calmly, her eyes still ablaze, "I'm only going to say this once, and for your sake you'd better listen up. I don't repeat myself... ever. Understand?"

Larry nodded, grimacing as she tightened her grip.

"You were going to rape that woman and then kill her?"

Larry shook his head, "No fucking way!"

Lydia let her claws sink into the tender flesh of his scrotum.

Larry cried out, sobbing hysterically as she dug her claws in deep. Blood was trickling down his thighs as she regarded him calmly.

"Don't lie to me," she warned.

"I'm not," he wheezed, "I swear I swear!"

Lydia positioned her thumb over his right testicle and let the claw spring out. Larry uttered a voiceless, mortal hiss as her thumb pulled one of his precious jewels down. His face was white and contorted in agony as she pulled on him.

"Larry..." she coaxed.

"Okay," he managed, tears running down his cheeks, "I was going to kill her, okay?! Fuck! Stop it!"

Lydia retracted her claws but kept her grip on his wounded sack.

"I'm guilty of murder myself Larry, and I know you were going to do it because we can smell our own. But you're worse than any murderer, you were going to take her and demoralize her, break her spirit. You wanted to kill the mind before the body. You're a sick fuck, and before you die-" Lydia looked at him reassuringly, "-and you will die, I want you to see something."

Lydia opened her mind up all the way and unleashed a barrage of horrific imagery, every bloody and gruesome scene she had ever seen in her long life. She then revived every detail of his own exploits and twisted the memories so that he was the victim of his own crimes, the scared and helpless victim. She shoved him back further against the wall. 

The blonde watched, terrified.

"Now that I know you," she said disgusted, "Let me introduce myself." 

Larry began screaming as he saw the countless victims Lydia had claimed, the blood flowing like a river through her mind and into his. He saw the abomination of her thirst, the darkness within as she flooded him with it. She immersed him in the pitch-black ichor of her dark half, letting it awaken once more and revel in the destruction of his mind. She reached into his brain and with her thoughts began squeezing; balling a fist so tight around his essence that it almost hurt her. His eyes bugged out and went crimson as the tiny blood vessels strained and popped under the pressure. They branched out across the white jelly of his eyes like stress fractures across a plate of glass. He gurgled and uttered several guttural yells of panic, gnashing his teeth together in submission to his fear as Lydia unleashed her retribution.

"Understand," she said as blood oozed from his nostrils, eyes, ears and mouth, "This is what awaits you in Hell. And Hell is all about repetition, Larry. Forever."

Larry began convulsing as his brain boiled and exploded in his skull, his body wracked by one final jolt of excruciating pain. Lydia held him there for a moment, one hand clamped around his throat, the other around his hemorrhaging balls. With a silent revulsion, she then let him crumple to the floor in a blood soaked heap. There was an odd smell on him, a scent that gave her pause. 

As she identified it, she closed her eyes in pity for the woman on the bed. Lydia took Larry's shirt from the chair and wiped her hands off with it. She turned to the blonde woman and walked over to her.

"Are you okay?" Lydia asked. 

The blonde nodded, scared to death.

Lydia sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes now finally losing their fiery glow. She removed the sock from the woman's mouth. The blonde gasped, sucking in air as her eyes looked to Lydia with bewilderment and gratitude. 

"Who are you?" Lydia asked.

"Maricel," the blonde said timidly, her voice on the verge of breaking.

"Maricel," Lydia said, looking over at the purse on the nightstand, "Are you fucking stupid?"

"What?"

"This is no day and age to be whoring yourself out," Lydia said and gestured over to the pile human shit across the room, "There are worse things out there than him."

"Like what?" she whimpered, uncertain of where this was going. When Lydia had come crashing through the window, she hadn't question the timing or presence of the woman. She had only hoped she would be rescued. But now...

"Like what?" she asked again.

"Me."

"What are you going to do to me?" Maricel asked. She was shaking as hot tears swelled in her eyes and rolled down her flushed cheeks. Lydia sighed and was quiet for a moment.

"I'm going to lay this out for you, okay? I'm not going to kill you, but you might be better off if I did. You're too fucking stupid to know that the man you were turning a trick for tonight was a sadist, let alone a murderer. But then, a smart girl wouldn't be turning tricks to begin with," Lydia said as she lit another cigarette, "Larry here is infected with AIDS. He didn't know it, and neither did you because none of the fourteen condoms in that piece of shit bag you call a purse have been used. You sucked his cock and he came for you, right?"

Maricel looked dumbly at her. "But we didn't have sex..."

Lydia frowned for a moment, analyzing the scent coming off Maricel. "Exchange of fluids..."

"But-"

"You're infected," Lydia said flatly as she leaned in closer, "I can smell it on you."

"You're lying, you're crazy," Maricel whispered, but the sound of voice said otherwise, "Who are you?"

For some reason, Steve popped into her mind and she felt a pang of guilt as she looked at Maricel. Lydia took another drag on her cigarette, waiting for the small nicotine rush to take effect. She closed her eyes and then spoke to the young prostitute, "My name is Lydia Renee. I'm a vampire. I was sitting on the fire escape tonight when I heard you scream. I decided to save you."

Maricel laughed incredulously. "A vampire? Get real. Untie me."

"It's the truth."

"Untie me now."

Lydia blew a smoke ring.

"Untie me now, you bitch!"

Lydia leaned over and grasped her by the jaw, forcing her to be quiet. Lydia's face was only an inch from Maricel's, and she was acutely aware of her breasts pressing against the woman's naked chest and ribs. Lydia opened her mind once more and let the memories of her past enter the prostitutes mind. It wasn't as concentrated as what she had done to Larry, not by a long shot. But she needed her to understand the truth of her situation, and this was the only way she had time for. 

More tears birthed and fell as Maricel watched with her mind's eye the life her rescuer had lived. Flashes of loved ones long since dead wounded her as though they were her own, and finally she understood the woman before her.

"Understand," Lydia whispered into her ear, "I am who I say I am."

Maricel sobbed for a while, overwhelmed by the night's events and her own choices that had led her here. The prospect of dying a slow death from AIDS hollowed her out, and she had never felt so alone. 

Finally, she looked to Lydia and said, "Untie me, please."

Lydia took two swipes at the bonds that held Maricel prisoner with her claws and freed her.

"Thank you," she whispered, rubbing her wrists and then crossing her arms to cover her breasts. Maricel eyed the three-inch long shiny black claws that slowly retracted back into Lydia's fingertips. Lydia took one of Larry's sheets and wrapped it around her. It had been a long time since anyone had said thank you to her, and the feeling it invoked was as powerful and frightening as what she had experienced earlier with Steve.

"You're welcome," Lydia said quietly. 

She pondered this feeling, a feeling that angered the darkness inside. It was upsetting her status quo, her balance and she knew that it could bring her more harm than good as she toyed with it. 

It had been so long since she had felt any self worth that it almost hurt. It hurt as Steve's love had hurt, a piercing reminder of a life she could never have. One act of atonement doesn't make up for several lifetimes of murder. Thousands of acts of atonement didn't even cut it. Not even close. She could never forgive herself, and yet the feeling would not go away. But tonight, for what it was worth, she had saved a life... and for the moment she felt good.

"What do I do now?'" Maricel asked quietly, resigned to her fate. She knew the hazards of her job as well as anyone. She was at risk for any number of diseases, and as any girl who worked a corner could tell you, the odds are always against you.

Lydia shrugged, looking over at the bloody mess that had once been Larry. She said, "Get off the streets and live the rest of your life as well as you can."

Maricel was quiet for a moment, looking at Lydia intensely, "Isn't there anything you can do for me?"

Lydia looked away. "No, I'm afraid not."

She stood up and gathered Maricel's clothes, handing them to her in a bundle. Lydia knew she could bite her, turn her into a vampire and let the virus that made her what she was kill the disease that would soon ravage the young woman. But Maricel would also be condemned to live the life that had been thrust upon her. The trade didn't seem to be fair. She knew that dying and being at peace was better than living forever at unrest.

Lydia turned to leave and despite herself stopped in the middle of the room.

"There is one thing I could do," she said softly, her eyes on the floor. She couldn't believe she was even suggesting it, "As a vampire, I have long life and perfect health. The disease that causes vampirism is powerful, the most potent ever in the history of this world. It doesn't kill the host, but rather creates a symbiosis with it. The virus keeps you healthy and destroys any defect, any disease you may have."

Maricel looked at the vampire as she sat down on the bed beside her.

"Would it save me?"

Lydia nodded. "Yes, it would. But there's a catch. It's a permanent catch that you will carry forever, until some slayer puts a stake through your heart or you stay out too long one night and get your ass fried by the morning sun."

"I'd drink blood," Maricel said.

"No," Lydia corrected, "You won't just drink it, you'll be addicted to it. You'll have to have it in order to survive. You'll lust after it, and it will dominate your life. A vampire ingests the blood to sustain itself as we cannot produce it on our own once infected. The virus destroys your blood, turns it into a clear liquid that keeps it warm and stable. You will hunt, you will kill and you will feed. Forever."

"That's a harsh catch," Maricel sighed.

"Yes, it is."

"Is it painful?"

"Very," Lydia said, "But depending on who bites you can affect that."

"What else happens?"

"Every vampire is different. I was already something of a telepath before I was bitten, so the virus enhanced my natural abilities. Enhanced strength, resilience to diseases and regeneration are all common traits of vampires, but my telepathy makes me unique among my particular group. Your canines will warp and shape into retractable fangs that secrete a toxin..."

"Like a snake?"

"In a way, yes," Lydia conceded, "But more like a spider. It paralyzes the prey and makes feeding easier. You'll also find that the bones in your fingers will have changed, and that you'll have retractable claws."

Lydia brought her hand up and silently popped them out. Maricel took her hand and looked closely, seeing the tips of her fingers were open all the time. Small, barely noticeable openings that looked like pale lips tipped her fingers. The open scars allowed the strong, bony protrusions to pass freely.

"My god," she whispered.

"God has nothing to do with this," Lydia said, sheathing her claws once again as she pulled her necklace out of her shirt. Hanging from the chain was a small silver cross. The skin where the cross had been resting was untouched. 

"Crosses don't hurt you?" Maricel asked.

Lydia shook her head, "The religious aspect conceived by mythology and modern movies is a load of shit. Crosses are a symbol of faith, and don't do much to ward off a vampire. Demons are afraid of crucifixes, not vampires."

Maricel eyed her for a moment. "Why do you wear it?"

Lydia tucked the cross back in her shirt. "Everyone has to have faith."

There was a long moment of silence between them as Maricel considered her options. She had seen many of her friends fall prey to AIDS, and she had seen the horror that it wreaks upon the body. She imagined herself dying slowly in a hospital bed, her life stolen by the disease. That grim vision of the future was as frightening and unreal as the events that had just unfolded in this apartment. Five minutes ago, she didn't believe in monsters, let alone vampires. But here one stood, not more than a few feet away from her, in the flesh. The whole world had changed in a short amount of time, and her options were limited. 

She wiped the tears out of her eyes and finally said, "Turn me."

Lydia felt her heart sink. "You know you'll be trading one death for another."

"I know," Maricel said, looking out the window, her lips trembling, "But I don't want to die that way."

"There is no turning back once this is done," Lydia warned her as she took off her coat and laid it out on the bed. She sensed that Maricel was frightened, but that she also had a sense of hope. Lydia found it so hard to believe that her curse, the curse of all vampires, could be a source of hope. 

Lydia closed her eyes and spoke, "Once I bite you, your life will be joined to mine and through me to all others like me. It's not one big happy family out there, and some of them are likely to kill you rather than greet you."

"So vampires are just like humans then," she said and let the sheet drop away, revealing her naked body again. She stood up, exposed and vulnerable to Lydia, offering herself and putting her life in the hands of a vampire. Maricel looked at Lydia and said, "You saved my life once tonight, and for that I can never repay you. I owe you my life."

"You owe me nothing," Lydia shook her head as she stood in front of Maricel.

"I'm dead no matter what, Lydia," Maricel stepped closer to her and took her hand. It was bold and unexpected as Lydia felt the tenderness in her touch, "At least this way, I can have a chance to choose how I die."

Lydia thought about Steve again, and how if she had known Larry and Maricel would cross her path tonight, she would have simply left him alone. He would still be alive and she wouldn't have felt the love he expressed for her before she killed him. She wouldn't have questioned herself and opened herself up to this situation. But the compassion she had tried to bury had been unearthed, and there was no turning back. She felt a connection to Maricel, and maybe even a responsibility now. Their brief joining of minds had already merged them together, the result being a closeness that both excited and scared them.

Lydia removed her vest, shirt and bra. She sensed Maricel had a moment of longing when she saw her large breasts revealed. Lydia knew that there was a part of the young woman that was attracted to her as she felt Maricel's heart beat speed up. She didn't want any blood on her clothes, and she reminded herself of that as she felt her sex becoming wet. There was a desire surfacing as she prepared herself, a desire that had been unleashed by Steve and now being encouraged again by Maricel.

"Please," Maricel gently squeezed Lydia's hand again, placing it on her breast as she moved close and tilted her head back. Maricel's nipple was hard against her palm, the surrounding flesh soft and yielding. With her long, slender neck exposed for the taking, Lydia felt the thirst again, it's need for Maricel persistently egging her on. Lydia pulled Maricel to her by the small of her back, her skin warm and smooth. Their breathing was fast and short, hinging on anticipation and need. Lydia's nipples hardened as she brought her face to the young woman's neck. She could smell the blood, racing through her veins, still sweet and yet with the bitter scent of the AIDS virus lurking just below.

Lydia revealed her fangs and bit into Maricel's neck. She shook and cried out as Lydia drank, the toxin from her fangs releasing the vampiric virus into the woman's body. With Steve, she had drained him dry, leaving no blood for the virus to convert and establish a hold in the host body. Lydia began easing up, having to stop herself from overfeeding and killing Maricel as she had Steve, sparing him the fate of vampirism. Maricel began to lean against her as the toxin took effect. She felt the blood running down their necks and creating a slickness between their breasts that made Lydia shiver.

She disengaged herself from Maricel, laying the unconscious woman on the bed as the blood in the twin puncture wounds coagulated and stopped the flow. Lydia wiped herself off and put her clothes back on, breathless from the intensity of the feeding. She quickly went to the window and realized it was getting closer to dawn, around four in the morning. It was time to go.

She wrapped Maricel in some blankets, bundling her as best she could from the cold. She stopped suddenly, feeling she had missed something. Lydia looked around the room, a strong presence filling her mind. There was something important here, something that Larry had been thinking about just before he died. She walked to the bed, and looked under it. The feeling was stronger here, somehow more cold and invasive. 




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 02



Sweeping away the hanging blankets, she found a shoebox. Lydia sat it on the bed, almost afraid to open it. On the lid was a Nike logo and written over the top of the logo in permanent black ink was the word "TAXES." Lydia touched the top of the box, her fingertips grazing the cold cardboard suface. She could feel so many echoes and screams of pain from this box, and she knew what was in it before she even opened it.

Lydia took a deep breath, not ready even as she took the lid off.

Inside the box were fifteen to twenty mementos, trophies from Larry's previous kills. Locks of hair, all colors were neatly stacked together in one corner of the box. In three small zip lock bags were several fingers, neatly cut, cured and preserved. They were like pieces of petrified wood. There were wedding rings, necklaces, earrings and a pair of glasses, all sorted and labeled in plastic bags. Tucked inside the bags with the grisly trophies were what looked like corresponding newspaper articles about each woman's disappearance. 

Each bag label had a hand written name and date on it; Josephine (12-25-2004), Mary (05-06-2000), Jennifer (02-13-1998) and so on. Lydia choked back tears as she was overwhelmed by the pain of the women all these things had belonged to, their final moments of life washing over her. Underneath the hair, she noticed a small glass box. She moved the locks of hair aside and found it contained a set of eyes. They were beautiful, emerald green and preserved for all time.

"Oh God," she whispered. 

Lydia looked away from the box, and left it on the bed, open and exposed. She made sure to leave Maricel's purse there beside it. Better the police not be sure of her whereabouts and suspect a gang rape gone bad than a third party being involved. She would probably be considered dead, but either way, Larry's name and reputation, whatever it might be, would be damned for what he had done. At least the families of these poor women might at last know what happened to them and who did it. To be certain, Lydia paused and wrote with Maricel's own lipstick on the wall above Larry's corpse:

"This man is a murderer, he killed a prostitute tonight as he has many other women. Now he's burning in Hell."

Lydia gathered Maricel up as though she weighed nothing, and flew out the window and into the night sky. Morning would crest soon, and with it the promise of the evening to follow, when Lydia would learn more about her new friend. For the first time, she felt overpowered by hope, that there was a promise of something good coming her way and that loneliness would not hold sway over her forever.

***

In the city morgue, Michael Wolverton looked at his brother's corpse, anger and sadness coursing through his body. Steve looked terrible, his face contorted and in shock. His skin was pale like the belly of a dead fish, his eyes half way shut and glassy. Michael wanted to touch his brother's hand, but could not find the strength to do it. He looked at the crimson wound on his neck, repulsed by the twisted hole that had been gnawed into the flesh. He stared at the empty shell of the man who, when they were kids, would give him Dutch rubs and yet beat the holy hell out of anyone whoever threatened him.

"Goodbye big brother," Michael said as his voice cracked, tears burning his eyes, "I'll find who did this Steve, I promise."

"Detective?" a voice inquired from behind. Dr. Standish waited by the double doors of the sterile room, patiently smiling. Michael composed himself and left his brother behind for the last time.

"Yes, I know" Michael said as he straightened his jacket. His brows furrowed together as he fought back the tidal wave of sadness. He managed a smile, "Time to go, right?"

"I'm afraid so. I am so sorry."

"Call me after the autopsy, the minute you and your people are done," Michael said, feeling his at-work, no-nonsense attitude saving him from a breakdown.

"Of course."

Michael turned the corner to head for the elevator. His hand rested on the butt of his gun, fingers rapidly drumming. Bill Rossetti stood in front of the elevator doors, looking sad and uncertain. Rossetti was a junior detective, and Michael's right hand man. They had been working together for three years, and through all the shit this city had to deal out, Rossetti had stuck by him through thick and thin. He was a portly man, shorter than Michael at 5' 7" and was going bald on top. His thick mustache coupled with his appearance had garnered him the nickname "Franz" after Dennis Franz off "NYPD Blue."

"I'm sorry, Mike," Rossetti offered.

Michael nodded.

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone," Rossetti sighed as they waited for the elevator, "You know?"

"I know," Michael nodded again and squeezed his friends shoulder, "You did right."

The doors opened with a muted musical chime and they stepped in. The elevator car was empty and smelled like it had just been cleaned. Cheesy generic jazz music filtered in through small speakers above them. Rossetti leaned against the wall and put his head back against the cool metal plating. Michael only looked at the floor, hand on his gun and quietly thinking. When the doors closed and the elevator began moving up, Michael looked to his partner.

"I want the fucker who did it," Michael finally said after a long silence.

"I know," Rossetti nodded, "But Hollins has us on a murder that happened this morning downtown."

"My brother lived downtown," Michael said impassively, "Why aren't we on this?"

"I don't know man," Rossetti shrugged, and then said, "But I do know Hollins is going to fry our asses if we go making waves. I know this is going to sound cold, but lets just go to the crime scene we're assigned to and deal with this when we get back. Okay?"

Michael bit his lip.

Rossetti was right. Don't make waves.

"Fuck," Michael shook his head.

***

As Michael and Rossetti made their way to the parking garage, and as Lydia sped towards her home with Maricel in her arms suffering the beginnings of her transformation, Dr. Standish took a scalpel to Steve's chest, preparing to create a Y-incision. The elderly doctor pressed the sharp blade against the dead flesh of muscular chest gently and then began to cut. The skin opened slowly as he made he lengthened the incision. The doctor was so thoroughly concentrating on his task that he didn't notice the corpse dead hand flex and uncurl.

"This won't hurt a bit, sir," Dr. Standish smiled and then was cut off as Steve's hand pistoned out and grabbed the doctor by the neck. In his last moments, Dr. Standish felt his throat pop, crack and give way to the power in the dead man's grip. Steve tossed the doctor aside, sending him crashing into his cart full of implements, scattering them everywhere.

Steve stood tall, naked and angry as a security officer busted the doors open, his gun drawn and cocked. He gasped as he saw Steve, the rage in his blood red eyes contrasted by the blue hue to his skin The officer fired, and only saw a mist of his own blood spray the face of the creature that once been Steve Wolverton. The monstrosity bit into his neck and with both hands, tore his head off with a single violent motion. The ripping sound of flesh, bone and muscle echoed though out the room as blood erupted from the decapitated body.

In a crimson pool gathering on the blue tiled floor, Steve turned his head upward and bellowed with an unholy rage.

...to be continued... 



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 03



"OF THIRST AND HUNGER"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

***

"Holy shit," Michael said into his handkerchief as he stepped over the mangled corpse of Larry Crispin. The 45-year-old mortician's body was sticky with blood, leaning against the wall where he had been thrown. The wall behind him was cracked, indicating whoever did it was strong enough to heave a 250 pound man across the room like a rag doll. Every orifice on his face was caked with blood; his eyes two bloodshot orbs nestled lifelessly in their sockets. Michael looked up at the writing above the corpse again and could see that it was not blood as he previously thought, but lipstick. Lying beside Larry on the floor was the stick in question, it's normally beveled tip flat and ruined.

"This man is a murderer, he killed a prostitute tonight as he has many other women. Now he's burning in Hell," Michael read, sitting on his haunches as the police and coroners moved about their business.

"Detective Wolverton," a voice from behind him called.

"Rossetti, what've you got for me?" Michael stood up, ignoring the smell of stool and urine that the victim had released shortly after his death. The metallic smell of blood didn't help either, and Michael was careful not to step in any if he could help it. You never could tell who had a bug these days, and blood was as dangerous as a loaded gun.

"Check out the shoe box," Rossetti pointed with his gloved hand to the open box on the bed, displayed and clearly filled with items of a dubious nature. Michael fingered through it lightly, finding locks of hair, fingers, jewelry, and newspaper clippings.

"Fuck me running," Michael closed his eyes in disgust, "Are those eyeballs?"

"Yeah," Rossetti grimaced.

"Any chance this could have been planted?"

Rossetti shrugged. "Sure, it could have. But the victim's prints are all over the box, and I'll bet we find his prints on the items inside and on the baggies themselves. I checked the writing against some paperwork he had on his desk, and I'd say it's a match. We won't know for sure until forensics comes through."

Michael noticed one of the articles sticking up slightly from the bottom of the box. He pulled it out gently. It was a newspaper clipping featuring an article about a police raid on a whore house in Oakland, the title reading "Police Bust Prostitution Enterprise." In the photo above the story, there were several police and SWAT officers hauling prostitutes away in cuffs. The one closest to the camera was a stunning blonde woman in a tight black dress. Mr. Crispin had apparently liked her, because her face was circled with a red pen mark.

"This one isn't in a baggy," Michael muttered, flipping through the zip lock bags to see if one was missing an article.

"Yeah?"

"Well, if this guy was a serial killer," Michael opened the baggy marked 'Julia, 06-13-2002' and gently removed the newspaper clipping inside. The victim, Julia Marks, was featured in article covering the opening of her used bookstore downtown. Her face, smiling and unaware of the evil about to befall her, was also circled in red ink. Michael continued, "If he was a killer, then he picked out his victims carefully from the newspaper."

"Holy shit." Rossetti said.

"Yeah, and this blonde in the picture was probably going to be next on his hit list. That's why there's no memento from her in a plastic bag... and why this article isn't in a bag. He didn't get to finish."

"I can run this by the boys, see if they can match her up. She obviously has a record, so it shouldn't be too hard," Rossetti said, looking at the box and feeling his stomach turn.

Michael frowned. "But the message on the wall said specifically that he killed a prostitute tonight. And there was a purse here, but no I.D. in it. If he did kill her, where's the body?"

"Maybe he had a partner? And besides, it's not uncommon for a whore not to bring her I.D with her on a job."

"Maybe," Michael said to himself as he walked around the bedroom, looking at the floor. He saw shattered glass all over the carpet near the window. The curtain billowed gently in the morning breeze.

"Maybe his partner turned on him," Rossetti offered.

"Maybe."

Rossetti glanced over at the broken glass. "What're you seeing, Mike?"

"This window has broken in, not out. Someone crashed through this window," Michael leaned out the window, hands braced against the sill. He looked up the side of the building and then down into the alley below, "It's a five story jump up here either which way, and the fire escape is across the alley twenty feet away. Kind of unsafe not have one here, don't you think?"

"There's a fire escape by the living room window," Rossetti observed. "Maybe the killer came in the living room window?"

Michael turned to one of the uniformed patrolmen standing in the doorway. The nameplate on his uniform read 'Mitchell.' He was a portly cop and from the look on his broad face he wasn't in a very good mood.

"Officer Mitchell?" Michael asked.

"Sir?" Mitchell stepped forward.

"You were the first one here, right?"

"Yes, detective," Mitchell nodded, his sour demeanor holding steady.

"Was the living room window locked?"

"Yes sir," Mitchell nodded, "The only open window is this one here in the bedroom."

"Thank you, Officer," Michael dismissed him.

"Maybe someone swung in from the roof on a rope," Rossetti chuckled, "Ever see 'Die Hard'?"

Michael laughed as much as he could. He needed to, even if it was a little. Michael shook his head, his mind and body still reeling from the death of his only brother the night before. His thoughts kept fixating on Steve, the way he looked on the slab. His dead, pale face and that white skin. And then there was the strange wound on his neck. He kept thinking it looked like someone had bitten him. Bit him hard. 

'I can't afford distractions right now,' he thought, shoving his dead brother away as best he could. Michael stretched his back and returned to his partner.

Michael looked back at the window. "That's one hell of jump."

"Let forensics do their thing," he said as he eyed the blood on the bed, "This shit is going to be hardcore and I need some breakfast before I can do any police work."

"Krispy Kreme?" Rossetti asked hopefully.

"Now where else would an honest cop eat, Rossetti?"

"Dunkin' Donuts," Rossetti said as he pulled off his latex gloves, balled them up and tossed them in the trash bag by the forensics specialist, "But that was before Krispy Kreme."

Michael paused for a moment in the living room and looked around. He said, "You know whose M.O. this sounds like, don't you?"

Rossetti nodded. "Yep."

"Maybe I'm wrong?"

"Maybe."

"It's a pretty fucking thin guess, right?"

"Anorexic."

Michael sighed. "FUBAR?"

"Definitely."

Michael cringed as the smell of feces and death wafted past his nose again. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Rossetti's cell phone rang suddenly.

"Hello?" he said into the phone. Michael watched his expression go from anticipation for donuts to looking like he was ready to shit himself. Rossettu looked briefly to his partner and then back again at the floor.

"Are you sure?" Rossetti frowned, "Ah shit. Okay, we'll be right there."

"What's going on?" Michael asked, though he was certain he didn't want to know.

"Something happened at the morgue a little while ago," Rossetti turned off the phone and put in back in his overcoat, "Your brother's body is missing."

"Let's go," Michael hurried out the door.

"Fuck," Rossetti said, following Michael out as the crime scene photographer's flash bulbs lit up the apartment. It was only five in the morning, and from the looks of it, it was going to be a one long day.

***

In the candlelight, Lydia sat in her chair and watched Maricel closely. The young woman was in the throes of the change, the turning from her humanity to something darker and far more complicated. When they had arrived, Lydia took care to gently set her on the bed while removing the blankets she had wrapped her in. There was no point to dressing her yet, as she would likely tear her clothes off during the transformation. She tossed the blood soaked blankets into the corner. 

Maricel's blonde hair seemed to glow with it's own fire as she moaned and twisted on the bed, her hands digging into the blankets while her eyes darted impossibly fast under her lids. Her nipples were erected to long points, her skin raised with goose pimples as the virus that caused vampirism changed her body and cured her of the disease Larry had given her.

Lydia had changed into her "day clothes," a smart black business suit and skirt with her ID tag that identified her as the secretary of records at the San Francisco Museum of Art. From sunrise to sunset, she worked in the basement library, cataloguing paintings and maintaining the records of the prestigious institution. The position had been granted to her by one of the elders amongst the vampire nation, a secret society for a secret race. Their connections ran all over the world, and into the highest places of power. 

As a favor for her past contributions to the society, she was given this job. The elders had made sure to include an office for her, which in reality was her home. It had enough of the basic amenities to keep her happy including a bathroom and a small kitchenette. There were no windows, which suited Lydia just fine. It was her home, a place few had seen and now, for the time being, home to Maricel as well.

No one really ever bothered her down here in the basement unless it was necessary. Any hopes of socializing her co-workers had harbored initially were dashed by her anti-social behavior. The most business she ever saw in a day was when some intern had to come down and retrieve a file or book. Of course, Mr. Geer would visit her on occasion to check in. Geer was the curator of the Museum and a familiar to the head of the society, Demeras. Any interference from outside elements that might threaten Lydia was Geer's responsibility.

It was almost eight o'clock, and she would have to begin her shift, if for no other reason than to keep up appearances. Her mind felt tired from the previous night, and her body was sore from the sexual encounter with Steve. Lydia fought back the persistent tightness in her throat as she thought of him again. The sex had been outrageously good, and the first in such a long time. It had touched her and awakened a craving inside, a craving as powerful as the guilt she still harbored from his final words of "I love you."

Maricel moaned loudly as if she were being stimulated sexually. Lydia knew that in the midst of the pain one could feel during the turning, there was also a sexual charge, a surge that caused many turnees to orgasm repeatedly as the virus affected the reproductive organs. She recalled her own turning, that night on her bed, naked like Maricel was now, feeling her blood burn and yet overpowered by the sensation of her clit being stimulated to an unbearably high plateau. She remembered the power of the orgasms that followed, all of them as intense as the one that had rocked her during her encounter with Steve three centuries later. She had tried to keep count, but after the tenth roared through, she lost consciousness.

This was how she had spent her 25th birthday, her only gift the burden of immortality from a man she hated.

Lydia adjusted her position in the chair, feeling a wet spot in her panties and nipples hard again. The bed that next morning when she awoke was soaked with her fluid, cold and telling of the aftermath of her transformation. Lydia remembered it all so clearly as she watched Maricel, the feelings of déjà vu powerful and demanding. 

Now Maricel was in that same place, and her moans were getting louder and louder as she coped with it. Lydia tried to distract herself from the noise, trying not to be aroused by the carnality of the process. She had never turned a person until now, never once in her three hundred years of immortality had she watched a conversion of her own doing.

"Lydia," Maricel whispered, looking at her from the bed. Her eyes had gone white, the color hidden from view as the virus took her eyes and changed them.

"Yes," Lydia said softly, trying not to betray her discomfort.

"I can feel you," she said as she ran her hands over her breasts, up her neck and into her hair, "I can feel you."

"What do you mean?" Lydia asked, though she couldn't block out the lust Maricel felt over her, the blatant sexual need she had for her. Lydia had sensed an attraction when she first met her, but she never imagined it would be this powerful. Lydia tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but somehow they kept invading her, tempting her in a way she had never tempted before. It was different from what she had felt with Steve, in some ways more forbidden as she had always considered herself a heterosexual. 

"I can feel your thoughts," Maricel moaned, rubbing her nipples and licking her lips. As she smiled at Lydia, her fangs were revealed in the candlelight, glistening and fresh. Lydia resisted as best she could, but the hunger that Steve had unleashed inside her was demanding attention again, in a way that she had only associated with the thirst for blood. She felt herself succumbing to it as she let her eyes roam over every hill and valley of Maricel's toned body. The memories of the moment she bit her, the blood trickling between their naked breasts and creating a sliding friction that had made Maricel gasp came flooding back.

"Can you?" Lydia asked, her voice betraying her calm demeanor as she crossed her legs, the sensation of her wet sex being moved slightly sending a shiver through her body.

"Yes, you want me..."

"No, I don't," Lydia lied and looked away, and then felt someone probing into her mind. It was Maricel, feeding her images of herself naked and kissing her. Lydia jumped from the shock of the intrusion, realizing that a part of herself, the telepathy she believed so unique had passed to Maricel. She was manipulating Lydia as she had many others on countless occasions. The effect was immediate as she felt her cheeks blush hotly.

A taste of her own medicine so to speak.

"Don't you?"

"I-" Lydia began and then stopped as Maricel sat up, her legs open wide to reveal her cleanly shaved vagina, as wet and glistening as her fangs had been. She began massaging her clit, her milky, pupiless eyes somehow fixed on Lydia. Lydia could not resist any longer and walked over to Maricel, her eyes filled with excitement and want.

"I can't help myself," Lydia said as she unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it aside, "I can't stop this...."

"I know," Maricel hissed as her face came to eye level with Lydia's fully round breasts. She massaged them through the fabric, and Lydia moaned against her lips softly. Her heart was pounding in her ears as Maricel undid her blouse and tossed it aside. Lydia placed her hands on Maricel's shoulders as she kicked off her shoes and let her skirt fall to the floor, leaving her in only her black lace panties and bra. Maricel began kissing her breasts through the fabric, letting her fangs gently rub across Lydia's nipples. And then she cut one of the straps loose as the razor sharp fang caught fabric.

Lydia ran her hands over Maricel's neck and shoulders, feeling the twin puncture wounds she had left earlier that morning. Lydia caught her fang on the bra strap and cut it as well, pulling down the cups of Lydia's bra and exposing her large, creamy breasts. If she had been unsure before of what she was doing, Lydia had now shed off the uncertainty as Maricel sucked her right nipple into her mouth and rolled her tongue over it.

Lydia gasped and ran her hand through Maricel's hair, lost in the feeling and need. Her fangs bit into her lip as she enjoyed Maricel's toying of her breasts, her pussy now soaking wet. Maricel sensed this pulled Lydia to the bed so they were lying side-by-side, breasts pressed against each other, arms holding each other. Maricel kissed Lydia passionately as her hand slid down her side, caressing her ass and then to her crotch. Lydia opened her legs with no resistance and slid her panties off.

Maricel dragged her tongue down Lydia's chest, between her breasts and over the dividing line of her stomach, past her navel where she planted hot, wet kisses. Lydia moaned again, loving the feeling of her lips and tongue on her body. Maricel then licked her way down to Lydia's outer lips, which were full and wet, casting off a sweet musk. She licked her pussy slowly, being sure to let the tip of her tongue penetrate her just enough to feel the slick interior.

Maricel fingered her self as her tongue dove into Lydia, exploring her and pleasuring her. Lydia's hips bucked a little as she began riding Maricel's tongue. Lydia reached into Maricel's mind and began stimulating her as she had done her, erotic and passionate thoughts swimming between the two. Before long, Lydia orgasmed so hard she screamed, her rationality stolen by the wave of lust sweeping her away. Maricel felt the orgasm in her mind, and her body reacted accordingly. Her hips spasmed as the orgasm rocked her body and climaxed with a hot gush of vaginal fluid that soaked her thighs and pooled on the bed.

"Maricel?" Lydia managed, staring at the ceiling, her body shaking.

There was no reply as Lydia sat up to find her new friend has slipped back into her deep sleep of the turning. Her lips were wet with Lydia's own come, and she wiped her off, cleaning them both up. She sat for a while on the edge of her bed naked as Maricel moaned and mumbled incoherently. The last 12 hours had been insanely out of the ordinary, and now she found herself in the position of not only having been intimate with a man, but with a woman also. And she knew neither one of them, nor kept any true love for them. Only pity.

Lydia put her clothes back on, checked herself in the bathroom mirror and went to work.

***

Michael wanted to scream.

He wanted to do anything to express how fucking angry he was.

"What the fuck happened?" he asked, stepping around the massive pool of blood that had collected on the floor of the autopsy room.

"We're not sure yet, sir," Officer Wynn said. His face was blushed and embarrassed, eyes filled with more than a little fear.

"So my brother just up and walked out of here, is that what you're telling me?" Michael looked to the overturned cart and the remains of Dr. Standish and the guard who had come to help him. The guard's head was still in the corner of the cold, sterile room. The eyes were popped open wide in an expression of his final moments of life. His tongue was poking out in a grotesque display of the power who ever had ripped his head from his possessed. 

"Someone did this by hand?" Rossetti frowned. He was kneeled by the body of Dr. Standish. The old man had been mangled, his limbs and body twisted and broken into crazy angles. Rossetti shook his head, "Jesus, Mike."

"Okay, did the security cameras get anything?" Michael asked.

Officer Wynn shook his head cautiously, "Maintenance was servicing everything from this floor up when it happened."

"Now how's that for timing?" Michael cursed.

"Go easy, Mike," Rossetti said diplomatically as he stood up, "We're all on the same side here."

Michael paused for a moment and then looked to Officer Wynn, "I'm sorry, Officer. Bad morning."

Officer Wynn nodded. "For us all."

"And no one saw anything? No one up front?"

Rossetti spoke up, "We've got people in the surrounding buildings asking questions. It'll take time."

Michael pulled Rossetti aside to the far side of the room, excusing themselves from the other officers and investigators. Rossetti could hardly bare to look at Standish. The doctor had been there since he began with the force. He was just a sweet, pleasant old man who never did anyone any harm. He was a widower, a father of three, a grandfather of eight. He often listened to Rossetti when he just had to talk to someone else besides his wife. That was Standish in a nutshell, a good listener. 




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 03



A good friend.

"A good man," Rossetti mumbled.

"Huh?" Michael asked.

"Dr. Standish," Rossetti leaned against the wall, "He was a good man. He was going to retire next year..."

"I know," Michael said, offering as much sympathy as he could.

"Who the fuck could have done this?" Rossetti wondered, scratching his chin.

"We're going to find out," Michael said quietly, "We're going to find out who killed my brother, Standish and this guard."

"We got orders, Mike," Rossetti warned, "Hollins wants us on the Crispin case."

"And we'll stay on the Crispin case," he reassured him, "But who says we can't look at my brother's case in connection with Crispin?"

"It's thin Mike."

"Two murders, only four blocks apart," Michael suggested, "Who's to say they're not connected?"

"Really fucking thin," Rossetti shook his head.

"I'll bet they've already processed some of the physical evidence from Steven's apartment," Michael said, "Maybe we should go take a look. Who's in charge?"

"Mike, no," Rossetti said flatly, "We're on thin ice here."

"No, I'm on thin ice," Michael corrected him, "You're my chaperone, remember?"

"Jesus," Rossetti rubbed his temples as he considered what Michael wanted to do. If he was the chaperone in charge of Michael, then letting him go loose and pissing Hollins off wouldn't be very good for his career. He wondered if Michael really understood just how close he was to the axe? If he did, he didn't let on that he knew. Rossetti glanced over at the bodies on the floor and all the blood. It was spattered on the walls, the ceiling... these men deserved better. And so did Steven Wolverton. 

Rossetti looked at his friend and finally said, "Detective Aikens is in charge of the investigation."

"Aikens" Michael rolled his eyes, "The Barney Fife of the SFPD?"

Rossetti shrugged.

"Come on," Michael coaxed, sensing his reluctance. He grasped Rossetti by the shoulder and looked at him, trying to convey every last of ounce of sincerity and respect he had for his partner, "I can't do this without you."

"Alright," Rossetti said, "Don't get all emotional on me and shit."

"Thank you," Michael said, feeling a spark of hope in his heart. "We owe it to Steve and Standish. We owe to the guard."

"I already said yes, man," Rossetti reminded him, and then, "What's the first move?"

"Stay on Crispin for now," Michael told him, "See if you can match him up to anyone we know. I'll go see in Sue in the lab and see if she'll throw me a bone."

"When do we meet back up?" Rossetti asked they started walking out of the autopsy room. There were photographers snapping pictures now as the experts swarmed the scene, collecting and bagging evidence. He knew that if they pushed this too far, Chief Hollins would hang them out to dry by the balls. Michael had been pushing his luck for a while now, and everyone knew it. Rossetti supposed that he was in many ways Michael's chaperone. He prayed he was doing the right thing.

Michael was right about one thing at least. Detective Rob Aikens wasn't the best man to handle anything, even a parking ticket.

"I'll give you a buzz if I find anything," Michael said, "But I'll be back in a couple hours regardless."

Rossetti watched his partner walk down the hall and out of sight around the corner. He stood there for a little while, seriously questioning his judgment as a detective. He thought of his wife and kids, and how he could never face them if he got canned for helping Michael do this. Rossetti played out a thousand different scenarios in his head, and there was only one in which he could see them coming out of this all right. He prayed Michael found the link between the two cases. If he didn't, and the Chief found out about it, Rossetti figured he would be retiring from the force early.

"Good luck," he said and turned to go back to their office.

***

"Ms. Renee?" a deep voice asked from the elevator entrance. 

Lydia spun around and almost fainted as a man who looked exactly like Steve stood evenly in front of the elevator doors. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and wore a gray overcoat, his hair shorter than Steve's had been and face somehow older. His eyes were light blue, somehow the same impenetrable and alluring obsidian that Steve's had been.

"Yes," Lydia said, aware now that she was staring. She smiled and walked over to him, hand stretched out for a handshake. The man took her hand and shook it. Through the contact of the skin, Lydia received a rush of the man's personality, and more importantly, his name.

"I'm Detective Wolverton from homicide," he smiled as he shook her hand. 

Lydia felt her heart skip a beat in terror as she saw what was on his mind. She saw Steve's corpse on a table, looking as it had when she left him. She saw the detective's hands in the memories, the wedding ring on his left hand identical to the one he wore now. And then, there was a shift and she saw Larry, as the detective had seen him... the picture of Maricel in the box... she cursed herself for not having seen it... and then back to wherever Steve had been taken, probably the morgue. She saw a huge pool of blood, a policemen, a dead doctor and guard... she saw a severed head, it's tongue lolled out of the jaw limply... and no sign of Steve's body.

All this flashed in front of her eyes in a second.

"Are you okay, miss?" the detective frowned, his grip on her hand tightening in case she fell.

Lydia staggered back, pulling her hand away from him. "No, I'm fine," she said with the best fake smile she could, "I'm just a little tired. I was up all night down here. I'm fine, detective."

"You can call me Michael," he said as Lydia leaned against a bookcase. Lydia saw his eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn't got any sleep himself.

"What can I do for you, Michael?" she asked, regaining her composure as her mind raced over the impossibility of there being a connective clue left behind between Steve and Larry, let alone one that could connect her to either of them.

"I just had a few questions that the people upstairs felt you could help me with," Michael explained, 'Of course, everything I am about to tell you must remain confidential."

"Of course."

'There was a murder earlier this morning downtown," he said, his voice pained a little as he spoke, "Stephen Wolverton was found dead in his apartment, apparently drained of almost all his blood."

"My God," she said, her eyes wide, "Wolverton? Was he-?"

Michael nodded. "He was my older brother, and I am here in a somewhat unofficial capacity, Ms. Renee."

"I understand," Lydia nodded, trying to fathom what Michael could possibly want with her. She had left nothing behind, she was always so careful. As she pondered this, she also wondered how Michael could have looked so much older than his elder sibling, so much more haunted. She could sense none of the innocence in him that she had in Steve, and Michael was certainly no virgin as she gently probed his mind.

"You're in charge of inventory, yes?"

"I am."

"This museum sells umbrellas in the gift shop," he said as he reached into his coat pulled out a plastic bag containing one small, compact umbrella. 

Lydia kept her face cool and complacent as she realized the umbrella was hers. It was the one she had used to cover herself and Steve as they went back to his apartment. She had forgotten it, and in her confusion over what had happened with Steve lapsed into carelessness.

"Yes, we carry those. They're a big seller," she said, "But we sell maybe a hundred in a month. It could belong to anyone. I assume you dusted for fingerprints?"

"We found none," Michael eyed her, and she felt a block in his mind, as though he were somehow able to shield himself from her. She didn't push any further as she felt fear rising in her throat. She had experience love last night and now she was experiencing fear.

'What have I done to myself,' she thought dismally as she looked at the umbrella.

"I'm sorry, " she said, beating the fear down and steeling herself against any doubts. Any signs of nervousness that the detective was looking for would not be found here. He was clever and observant, and based on his ability to block her probing, perhaps even telepathic himself.

"Me too," Michael said glumly. He put the bagged umbrella back in his jacket.

"Is there anything else?"

"No," he smiled thankfully, and then paused, "Oh yes, there is actually one more little thing."

Lydia watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to her, and as she held it she received another shock. The picture was of Maricel, in a police mug shot holding her booking number. She looked tired and worn out, and among other things scared. 

Lydia couldn't believe it, the improbability of it all.

"You ever seen her before?"

Lydia shook her head. It couldn't be, he could not have found anyway to link her to these incidents. She had no fingerprints, they had no evidence and yet this man seemed to have figured it all out, or at least was in the process.

"No, I can't say I have," Lydia said as she handed the photo back. The detective carefully put it back in his pocket, holding it by the edges.

"I don't like to bend photo's that are on loan to me," he said, noticing her attention to his careful handling, "Records officer will chew me a new one."

"Of course."

"Thank you Ms. Renee," Michael said simply and walked back to the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone, leaving behind a mystery for Lydia bigger than any she had ever encountered in her life. She paced the aisles of the basement as she considered the possibility that he might know, might be on to her. In three hundred years she had never left any clues behind, but one night of passion leads to this kind of fumble?

But what did he have? No fingerprints, no evidence... sure there was the umbrella, but she had no fingerprints to leave. But there was that picture of Maricel of all people. Why show it to her unless he knew?

"You're welcome," she said quietly.

***

"Okay, what did you find," Rossetti asked through a mouthful of ham sandwich, "And better make it quick. The captain wants to see us at ten this morning."

Michael settled into the driver's seat of the standard issue dark blue Celica, and gently took the picture of Maricel out. He took his dusting kit out of the glove box and set to work.

"This is a mug shot of Maricel LaVoy," he said as he dusted the picture, "She's a small time hooker that used to work for Gloria Kyle's whore factory before we busted them up. She's been arrested three times in her entire life, all for prostitution. Now, we found no body at the crime scene in Larry Crispin's apartment and according to the uniform I sent out to her building she hasn't been seen at her apartment since yesterday. But, one of our boys busted a girl last night who told him that she and Maricel LaVoy were supposed to meet a man around midnight for a little big-ticket hanky-panky."

"Okay, I'm with you," Rossetti said, his face clearly not seeing what this had to do with the umbrella or the museum of all places.

"Hooker says the man who met them only wanted Maricel, but paid her a hundred bucks for her trouble anyway. The description of the man was identical to Larry Crispin," Michael explained as he shook the dust off the photograph and handed him a fingerprint readout off the dashboard. He continued, "Now, forensics dusts two crime scenes this morning, my brother's apartment and Mr. Crispin's apartment. They find no prints except the respective owners and Ms. LaVoy's here in Crispin's place. But, they did find smears on the box in Crispin's bedroom, almost all the memento's inside, Crispin's throat and on the umbrella in my brother's bedroom."

"No shit," Rossetti raised a brow and then asked, "But why come here?"

"This umbrella," he said, pulling the evidence out of his coat and handing it Rossetti, "and any other of its brand is exclusively made for and sold by this museum."

"Okay, but where does that leave us? I mean, any number of people could own an umbrella like that. This is San Francisco. People probably buy dozens of these things, man. Shit Mike, your brother was an architect, maybe he bought it."

"No, Stephen never used umbrellas. He felt they were way too feminine, like Mary Poppins."

Michael started the car and handed the photo to him. On the filmy covering of the paper, Rossetti saw a smear identical to the ones on the paper from forensics.

"No fucking way. Who left this print?" Rossetti marveled.

"Ms. Lydia Renee," Michael said, "The secretary of records for the museum."

"But how did you know?" 

"I didn't," he replied as he pulled into traffic, "I was really only there to ask about how many umbrellas the museum sells, get an idea of how many people buy them in a month and then check credit card records if available. But the woman seemed so unnerved when she saw it, I got the feeling she had seen it before."

"What are the odds?" Rossetti asked.

"Pretty one sided," Michael conceded, the memory Ms. Renee's strange behavior still fresh in his head, "I played a hunch."

"You are playing the thinnest fucking hunch in the history of mankind, my friend," Rossetti laughed and stared at the strange prints, "She have glue on her fingers or what? Some kind of protective padding?"

"No," Michael said, "That's the strange thing. I got a good look at her fingers, and she wasn't wearing anything to hide her prints."

"This is getting weirder and weirder," Rossetti looked out the window, "Maybe we should file this as an X-File?"

Michael laughed. He was convinced that this woman was somehow connected to Stephen's murder and Larry Crispin's murder, maybe even that of Maricel LaVoy. But How the fuck did a secretary working in the basement of an art museum not only kill his brother, fly through a fifth-story window four blocks away and dispatch a wanted serial killer, all the while disappearing one blonde hooker and escaping completely unnoticed, leaving no clue except fingerprints that aren't really finger prints on an umbrella? And then be at work promptly on time the next morning?

Thin? It was fucking anorexic.

"Sue said they were still processing evidence, so we may have something more concrete later," Michael said as he took the picture of Maricel back from Rossetti and slipped into a bag.

"We'll need it if you want to establish a connection," Rossetti said.

Michael thought of his brother's missing body and the dead mortician and guard. He thought of Lydia Renee, her attractive features and strange behavior. If this all was related, he had no idea how the hell he was going to piece it together.

***

"Lydia," Mr. Geer said, his nasal and downright pretentious voice piercing her ears.

Lydia slowly looked up from her desk in the reception area and put on her best smile for the skinny, arrogant man. He was dressed in his typical black suit, tailored to fit him to the millimeter. His thin, bony face was as always devoid of expression or unnecessary politeness. His thinning black hair was oiled and slicked back, almost as shiny as his delicate wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Mr. Geer," Lydia smiled, "What brings you here?"

"That policeman," he walked over to her desk and ran a finger across the top of the stained oak wood top. He examined his finger and with subtlety that would impress only a bull in a china shop, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it off. Geer looked down at Lydia as if he were using his hawkish nose as sight to shoot her with, "What did he want with you?"

Lydia sat back in her chair, the springs in the ancient thing moaning under her weight, "He had some questions about the umbrellas we sell here."

"I see," Geer nodded, not at all satisfied with her answer.

"He asked his questions and left, Mr. Geer."

"Need I remind you that the Elders wouldn't take kindly to you attracting attention to us?" he asked, his contempt blatant and obvious.

Lydia smiled warmly, despite her urge to beat the shit out of him. "I understand that we all have out responsibilities, Mr. Geer. It's my job to keep your library and records in order. It's your job, Mr. Geer, as a familiar to protect us," Lydia spoke slowly, "your master, the vampires."

"Just remember who is in charge here," he reminded her as he turned to leave.

"Demeras is in charge," Lydia said softly, "I answer to him, not to his hired help."

Geer seemed to tense as though he had been physical hurt at the words "hired help." He turned on one heel, his placid face now flushed with color, his beady eyes glaring at her with a helpless rage. Lydia knew he wanted to yell and rant at her, to put her in her place and assert his authority. He opened his mouth to speak, and Lydia almost thought he might do it. But then he took a deep breath and straightened his jacket out by giving it an indignant tug. In the end, a familiar was worth less than the most rebellious vampire. Lydia knew it, and so did Geer.

"This arrangement is a courtesy," he said pointedly, "Don't forget that. No more police here, Ms. Renee. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," Lydia nodded graciously and then added, "Norwood."

Geer paused for a moment at the disrespectful use of his first name, and then moved on. The hard rubber soles of his shoes echoed with each footfall throughout the library as he left. She heard the elevator doors close and sighed. Lydia sat there for a while, consumed with her thoughts. She kept thinking about that damn umbrella and her carelessness. For three hundred years she had been meticulous and careful, never leaving anything behind for others to find. Of course, there hadn't been the emotional involvement she had with Steven either back then. 

She cursed the newly found emotions she was feeling again as much as she enjoyed them.

***

From the shadows of the sewer, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton huddled itself in a dark, wet corner. The concrete was cold and wet against his sensitive skin. Above him he could people walking and water spilling off from the street. He was vaguely aware of what was happening to him, pieces of his former self still holding on desperately as he changed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, noticing that even the air tasted different to him.

That bitch, that fucking bitch that claimed she loved him had betrayed him. His heart was broken and bleeding, and with each passing minute he felt his body evolving, bone snapping and sliding, rearranging to accommodate the evil within. His howls of pain and anguish escaped from the grating and vents of the city, only to be swallowed by the daytime traffic.

His eyes were crimson red, his skin had turned blue and wet as it became translucent revealing the structure beneath. He felt his face, and discovered his nose had shortened and flattened as his forehead became thicker and more pronounced. His full black hair had fallen out, leaving smooth wet scalp. His teeth had elongated and felt strange in his gums, sharp and brutally large. 

So much was changing about him, but one thing remained the same for him. From the time he had awoken and killed the men at the morgue to now, he lusted for blood and the heart of the woman who had done this to him.

"Lydia," it rasped, echoing through the dark tunnels of San Francisco.

...to be continued...



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04



"IN THE DARK"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

***

The sun illuminated the city of San Francisco in the waning hours of the morning; it's citizens hurrying to and from the home and office. Their business and commerce being of chief importance, lives so thoroughly involved with self that they rarely had time to stop and think of others unless a man on the television screen displayed the starving children of the world or a poor woman was found dead in an alley raped and ravaged on the six o'clock news. Convenience store clerks were shot for their money at night while the politicians stabbed each other in the back all in the name of progress and a better way of life during the day. But no matter what, those in power had only those under them on their mind with the best of intentions.

'Tell it to the convenience store clerk', Lydia thought as she poked at her lunch, elbows resting her desk. 

She had locked the door and hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the brass knob. Most of the employees at the museum knew better than to knock when the sign was up, but she didn't want to take any chances. So many uninvited guests had been visiting her, from Mr. Geer to Detective Wolverton. It all made her so very uneasy and suspicious of everyone and everything. So much was at stake right now, and looking over at the bed nestled in the shadows of her basement apartment, she truly knew she had only herself to blame.

Maricel lay on the bed as she had an hour ago, and the hour before that. She had broken into a cold sweat just after Detective Wolverton had finished asking her questions. Lydia was in a sweat herself as the questions all pertained to murders she had committed in the last 24 hours. One of the murders was unjustified; the other was righteously justified, if not by God then by her own counsel.

She had saved Maricel from the serial killer Larry Crispin, better known in the media as The Front Page Predator. The bastard had meant to add her to his collection of victims, but not before raping her over and over again. Lydia had seen into his cesspool of a mind, and rape was by far the most innocent of plans he had in store for Maricel. When she finally had to choose whether to kill Crispin or let him go, the choice had been simple and quick. 

As her television set relayed the morning news bulletin, the pretty anchorwoman reported on the brutal slaying of the killer.

"Police this morning identified the murder victim as Larry Henry Crispin, a 54 year old mortician who lived here in the Bay Area all his life. The details of the murder are baffling enough as it is, but according to evidence found at the scene, officials believe that Mr. Crispin was in fact The Front Page Predator, the infamous serial killer who began his spree of terror in the summer of 1978 to the present, leaving his mark 29 times across the nation," she reported in her made-for-T.V. monotonous tone.

The image changed from her to a picture of Larry, and Lydia felt repulsed seeing him with a broad smile, looking like anyone's uncle or best friend. Like any good wolf in sheep's clothing he was anything but what the photograph, taken at some party not too long ago, suggested. The picture changed again and Michael Wolverton, dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing during his visit to see her an hour ago, spoke to the press. 

"Ladies and gentleman, thank you for your time. Early this morning, the body of Larry Crispin was discovered in his apartment after a 911 call from a neighbor. At some point before the arrival of law enforcement, an unknown assailant had murdered Mr. Crispin and escaped. After a search of his apartment officers found a cache of keepsakes, including fingers, eyes, locks of hair and jewelry. Forensics has determined that Mr. Crispin was in fact the owner of box through analysis of writing and fingerprints found on the items. A total of 29 women have been accounted for based on the number of keepsakes, the exact number of women The Front Page Predator has claimed since 1978. He was notorious for leaving clippings of his victims with the bodies. 

All of the women had been featured in newspapers from around the country, mostly front-page newsmakers in small towns and cities. All 29 names found in the keepsake collection matched up to the victims of this brutal killer. At this time, the investigation into who killed Mr. Crispin and why is ongoing. When we have more information you will all be duly informed. Thank you."

There was a roar of questions on the heels of his last word as Michael stepped out of camera view and disappeared through a door, a short fat detective following him. 

Lydia leaned back in her chair, her food not really agreeing with her. She didn't really need to eat anymore, but she often did so anyway just to try and retain a small part of her old life. She thought of Crispin and shook her head. That man had to be killed. He was a cancer, a tumor in the body of the world. She knew she had done the world a favor, but would her saving the life of Maricel ultimately destroy her life? The police had already showed up over Steven, and this clever detective had also hinted around about Maricel. 

"Of course he knows," Lydia sighed, "Why else would he show up here?"

Maricel moaned again, her mouth opening and closing as she dreamed, her body changing and warping into an internally new creature. Lydia walked over to her and covered her with a blanket as the cold sweat continued.

Not more than a few hours ago, Maricel had emerged from her mental cocoon of the change and seduced her. Lydia had never considered what might happen if she turned someone, because she never had allowed her prey to turn. Every vampire is different, some with the super-human aspects and some without. It all depends on the vampire who does the biting. Lydia had been something of a telepath, or even an empath before she was bitten three hundred years ago. The virus that caused the vampirism had heightened her abilities and gave her all the benefits the virus had to offer. She was a rarity, a unique example among a secret society of loners and outcasts. 

Many had feared her initially, and her joining of the ranks was difficult for most. There were some vampires over one thousand years old, with all the dignity and respect and honor that went with their distinctive age. And yet, for all their knowledge of the vampire bloodlines and lineage, for all their political sway in both the nocturnal and the human world, they could not match her abilities in full. They could not match her combined or separately.

Deep down, they feared her superiority. Respected, yet feared. And with that fear, there had been much talk of killing her to avoid upheaval in the society, to avoid certain advantages from forming of one group over another. Still, Lydia had served them well on many occasions and earned their respect over time. Out of that same respect for her loyalty to the society, they spared her life conditionally.

The only way her existence could have been more complicated was if she had been born a daywalker.

They did their best to not only keep her separated from the other's in the society, but to keep her from spreading her mutation of the virus. Her telepathic abilities had allowed to her hunt and manipulate in ways even Vlad Dracula couldn't have imagined, and she hadn't tapped but a fraction of her power. Until she had come along, no other creature of the nocturne had caused such a stir. So as a condition of her remaining alive, she agreed to never allow anyone to turn, that when she fed it was to be complete. It had been an easy agreement in that she hated the idea of one more person living like she did, but horrible in that she was killer no matter what.

And so she was branded an outcast amongst her own people and sent away here, to the museum under Geer's watchful eye. She was to live her life here for as long as the museum stood, isolated from everyone and everything.

She touched Maricel's cheek and shook her head. People were always fearful of what they didn't understand, and that went for nocturnals as well. 

The vampires as a whole were xenophobic and arrogant. The used the humans as cattle, with little regard for their lives save for a few exceptions. They had hunted down and killed all but a few of the lycanthropes since the beginning of the feud between the two species over two thousand years ago. Lydia herself had killed them in battle many times before laying her sword down. In retrospect, she wasn't sure if the Lycanthropes deserved their fate or the swift brutality the vampire nation cleaved them with.  

Lydia had heard of actual zombies, victims of vampires who returned to life, but only partially as the vampiric virus found something inside them it could not overcome and mutated, leaving a half dead and half alive creature with no sense of self. They not only had a thirst for blood, but a hunger for everything else as well. They could pass their mutated version of the vampiric virus to anyone they bit and change them and regenerate. The undead were the vampire rejects, the damned doomed to spend their lives as walking corpses. They could spread like the plague if left unchecked. 

But in the last hundred years, with a few exceptions, the vampires had kept them under control, making sure any aberrations were killed immediately. Lydia was considered an aberrant; only she was an aberrant that came in useful to the elders on many occasions over the years. 

Because of her willingness to honor the wishes of the elders with her remarkable abilities, she was spared and free to live her life for the time being. Free as her jailer Geer would allow, anyway. She had no fear of Geer himself. He was a pathetic excuse for a familiar and a worse example of humanity. But those who backed Geer were powerful and aligned with the seat of power itself. Lydia may have been a one-woman army in the eyes of some, but she knew as well as everyone else that she could not withstand the wrath of the entire vampire nation. 

So she abided by Geer's rules. And now, she had apparently passed her fate on to Maricel along with her abilities. Lydia's moment of compassion for Maricel would, in the end, cause her life to be forfeit. She had violated the agreement with the elders, and once it was learned what she had done, they would come for her or tip off a slayer about her location. Maricel would die with her when the time came, of that she was sure.

And yet, knowing all this when Lydia bit her to spare her from the AIDS virus, when she fully connected to her and she saw the horror of vampirism, Maricel still harbored gratitude toward her rescuer. 

To Lydia's surprise, she had harbored even more than that. She had entered Lydia's mind and stimulated her sexually, charging the feelings she had discovered when she was with Steve and seducing her. A sexual awakening had happened that night, and Lydia had been unprepared to handle it as Maricel used her new powers to tempt her. She had been powerless to stop it, as she hadn't yet recovered from her experience with Steve and the addictive nature of sex, a nature she had forgotten over the years. She fought for as long as she could and then, as with her thirst for blood, gave into the hunger the young woman aroused in her.

Like her life of recent, everything she knew was changing and flipping on her. She no longer was in control of herself.

She was in over her head, and she felt as though the world was closing in on her. Steve's death had been unbearable in the end as he professed his love to her. She had killed him, unable to fight back the thirst. She had killed Larry Crispin, a serial killer who had killed 29 women and targeted Maricel. Maybe it was justice done to end that murderous son of a bitch's life, but Maricel was an innocent. 

Maricel had been given to death by Larry and saved by Lydia, who in turn could only spare her life by selling her soul to the plague of the devil himself. But Maricel had asked her to do this, had pleaded to be saved from the AIDS virus and to be put at the mercy of the vampiric thirst.

She believed she could choose how she met her end as a vampire. Lydia had tried to tell her she was wrong, but in the end she either didn't understand or didn't care. Lydia supposed it didn't matter now. A connection had formed between them during the feeding, and Maricel was a part of her now. They had shared a moment of pure sexuality between them this morning, further strengthening the bond they shared, and binding her to Lydia forever.

Was there a feeling of guilt over that? She wondered.

And now, Michael Wolverton had shown up with questions about Steve, Larry and Maricel out of the clear blue sky. Lydia still could not tell if he actually knew she was the killer, or if he had just appeared that way. Either way, Lydia knew that he was close, too close to stumbling his way into a situation of which he no understanding. She would have to find him and either convince him to seek another suspect and misdirect him, or dispatch him.

'Kill him,' she thought sourly. 

She didn't want to, and the idea of killing Steve's brother made her feel sick to her stomach as she considered the alternative. She could not risk exposure for herself or the society, or Maricel now that she was no longer human. Slayers would show up in no time and destroy them once word got out.

She thought of her brief joining to Michael's mind, and the last images she had seen in his head before he somehow blocked her. She could see the morgue where Steve had been taken, but where his corpse should have been, there was only an empty table, blood on the floor, bodies and a severed head. 

"What the fuck have I started?" she asked herself.

***

"Nice press conference, Mike," Chief Hollins said, slapping Michael on the back so hard he almost lost his cigarette, "Those jackals can be vicious, but you had them eating out of your hand."

"Not really," Michael shrugged, weary of Hollins suddenly friendly disposition, "I just gave them the facts."

Hollins office was thick with smoke from Michael's cigarette and his own huge Cuban cigar. He rolled it back and forth between his rubbery wet lips. Michael took his seat in front Hollins' oversized desk and winced at how uncomfortable it was. The man was all about psychology and asserting power over others, as if being Chief of Police wasn't enough. Michael had sat in the chair many times, and he along with any one else in the department could attest to the fact that it felt like a spring was uncoiling up your ass. Only a sadist could have found the old, rickety chair comfortable.

"What can I do for you, Chief?" Michael asked politely, not giving Hollins the satisfaction of seeing him so uncomfortable.

"My sympathies to you and your family over the death of your brother," he said, his large hairy hands clasped together on the desk, "This must be a terrible time."

"It is," Michael agreed, his face remaining unreadable.

"Look, Mike," Hollins took a deep drag on the cigar and looked at him carefully, "I appreciate the gut reaction any good cop, hell any good person, would have to the murder of a family member."

"Thank you, sir."

Hollins eyed him for a moment and then asked, "You're wondering why I've kept you clear of your brother's murder?"

"No sir," Michael looked out the window.

"Yes you have."

Michael said nothing.

"I need you focused on Crispin," Hollins said, "You can't afford to be distracted right now."

"I'm not distracted, Chief," Michael replied, "Crispin is my priority."

"Then why did you sign out evidence from your brother's case," Hollins shuffled through the folders on his desk and finally found the one he looking for, "The umbrella?"

"There may be a connection between whoever killed my brother and Larry Crispin. The prints on that umbrella matched ones taken from Crispin's apartment."

"Bullshit," Hollins shook his head and held up a copy of the prints Michael had taken from the photograph of Maricel. He shook the paper violently and said, "All you have are smudged fingerprints and a lot of conjecture. That's it."

"But if they are related," Michael reasoned, "Then it is my business now. Larry Crispin is my case, and if there is connection outside that then I have to be allowed in on it. Anything less could impede the investigation and put it in jeopardy. Crispin is my case, sir, and I need to have all the resources open to me."

"Detective Aikens is in charge of the case on your brother," he said, "Do not impede him by sticking your nose in on his turf or getting personal about this. Stay focused on the job."

"Sir, with all due respect, Aikens is a first month detective without a lick of common sense."

"Watch yourself, Wolverton," Hollins pointed at him, his cigar ashing on the desktop, "You've been in enough trouble as it is, and one more violation could see you busted to patrolman until you retire. My intervention on your behalf with the commissioner is the only reason why you have a badge still. You are floating on my good graces, understand?"

Michael wanted to punch the fat, egomaniacal fuck right in the face as hard as he could. With all that was happening in his life, this asshole wanted to play hardball with no regard for who was more qualified to get the job done. It was all about power, and he had to admit, for as many ways as he wrong on things in the past, on this one issue, Hollins might be right. Being a good cop meant stepping on toes sometimes, and Michael had stepped on enough of them to draw the attention of certain corrupt city officials and chairs of government. There was no question that he was on thin ice. Were it not for the Chief, he wouldn't have a job. At the same time, it was clear he had something of grudge against him.

But this was not the time for arguing about personal grudges or vendettas.

"I understand completely," Michael managed as he put his cigarette out.

"Good," Hollins smiled warmly, as though nothing had happened and leaned back in his chair. It creaked and moaned under his weight, and Michael was sure one of these days it would break. He only hoped he was in the room when it happened so he could watch Hollins fat ass bounce off the floor and laugh until he pissed pants.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Yes. Norwood Geer from the Art Museum called earlier, said you questioned one of his employees," Hollins inhaled deeply on his cigar, "Stay away from the museum. Let Aikens handle it."

Michael choked back his anger and smiled amiably.

"Now," Hollins said, "If the two investigations do cross paths, I will handle it. You've got the biggest fucking case to cross my desk since I can remember literally falling into your hands, and you've already got most of the mystery surrounding The Front Page Predator solved. This is national P.R., so don't fuck it up. This case could make you or break you. Be smart, Michael. "

"Yes sir."

Michael left the office with a headache as he tried to focus again on his job and not creative ways a bus could run over his boss. He passed the squad room and took the elevator to the third floor where the forensics lab was located. Hollins words echoed through his mind, gruff and arrogantly confident as he considered his options. He knew if he pushed it and stayed on his brother's murder unofficially, Rossetti would back him up and take the fall with him. But Rossetti was also a good cop with a clean violation record. Michael knew his own career was almost finished, but Rossetti had a promising future. They both knew being partnered with Michael was Rossetti's biggest career mistake, but the man stuck by him anyway.

'Loyalty', Michael thought grimly as he looked around the lab, 'like a brother is loyal.'

"Mike," a friendly voice called from across the room, "There you are."




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04



"Hey Sue," Michael shook her hand as she brushed a strand of her red hair out of her face, "How you doing?"

"I'm fine," she said and frowned, "How are you? You look like shit."

"Been better," Michael conceded as they walked into her office. 

Sue Macklin was probably the top forensics specialist in the whole state, her reputation for genius in seeing what others could not was only matched by her unorthodox thinking and gently beauty. From what Michael had seen, she had a rare combination that few possessed in this line of work, and despite the horrors she had seen, her contagious smiles always managed light up her green eyes and everyone around her.

"A suspension, a divorce and now this," she muttered, shaking her head as she turned on her computer. They both sat down, and Michael was thankful that the chair in this office was soft and inviting. Sue looked at him sympathetically, "Does trouble just go looking for you?"

"It has my home phone number," he said, "You got anything for me?"

"Yes, I do actually," she said as she typed faster than his eyes could follow, inputting commands to the machine, "I assume Chief Hollins told you to stay away from this case in his usual, clichéd style?"

"Oh yeah."

"Well," she said, her eyebrow raised slightly, "Here's something that may help you get the heads up on Hollins. We ran the fingerprints taken from that umbrella found in your brother's apartment and Crispin's place against any kind of smudging or glues that might be used to hide the ridges of a print. We found oils secreted by the skin on the prints which rules out glue. And, there are no distortions to indicate smearing. No signs of intentional or unintentional smearing. I'd bet whoever left these prints behind came by them naturally."

"Nice," Michael leaned back in the chair.

"We compared those findings to the prints on that photo of the hooker," Sue said, "They match up just fine. But it may not mean much as far as an arrest goes."

"You're killing me," he sighed.

"Did you get a good look at this woman's fingers?"

Michael shook his head. "Not close enough."

Sue smiled sympathetically, "But..."

Michael looked to her, "But?"

"But, the investigation team did find a partial boot print, bloody I might add, in your brothers bathroom. Who ever it was who killed him stepped in some of his blood on the way out. This print is identical to one taken from Larry Crispin's apartment. Whoever this is, he or she is very meticulous and clever about not leaving clues. They also wear a size 9 men's boot. The killer is a pro, but missed this one tiny detail."

"Holy shit. There's the connection," Michael smiled, his fist clenched, "Was there any autopsy information from the morgue before Steve's body went missing?"

"No," Sue frowned, "But from the photos of the body at the crime scene, my guess would be he was bled dry from punctures on his neck. How this was done so quickly is beyond me, and there wasn't nearly enough blood on the bed to account for all of it."

"A vampire?" Michael laughed, rubbing his temples.

Sue smiled. "Maybe someone who wishes they were, I don't know. But it's clear whoever did this knows how to kill, knows how to escape and knows how to be quick. Your brother was fully erect, if you know what I mean, when he died, so it's safe to say he was being intimate with someone at the time of the murder, someone he trusted. Maybe there's something in that? Did he have a girlfriend?"

"He didn't have any girlfriends," Michael shrugged, "He never had the time."

"Is there any chance he might have been gay?"

"No, not Stephen. He was as hetero as they come."

"Well, it's a safe bet that whoever had sex with him last is the killer. I'd bet my retirement on it."

"He might have gotten himself a prostitute, but that is so not his style. It doesn't make sense."

"There are a lot of things that don't make sense here," Sue said, turning to Michael as she showed him the photos of Larry Crispin's apartment, "The window was broken in, and at a high velocity judging from the glass we found embedded in the wall on the far side of the bedroom. The only other window, the one the living room, was locked from the inside. We know that someone had been tied up on the bed, probably Maricel LaVoy, and that those bonds were cut by something really sharp. The front door had been dead bolted, so whoever killed Larry and took off with Maricel went back out through the shattered window."

"A fifth story window, with no way to climb up to it quickly without drawing attention from the people below and above," Michael shook his head.

"Sounds impossible."

"Maybe we should hire this guy."

"Maybe you are dealing with a vampire," Sue suggested wryly, but something in voice led Michael to suspect she might be serious "I can't explain how Larry Crispin died. His brain was puréed inside his skull, his throat had been throttled violently, but nothing was crushed. He was AIDS positive, but the virus does not scramble the brain like that. No virus does. Fifth story windows, locked windows and doors and one man drained completely dry of all his blood through a wound on his neck in a matter of hours. I can't explain it."

"A vampire would explain my brother," he smiled weakly, "But not Larry. Or Maricel."

"That's why they call it a mystery."

"There's only person who knows what happened that night," Michael sighed, "And Maricel LaVoy is nowhere to be found."

"She may be dead," Sue said quietly, "Between the evidence of her hair on the bed, some of her blood on the floor by the bed, the purse that had been I.D.'d by her friends as hers, the fact that she was last seen with Crispin the night before and the fact that an article about her was in the keepsake box... well... maybe she was killed and taken somewhere else before Larry checked out."

"I've got to hope she's still alive. She's the best chance I've got of finding Steve's killer."

"True."

"But we have a foot print," Michael smiled, "And that's as good a start as any."

"You be careful, Mike," Sue put her hand on his and squeezed.

***

Maricel woke slowly from the nightmare, her body aching as though she had been on a non-stop sprint for a week. The first thing she noticed was how sensitive her eyes were, how loud everything was to her. She could hear everything and she covered her ears as she sat up on the bed, swinging her legs over the side. She was naked and cold as she wrapped the thick blanket around her body. She opened her mouth to speak and felt a sharp poke on her tongue. With fingers that shook badly, she reached up felt the fangs that had replaced her canines. They were smooth and sharp, somehow cold in her mouth and up into the gums despite the heat of her body.

On the night stand were two bloody teeth. Her canines had fallen out...

"You're awake," Lydia said from the corner of the room, her face partially illuminated by the candlelight. "How do you feel?"

Maricel licked her lips, her face pale and reflective of her uncertainty. "I feel lightheaded," she croaked, her throat dry and parched, "Thirsty."

Lydia brought her a glass of water and sat down beside her on the bed, handing her some clothes. Maricel drank it greedily, chugging the water down as her sweaty, blonde hair clung to her neck and shoulders. She finished, handed the glass back to Lydia and took the clothes. She stood up too quickly, and wobbled a little. Lydia grasped her hand and steadied her.

Maricel suddenly looked at Lydia. "I dreamed of you," she said, "I dreamed we..."

"It wasn't a dream," Lydia said bluntly, leading Maricel to the bathroom and more importantly, the shower, "We shared an...intimate moment."

"Oh my god," Maricel whispered as she stepped into the soft illumination of the light-blue tiled bathroom, "I never meant to..."

"It's okay," Lydia reassured her, her hand firmly holding the young woman's shoulders, "We'll talk later. Go ahead and freshen up."

Maricel nodded and Lydia left her alone to clean up. She grabbed the blankets off the bed and put them in the laundry hamper. Lydia went to her bureau and pulled out her nightclothes, carefully placing them on the bed. She undid her jacket and blouse, tossing them with the blankets. She unhooked her bra and let her breasts hang free. Her nipples had been sensitive today, almost painfully so as she cupped her breasts and gently massaged them for a moment. She looked in the mirror attached to the cherry stained dresser and looked at her reflection.

As far as she knew, she was the only vampire ever to have a reflection. There was no explanation as to why a vampire didn't show up on mirrors, though some had said it was a spiritual effect of the virus. A supernatural side effect of losing one's humanity. And yet, here she was, reflected in the mirror, her soft skin glowing in the candlelight, her breasts as full as they had been on the day she had been bitten. She tilted her head to the side and looked at the twin scars on her neck. They had faded a little, but were still raised and puckered like small islands on the sea of her dulcet skin.

She cupped her left breast and turned to her side, revealing yet another set of puncture wounds on the side swell, identical to those on her neck. She dropped her skirt and removed her panties. She put her right leg up on the bureau top and turned so she could see the inside of her thigh. One more set of puncture wounds, in the soft flesh of innermost part of her upper thigh. 

There was moment where the memories of the ones who had turned her tried to come flooding back, but she resisted and pushed them away. Thinking about it was too painful, and she didn't dare want to cloud her mind with the past. Tonight, she had to be alert and ready. 

Her future depended on it. Maricel's future depended on it.

When Maricel returned from the bathroom, she was dressed in khakis and a white t-shirt, her feet bare. Lydia had just finished putting on her vest, and was pulling her thick hair back from her face when she saw the young woman. Her nipples were hard against the t-shirt, her breasts moving freely as she walked.

"I would've got you one my bras, but we're not the same size," she said.

"I remember," Maricel said quietly and sat down on the bed again, remembering the rush of pleasure she had felt from fondling Lydia's breasts, suckling on her nipples. "So what now?"

Lydia pulled a ten-inch-long intricately detailed dagger from her bottom drawer and sheathed it inside her overcoat. She had thought to bring the twin katana blades she kept hidden in her closet, but thought better of it. They had been a gift from Demeras himself, a symbol of the monarch's gratitude and generosity. They were the only real gift she had ever received. Still, the dagger was easier to hide and would kill just as effectively. 

"You're staying here tonight," Lydia told her as she secured the dagger, "I have some business to attend to, and then I will be back."

"It's night already?"

"Eight in the evening," she said as she laced up her boots, "You've been out for over 12 hours."

"Why can't I leave?" Maricel asked.

"You're not ready yet," Lydia answered flatly as she went for the door that led to her office, "There's still much to do in preparing you for your new life, such as it is."

Maricel nodded. "When will you be back?"

"Soon," Lydia smiled reassuringly at her, "Very soon."

Maricel sat for a while on the stripped bed, getting used to the new sensations her eyes and ears were feeding her. Even her skin felt more alive, more in tune to the environment around her. She shuddered as she remembered the images of Lydia's life that had been downloaded into her mind, her journey from one century to the other and all that she had seen. It was fading now to a dim blur in her mind's eye, but the fear and agony of that life remained as powerful as if it had been she who had lived it. 

She wondered if her fate would be the same as Lydia's. 

Maricel wept, quietly at first and then. as she realized she was truly alone, sobbed openly into the mattress.

***

"You gotta be kidding me," Rossetti groaned as he and Michael pulled up to the side of the museum, their car nestled in the alley, "I'm not letting you go out there alone tonight. In case you haven't noticed, there's bad shit happening out there."

"I know," Michael tried to calm him down, but knew it would do no good, "Just relax okay. I'm probably wrong about her. She probably has no connection whatsoever and I'm just grasping at straws. It's like you said, pretty fucking thin, right?"

"Yeah, but still," Rossetti started, but Michael cut him off.

"Look, we haven't got shit but one for leads right now," Michael explained as he loaded a fresh clip into his sidearm, "Finding out who killed The Front Page Predator is isn't going to mean jack shit if we can't find who killed him. Right now, this woman is the only lead we've had, and I know it's thin, but I'm grasping at straws here, man. My brother's not only dead, but also missing from the morgue. Time is short. Some weird shit is happening here, and maybe this woman can lead me to the truth."

"Fuck me Freddy," Rossetti grumbled as he shut off the headlights and turned off the car. Rain began spattering the windshield as the two men debated, and then became a downpour as the eight o'clock hour rolled around.

"Maybe she isn't the killer, but maybe she can lead me to the one who did it," Michael said, "And maybe we'll find Maricel LaVoy alive."

"Just don't make this shit a personal vendetta, okay?"

"It is personal, you know that. I have to follow through on this, whether Hollins likes it or not."

"And if it costs you your badge, Mike? Hollins warned you off this, told you to stay on the Crispin murder, not your brother."

"They found identical boot prints at both scenes," Michael said as he opened the door, putting one foot out.

"I didn't know that."

"I have to check this out."

Rossetti looked to him, resigned and sullen. He said, "Mike, be careful. If this bitch really is the one who killed your brother and Crispin, she's not defenseless and she's proven she's got one fuck of an edge over the average loon. She'll take you apart."

"You know me," Michael winked and stepped out into the rain. 

The door slammed shut and Rossetti said a silent prayer for his friend. This wasn't just another case, and this wasn't just another night in the city. Something was happening, something beyond his understanding, maybe beyond anyone. The rules had changed right along with the game. Rossetti wasn't certain of what was to come, but he knew a lack of knowledge about this new game was going to get them killed if they weren't careful. 

He didn't know why, but he felt in his heart that he would never see Michael again. 

Rossetti started the car, flipped on the lights and pulled away.

***

Michael leaned against the building, drenched by the fat raindrops rocketing down from the roiling clouds above. The museum was darkened, closed and empty for the remainder of the night. The last few employees were running to their vehicles, newspapers and umbrellas their only protection against the weather. Michael felt himself more alive and alert than he ever had been before, and despite how tired his body felt, he felt reinvested in his work.

When Barbara had left him six months ago and taken his son with her, it had hollowed him out. The marriage had been falling apart for two years before that, mostly over Michael's inability to leave his work at the office and that one other thing. 

Michael grimaced, his fist clenched in the pockets as he thought: that one fucking thing. 

"I won't let your job destroy us the way it destroyed you," Barb had finally had enough. She left him, imparting those words to Michael on a note she had tucked in his duffel bag.

It had hurt letting them go. But she was right and he felt his son deserved better than only half a man, half a father. He imagined himself becoming his own dad, distant and never quiet there. He imagined the boy growing up to resent him, the same way he resented his father. In the end it was better that they go and get away from him. At least then his son would have a chance to grow up with no handicaps. Michael had wanted to be many things to his boy, but never would he allow himself to be a handicap.

His son deserved better. 

He felt he had made some progress in moving on, but as far as might think he had gone, the gold wedding band had not left his finger yet. His thoughts were interrupted by a noise in the alley behind him.

He turned quickly, impulsive reaching for his gun. He caught himself and stopped. There was no point in pulling a gun out on a vagrant or bum, or maybe even a custodian and scaring the piss out of them. It was probably some alley cat digging in the trash, looking for dinner. He stood against the wall, looking into the darkness, gambling that if whoever or whatever was down there did try to attack, he'd have enough time to draw, aim and fire.

"Detective Wolverton," a voice from behind him said softly. 

He spun, gun drawn and finger poised as he saw Lydia Jansen standing calmly in the entrance to the alley. She was dressed in a flowing black overcoat, her red hair wet and dripping. And yet, her eyes were radiant and beautiful, almost hypnotic.

"Ms. Renee," he said, gun still aimed at her head, "What are doing here?"

"I work here," she smiled casually, "I might ask the same of you? The police station is fifteen blocks away."

"I thought I might go for a walk."

"Bad night for a walk."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Michael agreed and looked at her intently, "So why are you out and about?"

"I'm a night owl, detective," she replied coolly, "Daylight brings me down."

"I see."

"I doubt that."

"You'd be surprised."

There was a moment of silence save for the steady rattling of the falling rain.

"Are you going to shoot me?" she asked.

"No, I hadn't planned on it."

"Then maybe you should put your piece away before some gets the wrong idea."

"Right," Michael smiled uneasily as he holstered his gun. 

He could feel something passing between them, as he had felt it earlier that morning when he first met Lydia. He had never believed in psychic ability, but as he concentrated on the strange feeling in his head he swore he could feel her thoughts, her nervousness. It was this feeling that had caused him to get suspicious, to suspect she had involvement when he had questioned her. She was hiding something and he could feel it now as clearly as the rain pelting his head. 

"Where's your umbrella?" he asked, testing the most dangerous water they were treading.

"I don't own one."

"Really?"

"What do you want from me detective?"

"What makes you think I want anything?"

"You're here," Lydia took a step towards him, "In the rain, waiting for me. Don't lie to me. I know when people lie."

Michael thought for a moment, and then said, "Okay, you're right. I have two dead bodies, one of them a serial killer who has claimed 29 victims. The other my brother, who was murdered shortly before the second, only four blocks away."

The word "murdered" stung as she listened, and she thought of Steve. "And you think I am connected?"

"It's a hunch, miss," he shrugged, "Maybe you didn't do it, but you recognized that specific umbrella this morning. You recognized Maricel LaVoy from her picture, and I can't believe a woman like you would ever whore herself out or go seeking a hooker. It limits the ways you could have ever known her."

"And the man who was killed," Lydia looked at Michael, the only sound in the alley besides them being the continual drumming of the rain against metal and concrete coupled with the gutter systems washing themselves out. "Larry Crispin, I think the news said, he was The Front Page Predator?"




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04



"It looks that way."

"Maybe your mystery killer did you a favor."

"Maybe," he conceded and then added, "But my brother might think otherwise."

From the roof of the museum, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton perched on the ledge, recognizing both of them, but only in a purely instinctual way. It knew it didn't want to hurt the man, but the woman... it licked its lips, the long pink tongue running over its misshapen and razor sharp teeth. The woman had caused this, and it craved vengeance almost as much as it ached for blood... for sweet meat. The red eyes glowed like hot embers, radiating with feral excitement as it prepared to attack.

***

Inside the museum, Maricel bolted upright out of a dead sleep, her eyes wide and teeth bared as she felt a surge of pure hate tear through her soul. It stabbed through her brain and paralyzed her as alien sensations began exploding across her body. She was seeing through another person's eyes, though as she felt the black thoughts invading her head, she quickly began to doubt it's humanity. She could feel rain on her skin, wet and cold as the insides of her eyes showed her the outside of the building, the rainy streets below and the hands of whoever she was sensing. The hands were huge with large veins and powerful sinewy muscles, the fingers tipped with black claws that made Lydia's look like sewing needles. 

She fought off an overpowering wave of vertigo as the creature began crawling down the wall, silently and head first to keep its eyes on its prey. Maricel convulsed as her connection with the creature began to sever, the mental bonds pulling and snapping painfully in her head. She doubled over and shut her eyes, the last image from the connection being of Lydia and some man in the rain talking.

With all her strength, Maricel screamed as loud as her mind would allow, "LYDIA!"

***

Lydia staggered back as Maricel's voice ripped into her mind. 

Michael went to help her as something large and pale dropped from above and landed squarely on him. The detective fell to the ground, his gun spinning across the wet concrete as the wind was forced out of his lungs by the weight of the attacker. Lydia looked at it and felt it's rage burning off it's hulking mass. It looked at her, cocking its head slightly, it's Nosferatu-like features shiny and wet in the downpour. She could hear it growling like a lion, it's red eyes glowing demonically in the dim light. 

Her heart raced as she quickly probed its thoughts, and to her horror realized she knew this creature.

Her eyes widened and the world went strangely silent, muted by the moment of such an unexpected revelation.

"It can't be," she whispered, awestruck and terrified to her core, "It can't be."

"Lydia," it rasped and stepped off Michael's back. The detective gasped as he sucked air back into his lungs, rolled over and lay still for a moment, watching them. It stood erect, forsaking its crouched-attack position. It was muscular and abominable, every fiber of it's alien anatomy tight and flexed, radiating with raw power. She could make out huge pectorals and a line of twelve abdominal muscles on its fish-white belly. Its skin was a pale blue with dark mottling over its arms and legs. A large, thick penis hung down between its powerful thighs, at least a foot long. A heavy scrotum seemed to pulsate behind its member, dark and forbidding. Its feet were clawed with black talons that scratched into the concrete. It towered over Lydia; it's breath rank with carrion and some kind of older, more potent odor.

"Steve?" she whispered, her body cold and mind frozen. She had never been paralyzed but once in her life, and that had been the night she was bitten. And now, as she stood before the man she had killed, the innocent man who had been filled with such love and kindness, she realized she was about to pay for her sins in full. He had been transformed into a monster, a creature beyond definition or reason. 

An aberrant, just like her.

And a creature of her own making that would kill her.

"Lydia," it hissed as it grabbed her shoulders in its hydraulic-press grip. She couldn't move, couldn't think as its long tongue snaked out and caressed her face, slid down her neck and into her shirt. She felt it's hot, sandpaper-like muscle slip wetly between her tits as its stink enveloped her. The teeth nestled in the bright pink gums were as black as its talons, and equally as deadly as it pulled her close. It seemed the creature was thoroughly enjoying his toying with her as it drew her face to its teeth.

One of the jagged teeth pressed against her cheek as its tongue tightened around her throat. 

And then a loud report issued from behind the creature and a spray of oil-like blood brought her beck to reality.

The creature howled and tossed Lydia like she was a rag doll against the side of the museum. Her head bounced off the concrete with a loud thud and she crumpled to the flooded ground with a splash, her head spinning. She could barely make out Michael standing up and against a dumpster as he fired again. The blast lit up the alley and revealed more of the creature, its back rippling with muscles and yet not configured to any human anatomy she could recognize.

"What the fuck?" Michael screamed as he aimed for its head.

"Brother," it rasped, those bloody, pupiless eyes regarding him sadly for a moment.

"What the fuck are you?" he yelled.

"Brother," it snarled, any signs of its recognition of Michael gone as it lunged forward. Any sadness it had harbored a moment earlier was consumed in the heat of its blind rage.

Michael fired again and was knocked back as it plowed into him, tearing his overcoat off with one swipe of its hooked fingers. Michael bellowed as blood soaked his shirt, five gashes running across his torso and bleeding badly. He fully expected to see his intestines spill out all over his pants in a bloody gush. He knew his number was up, and that he would buy it in this shitty little alley. He pounded on the creature as it grasped his head, palming his skull like an NBA star would a basketball.

The creature began squeezing its grip.

Michael screamed. 

Lydia leapt up, her eyes blazing with an internal blue fire as she unsheathed her dagger. With a graceful flying somersault, she plunged the steel into its back and twisted. The knife slid in like he was made of butter until it hid the hard bone beneath. She dropped to her knees as it spun around, swinging desperately. The claws tore through the rain with a wet hiss, just inches above her head.

She shoved Michael behind the dumpster and turned to face the creature she had created. It was pawing for the knife in its back, but could not reach, the mass of its muscles too big to allow such flexibility. It raged, gnashing and chomping its teeth in the air out of frustration and pain as it tried to get the dagger. Lydia leapt forward again, her claws unsheathed, going for its throat. The creature saw her and slashed out, ripping Lydia's shirt open and tearing a deep gash across her face, from her left cheek to her right temple. 

Lydia landed with a thud and realized she was going to get killed along with the detective if they didn't retreat. Summoning all her strength as it turned it's attention back to the knife, Lydia grabbed the edge of the dumpster she had thrown Michael behind. She gritted her teeth and lifted, summoning all her strength and will to the task. She could feel her heart thundering as her muscles screamed and burned, pushing to the limit. Lydia growled as the steel dumpster slowly raised above her head, her fingers actually denting the surface as the lid creaked open. 

With a defiant roar she heaved the dumpster at the creature. 

There was a deafening bang as the steel hit the cement and cracked the surface into thousands of vein like fissures. She didn't wait to see if she had hit her mark or not. She had a distraction, and there was no time like the present to use it. She gathered up Michael in her arms, holding him as though he weighed nothing. She held him close a looked up, summoning her powers. She leapt straight up into the air and was launched into the rainy night sky.. 

As she flew away, she knew it was not dead.

"Lydia!" it screamed, and she felt the rage of betrayal explode from the heart of the creature, the only part of it that still had some elements of Steve left.

***

Michael woke up in his apartment, dazed and confused as he looked around, half expecting the thing from the alley towering over him to finish him off. His shirt was gone, as were the rest of his clothes. He was covered with a sheet and lying on his own bed. On the nightstand was an open first aide kit and antiseptic. His bottle of whiskey was there as well, looking really good right about now. He sat up and winced he felt the pain from the slashes across his chest and stomach.

"How the hell..." he began.

"Did you get here?" Lydia finished his question as she walked in the bedroom. Michael froze, not only because the prime suspect in two murders was here in his home, but also she was just as cut up as he was. She had a long gash across her face, but no blood, only the split skin and red meat beneath. Her shirt was torn, revealing a glimpse of her beasts and stomach as she sat down beside him.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked, "What the fuck was that thing back there?"

"Your clothes are history, you can thank the creature in the alley for that," Lydia said, not ready say it's name yet, "Before you ask, I don't know what it was."

She wondered if Michael could tell she was lying.

If he did, he gave no indication.

Michael looked at her. "How did I get here?"

"I brought you here," she replied as she threaded a needle with the bio-degradable stitching thread, "You're welcome, by the way."

Michael laid back down and looked at his clock. It was only half past eight.

"You got me back to my apartment, halfway across the city, undressed me and cleaned me up in a matter of twenty minutes."

"I'm just that good, now shut up," she said as she wiped Michaels wounds with the alcohol and prepared the needle.

"I can go the E.R. for that," Michael said, scooting away on the bed.

"You won't feel much. I gave you five shots of whiskey and," she smiled knowingly at him, in a way that made him both uncomfortable and aroused, "You had some morphine in your medicine cabinet."

Michael looked away. "So?"

"Nothing," she said casually as the needle penetrated his skin and she began sewing, "It's just that a cop could get in trouble for morphine addiction."

"I am not addicted to morphine."

"Of course not," she said, completely unconvinced.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, grimacing as she worked on the deepest of the cuts, right below his navel. Her hand felt warm and soothing on his skin as she sewed, and Michael tried not to stare at her breasts as they shifted from her movements.

"My name is Lydia," she said, "I work at the Art Museum. And if this last gash had been any deeper, your intestines would have been left back there in the alley."

"Who are you really?" Michael persisted. He felt her thoughts again, her emotions furiously surging through her. Despite her appearance, she was scared, more scared than even he was. There was something else there too, but he couldn't quite make it out. It seemed important enough to hide from him, but the harder he tried to see it, the more blurred it became. Or maybe he was just reading into more than was there.

Lydia remained silent as she worked, and her thoughts dwelled on Steve for a while. The shock of feeling his presence inside that body, the rage and hate that had consumed him. Just how had he transformed like that? He wasn't one of the undead, the creature in the alley had been violently emotional, and possessed of intelligence. Could he have been of a lycanthrope lineage? Maybe, but she would have been able to tell when she probed his mind. The guilt began to swell up over what she had made him into, compounding what had been there before. 

She pushed it away.

'The elders are going to kill me,' she thought grimly.

She focused on Michael as she delicately sewed the wound below his navel. She was acutely aware of his cock just below her arm as she pulled the thread, partially aroused and from the looks of the bulge under the sheet, and very large. Her thoughts touched on Maricel briefly, hoping she had been smart enough to stay in the basement. She couldn't help but recall their encounter with each other again, the way she had so expertly licked and kissed her pussy and brought her to an orgasm. Maricel had eaten her out, and Lydia found she was feeling both guilty over it as well as excited. She thought of Steve and their passionate sex, the feeling of having a man's cock inside her and filling her up so completely. It had been hundreds of years prior to Steve, and the hunger he had stirred up inside her had yet to be filled to satisfaction.

Her growing attraction and curiosity about Michael as a lover was proof of that.

"Ow," he winced as she went too deep with the needle.

"Sorry," she whispered, gently pulling the separated flesh together. The smell of his blood was almost intoxicating as she tried to concentrate, and the thirst was beginning to rise inside her again. She fought it down, suppressed it. She thought of Steve, and the way she had manipulated him into giving himself to her. She may have done this to Steve, but she could not do it to Michael, his brother. She could never live with herself if she did it this way again. She told herself she would merely find some bum or drunken wife beater later to feed on. 

Not Michael.

"This may sound crazy, but the last 24 hours have been right out of The Twilight Zone anyway," Michael said, " I swear I can hear your thoughts."

Lydia didn't look up, couldn't look at his eyes. "I think you're feeling loopy."

"Maybe," he said groggily, the morphine kicking in hard though his system, "But it feels so real. I can hear you thinking about Steve."

"Your brother?" she feigned ignorance.

"Yeah, and Larry Crispin and Maricel LaVoy," he said, closing his eyes as his voice became disconnected, "You know something, don't you?"

Lydia was quiet for a moment, unsure how long she could keep this up. "No," she said, "I told you I don't."

She found herself not wanting to admit her guilt to Michael, feeling ashamed and worried of what his opinion would be, scared of the hate and retribution he would cast off on her. And yet, a part of her wanted to confide in this man, to unload her crimes and be judged, held accountable. She wondered if he could possibly understand what it was to be in her position, in order to live having to kill? 

She probed his mind and found that he was just as kind as his brother had been, only haunted by the horrors of his job. The murders, the crimes, the humanity lost in a world he was trying to protect. His life had been consumed by his calling, and in this way, maybe they weren't so different. But she was a killer, and he saved lives, taking only when necessary. Still, his life was governed by his strong sense of right and wrong.

He was a good man. 

Lydia cursed herself for liking him. She realized she could not kill him, even to protect herself and Maricel. She had told herself she could, and the minute he had shown up in the alley she believed she could. But something unexpected had happened, maybe as a direct result of meeting Steve and Maricel, but somewhere in the darkness and guilt over her choices in the last day, she had rediscovered her humanity. And with it came the price of a conscience.

She had made her decision about this when she decided to heal his wounds rather than leave him for dead in the hands of the creature.

"Help me, " he said softly, the effects of the morphine and whiskey now plainly visible.

"Michael," she asked tenderly, feeling for the first time in so long a warm glow on the chill of her heart, "What happened to your wife?"

"She left me," he said as he put a hand to his face, trying to fight off the sedation "I don't blame her though."

Lydia finished sewing the worst of the wounds. The other four would heal fine without stitches, but they would be forever scarred across his perfect torso. She put her hand on his chest and felt his warm skin, so different from her own. It contained blood, real and hot, giving him the essence of life. Her flesh was like a porcelain dolls, beautiful but merely a covering for a hollow space, upon first touch losing its illusion of luster. She relished in his essence, letting his soul wash over her as she opened her mind to him and explored him. 

He was so powerful, so moral and kind-hearted. Even now, though he suspected her in the death of his brother, he still had deep gratitude for her. He knew she had saved him, and along with it there was a strong attraction to her. 

She admitted to herself the attraction was mutual as she soothed his troubled mind, easing the pain of his life in a way she could never do for herself. She discovered he had been suspended from his job a year ago for suspected morphine use as she browsed through his memories. They never proved it, but Michael lived with guilt of his secret addiction. Barbara, his wife, had left him because of that, mostly. And Michael had tried to quit. Lydia could feel his desperation as he worked to quit, to come out of his addiction and be free. 

She could identify, and yet as hard as they both may have tried to shed the bonds of addiction, they fell and made poor choices.

"It must be lonely," she said as she stroked his cheek.

"It is."

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "But I know what that is like, to be alone..."

"Why do I feel like I know you?" he asked as he softly took her hand in his and held it tight, "What are you doing to me?"

Lydia felt a knot in her throat as memories of what had happened with Steve came flooding back. "I...I just wanted to help you," she said, forcing back her tears. This was becoming too much as she allowed Michael's pain inside. It was as penetrative an act as virginal intercourse, and it was accompanied by similar feelings of pleasure and pain. The overwhelming storm of his soul filled her up completely, and she gasped a little as she felt his pain. Lydia closed her eyes, hoping that maybe this could help redeem her for what she had done to Steve. She wished that through helping Michael, she might find a temporary reprieve from her sins.

Lydia seized Michael's mind and he went limp as she caressed him with her thoughts, her mind gently blowing the hurt away from him as though it were dust that had settled for too long on a glass sculpture. Michael closed his eyes, his face shocked and in the grip of some indefinable pleasure transcending any physical description or verbal understanding. Tears formed in his eyes as she addressed the loss of his brother, his wife and son. She grieved with him, her heart opening up and offering a safe haven. 

Lydia removed her torn shirt and vest, unhooked her bra and tossed her clothing on the floor. She lay on her side and held him close, letting her full breasts press against his muscular arm. He was so warm, so human as she gave in to her need to be close to him. They embraced each other, their legs tangled and faces buried in each other's necks. 

A mutual need passed between them as Lydia comforted his soul and reassured him as only a lover could do. In the span of the five minutes they were joined, they became intimately aware of each other, as though they had been mated for life. Michael was only aware of it at a subconscious level, and could only react to the emotions. But Lydia could see it all and she wept as Michael became a part of her.

Then came a dark cloud over them, out of the horizon of Lydia's heart like a typhoon over the ocean. The thirst was still there, and it craved new blood as it thundered and gusted. Lydia squeezed Michael hard, feeling her resolve going weak. His cock stirred against her leg and she knew that he wanted her, and the déjà vu of the situation struck her like lightning. Michael was vulnerable, defenseless here as she lay with him. 




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04



He was the only one could potentially expose her, and she could take care of it now, permanently.

And she could feed; she could appease the thirst and quench it.

The darkness within tempted her, dared to her to indulge.

Tears erupted from her tightly shut eyes as she fought the urge to bite him. She cursed herself, damned herself to Hell for not being strong enough to resist. She fought back, trying to keep Michael calm and in his deeply centered state as she struggled with her self. The logic of the darkness reasoned with her, played off her feeling for him, her sympathy and affections. It would be less painful this way, and he would not feel a thing. It was inevitable, it was who she was, the part of her being that would not be denied... 

She felt her mouth open, as though she were no longer in control of herself, and her fangs extended down for the kill.

She looked at Michael, his eyes closed in complete trust.

The tips of her fangs touched his skin, and as the impulse came to bear down, something passed from Michael to her. It was an alien feeling, forgotten along with most of her life before the turning. She stopped and withdrew, his flesh unbroken as her body tingled, her mind shell-shocked. The darkness screamed and wailed, berating her for they betrayal of the thirst. She considered this new feeling, and finally she understood it.

It was need. 

Michael needed her. Not in the blatantly sexual way that Maricel had earlier or even in the misguided way that Steve had. Somehow, Michael had seen past her defenses and saw they were kindred spirits, a like in so many ways. In the accelerated minutes of their bonding, they had discovered the truth about each other as people. He didn't know that she had killed Steve, she was sure of that. And while she felt secure her secret was safe, she felt even more guilty over the fact that Michael had this need for her. She had taken his brother, and he was feeling this true, pure need for her. A need for her as a human being and as a woman, as a sympathetic soul and support against the weight of life.

It was so beautiful to be needed, and yet she felt like a liar, a fraud as she accepted his newfound feelings for her. She couldn't tell him what she had done now. If she did, his feelings for her might change and now that she knew they existed, with her manipulating him at all, she didn't know if she could bear that.

In three hundred years, tonight was the first time anyone had ever felt a need for her, beyond her body or her abilities. It was so simple and innocently pure that she found she couldn't breathe for a moment.

Michael looked at her and asked, "How are your wounds?"

"What?" she asked as she sat up.

"Your face is healed," he said, his mouth gaped open wide.

Lydia touched her face and found that the gash was gone, regenerated as if it had never been inflicted. It was no surprise to her that it had done so, but when she looked at Michael's chest and abdomen, she gasped. The five long slash wounds were gone. Only the biodegradable thread she had used to sew up the one below his navel was left, support for a wound that had been erased from existence.

"Lydia," Michael said slowly, his hands on his stomach and eyes as wide as silver dollars. He looked at her like a man waking from a dream and put his hand on her arm. "What is going here?" he asked.

Lydia looked at him, unsure of what to say to next. To be honest, she didn't know what was going on anymore than he did. She knew she could regenerate, but healing other people?

"I don't know, Michael."

***

Rossetti pulled up to the museum and into the alley where Michael was supposed to meet him. From the moment he got a good view of the cramped side street, he knew something had gone wrong. One of the dumpsters was overturned and on its side, almost a quarter of it buried in the blacktop. Rossetti got out, turned on his flashlight, and walked slowly forward, his gun drawn. A black, thick ooze pooled on the wet ground by the overturned dumpster. The rain hit it and rolled off, as though some oil coated it. He knelt down and touched it. It was warm and sticky, like viscous crude petroleum. He looked at saw more the strange substance spattered across the ground.

"Mike?" Rossetti called, searching the alley and becoming more and more panicked. The smell of trash was thick in the air as he rounded the back of the museum and found only more cluttered side streets and alleys. Garbage floated on top of the bloated gutters, spilling out into the middle of the alley and collecting there. But beyond that, he could also smell something else. It was a rancid smell of decay, potent and sour as he turned to head back and call for help. He knew it might get Mike fired by bringing in the department, but better unemployed than dead.

He had run halfway back down the alley when a noise to his left stopped him. He turned, expecting to see Michael thoroughly drenched and miserable greet him. Instead, he saw something he never once imagined in his worst nightmares. He fired off ever round in her service revolver, and if he did hit it, it didn't matter.

"No!" he screamed as a powerful fist pistoned through his stomach, destroying his internal organs in the passing and punched out the back. Behind him, wet heavy things fell from his body and splashed in the gutter water as his life's blood spurted out of him. The thing regarded him quietly, contemplating him. It tilted its head, as if admiring its handiwork. Rossetti only gurgled and spat up gore as he fought for the last few seconds of his life. He heard his gun hit the ground with a muted, dull clink. He could feel his insides falling out, and as the creature grasped his still intact and exposed spinal column, everything he knew about pain became irrelevant.

There was a snap and he went cold, staying conscious long enough to feel sharp teeth sink into his face, scrape the bone beneath and clamp down. And then it was dark.

...to be continued...



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05



"DEATH AND MIRACLES"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

AUTHORS NOTE:

"It would really help if you read the previous chapters before reading this one for the sake of clarity."

***

Michael slowly opened his eyes to an unfocused world. 

His head ached under a dull, forceful throb. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, working the blur out of his field of vision. It was morning, he knew that much as the bright yellow warmth of the sun flooded his bedroom and illuminated everything to a glow. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then all of sudden looked down.

He remembered the gashes on his chest and stomach. That thing in the alley had ripped into him the night before, cutting deep and almost pulling his guts out. As he ran his fingers over his torso, he saw that the gashes were gone as though part of a bad dream. Still, looking below his navel he saw the stitches there, sewn uselessly and without a purpose into his unbroken skin.

"What the fuck?" he whispered, and then he remembered. He turned quickly, calling out, "Lydia?"

Not bothering with clothes or giving the slightest thought about who might see him through a window, he walked naked through his apartment, looking for his mysterious rescuer. She was nowhere to be seen, not a single sign of her ever even having being there save for the stitches and the miraculous healing of his wounds. Michael sat down on his couch, the sunlight warming the back of neck and shoulders. It was after nine-thirty in the morning, and he was late for work.

Rushing to get showered and dressed, his mind was fixated on Lydia. He could remember now that she had somehow brought him home from the alley, that she had entered his apartment with apparently the greatest of ease. He also remembered that she had somehow healed him. 

He remembered her silky skin against him, the feeling of her breasts pressed to him and the strange yet undeniable connection they had formed. As his thoughts cleared, he could see images, memories that were not his own. Flashes of a life he had never been a part of, the feelings attached to them disjointed and frantic. Lydia had passed her feelings of fear and anger to him, her bitterness at the past. But most of all, he felt her loneliness, the emptiness inside her.

Michael stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

"What the hell happened?" he asked his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair and put on his deodorant.

As he grabbed his gun and holster, which someone had conveniently put on the nightstand, he was jolted again by a sudden remembrance. 

"Rossetti," he whispered. Rossetti was supposed to meet him back at the alley that night. And if had he went back there last night, with that thing still in the alley...

Michael grabbed his leather jacket, forsaking his blazer and tie, running out the door.

***

"What was it?" Maricel asked.

Lydia shook her head, "I'm not sure yet."

Maricel frowned. "Yes you are. I can feel it."

Lydia paused her hurried morning routine in the middle of the room as she put her day suit on. Her fingers tightened slightly in frustration around the fabric of her blouse as she buttoned it up. "I told you," she glared at Maricel, "I don't know."

"Whatever it was," she said, "It hates you."

"I got that impression."

"But it loves you too," Maricel sat down at Lydia's desk. Her eyes looked tired, her face as pale as her blonde hair. She looked at Lydia and said, "It loved the man you were talking with too."

"Detective Wolverton," she corrected, "And as far as I am concerned, it could have easily been an undead or some fucked up lycanthrope looking for a thrill."

"It was a vampire," she said flatly, "At least part of it was. I don't know how I know that."

"Listen," Lydia said, ignoring Maricel's persistence in talking about it, "We don't have time to do this. It's not safe here anymore. We're going to have to leave tonight or the next."

"It will come back," she told Lydia, not so much agreeing with her, but warning her. Why was Lydia lying? What was she hiding?

"It's not the creature I'm worried about," she said, putting on her shoes. Her shoulders ached from being tossed around by the thing, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton. She grimaced a little as she fixed the straps on the shoes and continued, "I am worried about slayers. Someone will have been monitoring the news looking for leads, and it's only a matter of time before some hotshot slayer puts two and two together. It will kill again, and it has shown no fear of doing it publicly. We gotta skip town before someone shows up with a stake, crossbow and bolt."

"You're afraid of it," Maricel said, her eyes squinted at Lydia in deep concentration. Before Lydia could stop her, she had looked into her mind again. Maricel cocked her eyebrow knowingly and asked, "Who is Steve?"

Lydia spun and stared at her, her eyes starting to glow blue with their angry fire. Maricel slunk back in the chair, suddenly afraid of her. The anger and rage, and more importantly the guilt surrounded Lydia like a dark cloud, both powerful and ugly. Maricel could almost see it, but was blocked by its viscous nature. It was almost as though it were tangible and possessed of a life of its own. 

Lydia glared at her, "You listen to me. You've inherited some of my telepathy, and that's fine. But if you go poking around in my head anymore, even just once, I'll kill you. I saved your life, and I don't regret it. But you're crossing a line with me. If you can't live with that, then get out."

Maricel felt tears stinging her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Lydia breathed deep, and the blue radiance abating and revealing her dark, kind eyes again. "I'm sorry too. But there's more, and for you it's going to be a doubly rough night. Tonight, you'll have to feed. I'm not lying to you when I say it will be difficult. And make no mistake that tonight will change your life more than anything."

Maricel sat quietly, listening.

"Don't go anywhere, do you understand? You'll need me to help guide you on this. Try to rest and conserve your strength today," Lydia said.

"I will," she nodded, and caught herself looking Lydia's figure over again. Her body reacted to her curves, to her gestures, to her power. Maricel could not understand the need she had for Lydia. She had never been a lesbian in her life as human, never once even considering it. There had been women who had wanted her, the most tenacious of which had been a fellow hooker named Tiffany. She had tried to seduce Maricel on more than one occassion, but she had just never had the urge to respond. But as a vampire, in the context of her new existence, it was sexual yearning to be sure, and there was shame lining every provocative thought she had about other women since the bite. Especially Lydia... 

Running even deeper still, like a strong stream of deep, pure underground water was gratitude; a feeling of debt to Lydia for saving her from the AIDS virus Larry Crispin had infected her with. That debt had led to feelings of strong loyalty and protectiveness. 

When Lydia had spoken so angrily to her, it had cut her deeply.

"I will," she repeated, "I promise."

"Thank you," Lydia smiled, but Maricel saw that the smile never reached her eyes. Whatever was happening to Lydia, it was tearing her apart inside. And Maricel didn't know if there was anything she could do to help. Maybe there was no one who could help her. She considered the reality that her fate was destined to be similar to Lydia's, immortal and lonely, a long journey from everything she had ever known to a destination with no end.

Maricel leaned back in the chair and watched Lydia leave.

"Have a good day," she said whispered.

***

Michael arrived at the station a little after ten, and the place was a mad house. It was busier than he had ever seen it before as the officers, detectives and secretaries moved about their business hurriedly. He had just walked into his office, hoping to find Rossetti there waiting for him, as he always had been before, and instead found Chief Hollins sitting behind his desk, looking solemn and as expressionless as a statue.

"Chief?" Michael asked as he closed his door, "What's going on?"

"Michael," Hollins leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk and trademark stogie clamped between his teeth, "Where have you been?"

"I overslept," Michael said. His gut told him something was really wrong here, and as he sat down in the chair in front of his own desk, he felt sick anxiety grip him.

"Detective Rossetti is dead, Mike."

"What?" Michael asked, the blood draining from his face as his body went cold. The whole world went so quiet it actually hurt his ears.

"He was found in the alley beside the Art Museum," Hollins told him, "What was left of him was scattered all the place."

"Oh my God," Michael closed his eyes, remembering the thing that had attacked him and Lydia, it's claws and those razor sharp teeth. He could see the glowing red eyes in his mind, two bulging windows into the heart of Hell.

"Rossetti's wife said he was heading out with you last night. Any explanation?"

Michael shifted in his chair. "Are you implying something, sir?"

"I am implying that you have fucking disobeyed my orders for the last goddamn time, you irresponsible prick!" Hollins shouted, spittle flying across his desk. "Now what the fuck were you two doing last night?"

Michael held the Chief's glare, steeling himself not to back down. "We were following up on a lead."

"On which case?" Hollins growled.

"On my case, sir."

"Which fucking case, Wolverton?"

"The Front Page Predator, sir. Larry Crispin."

"And would you mind telling me just what the fuck the Art Museum has to do with anything in your case?"

Michael spoke softly, yet firmly. "Forensics found a footprint in my brother's apartment that matched a print in Crispin's apartment. The umbrella found at the scene led me to the art museum, and to a woman named Lydia Jansen. I can't prove the umbrella is hers, but she looked like she specifically recognized it when I showed it to her. I was waiting for her to leave work so I could follow her, and maybe get a look at her boots."

"Your brother," Hollins muttered as he shook his head in disbelief, "Did I not tell you to stay away from that case?"

"But sir, the footprint-"

"Did I not fucking tell you to stay away from that case?!"

"Yes sir, you did."

"And yet you did it anyway. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Sir," Michael reasoned, keeping his anger in check as a hot film of sweat formed on his forehead, "These two murders are linked, I'm sure of it. Rossetti and I-"

"Rossetti, God rest his soul, is dead," Hollins cut him off, his eyes as sharp and piercing as daggers. He pointed at Michael like an angry father would at his black sheep of a son, "And as far as I am concerned, you are partly, if not fully responsible for his death."

"I didn't kill my own partner," Michael raised his voice, the anger threatening to boil over and consume him. "He was a brother to me."

"Tell it to fucking Abel," Hollins shot back sarcastically, "I know you didn't do it personally, asshole. He was torn apart by what had to be fuckin' wild animal according to what I've heard. But you put him in danger, and he's dead because you couldn't follow... a simple... goddamn... ORDER!"

"Sir-"

"All I am asking for here is a little cooperation!" Hollins yelled so loud that it shook the windows and hurt Michael's ears, slamming his fist down on the desktop. "I pull your sorry, morphine-addicted ass out of the fire how man times now? And then you chop off my dick and shove it right up my ass as a token of appreciation?"

"I am not a morphine addict," Michael retorted, but he didn't believe it enough to say it with any conviction. The words seemed hollow.

"Fuck you, Wolverton," Hollins hissed, "everyone in the department knows it, you know it and your wife knew it. That's why she bailed on you. She couldn't stand the sight of you anymore, and I'm beginning to understand that feeling."

"Now it gets personal," Michael looked at the small window of his office, wishing he could jump out of it, sprout wings and fly away.

"YOU made it personal," Hollins said. "That's why I wanted you off your brother's murder. You lose your judgment when it gets personal, and you become a liability to everyone around you."

"Sir, these murders are connected."

"Where's your fucking proof? An umbrella and some shitty footprints that could belong to any number of size nine bitches in town? Get a fucking clue and realize you are grasping at straws here. You're burnt out, Wolverton, and you're doing a lot of damage to your career, not to mention to this department and my reputation, on the way down."

Michael was quiet, so angry and upset over the loss of Rossetti that he could hardly think. First Stephen, and now Rossetti.

"Why didn't you meet him?"

"What?"

"You two split up, yes?"

"Yes, sir. He dropped me off at the museum around eight and was supposed to meet me back there later on around midnight."

"So where were you?"

"I was attacked."

"By?"

"Whatever killed Rossetti, most likely."

"And that would be?"

Michael considered his words carefully. What he had seen was a monstrosity out of a Stan Winston movie, something that only a demented craftsman could create, animate and bring to life. Hollins glared at him expectantly, waiting for what had to be one fuck of a good explanation.

Tell the truth and shame the devil, he thought to himself.

No, you met the devil last night, his mind replied softly, and he is one scary motherfucker...

"Sir," Michael began, searching for the right words, "It was huge, at least seven feet tall. It was naked, I could see that much. Its skin was pale, like a fish. Some blue mottling... red eyes that glowed, huge fucking claws and teeth look like black razor blades. It had an overly large head and was very strong... impossibly fast."

Hollins looked at him, his face the display for the most perfect poker expression Michael had ever seen. "You saw a monster?"

Michael sighed. "Yes, sir."

The office was unbearably silent.

"You're on suspension until further notice, Wolverton," he said flatly, "Give me your badge and gun."

"But sir, it's the truth."

"Give me the badge and gun. Now."

Michael couldn't blame him. It was too fantastic to even believe, too beyond anything people grounded in everyday life could comprehend. He un-holstered his gun and popped the clip out. He slid it across the desk and handed the clip to Hollins. He pulled his badge out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk.

"Do not go near that museum," Hollins warned him as he took the badge and slipped it into his shirt pocket, "Do not go near your brother's apartment. You step close to anything even remotely related to law enforcement or any of these cases, I'll rip your fucking head off through your ass. You are not a cop right now. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get the fuck out of my building, Wolverton," Hollins dismissed him with a wave of his hand, "You'll be lucky if we don't pin you for involuntary manslaughter, recklessness, ignorance in the chain of command, voluntary dismissal of orders and public endangerment."

Michael thought of the creature in the alley, and suddenly he didn't feel so afraid of the possibly legal ramifications anymore. Some deep intuition told him that the creature would be back, that it has somehow marked him and Lydia. He debated on whether to tell Hollins about Lydia's involvement, and decided against it. He needed to find her first and get some answers before Hollins' weasels got to her. 

The image of it's burning eyes in the downpour and those huge teeth, barely covered by those large, fleshy lips flickered on the back of his eyes. "Sir, I'll be lucky if I survive the night."

As he left the station, he could almost hear the creature growling out the only word it had spoken besides Lydia's name that night; "brother..."

***

While Michael spent the rest of his day in his apartment thinking, while Hollins consoled Rossetti's family and while Lydia worked at her front job, giving the appearance of a simple overworked, underpaid secretary of records for the museum, Maricel experienced her first real encounter with the thirst. She was lying on her back, the bed comfortable and warm beneath her when the pain struck her. It was worse than being hungry after four days of no food. It stretched out to every part of her being, a primal urge that seeded her mind with a need and her body with an insatiable want. She sat up in a cold sweat as her fangs became uncomfortably long in her mouth, sharp and deadly. 

Her breathing was fast and erratic as she felt the darkness Lydia had warned her about pulling at her, caressing with it's promises of delight and fulfillment if she would only feed, if she would only taste the blood. It unleashed within her it's madness, the uncontrollable desire that Lydia had fought all her life. It wracked Maricel's body as she stood up and paced the room. She held her head in her hands, eyes closed tight and teeth bared.

"No, no, no, no," she chanted against the urges, the thoughts flooding her mind as images of Lydia's past kills came from out of nowhere. It was like she had downloaded Lydia's library of memories into her head during their connection to each other, and she was randomly accessing moments in her life without realizing it. She saw Lydia, looking so beautiful, so painfully gorgeous sinking her teeth into the neck of a man. The blood spurted up as she hit his artery, like a crimson fountain of youth. 

The darkness nurtured that idea in her mind, fertilized it in a way that was both repulsive and sexy as she watched the essence of the man pass from his body to Lydia. A flame ignited within her sex, and Maricel gasped as she felt what could only be an orgasm surge through her.

She fell to the floor, the vaginal fluid soaking through her panties and jeans as she writhed, her mouth desperately trying to suck air into her lungs. Her body spasmed as the thirst took a strangle hold on her, and squeezed. She was trapped between a place that knew only pleasure and pain simultaneously. Her nipples erected to an impossible hardness as her claws popped out of her fingertips for the first time. The strange, clear liquid that had replaced her red blood splashed out across the floor as the one-inch long claws unsheathed. 

It was a birthing of different kind, a rite of passage as she dug them into the carpet. Her eyes glowed blue, and she could see everything so clearly, every detail on the ceiling, every bump and groove in the texture.

"No," she hissed and unhooked her claws from the carpet, curling into the fetal position, "No please, no..."

Her fear of the darkness within was almost as powerful as the temptation it forced on her, the lusty need for blood. She tried to fight it, but in the end she felt only a resignation that she knew Lydia had found right before her first kill. It was a surrender, a giving way to the inevitability of what she had become, what she was going to do if she wanted to live, if she wanted to see another night. 

She would become a murderer, a killer in the name of survival. She would hunt tonight, and before the dawning of the morning sun, someone would die so that she could live.

***

Michael stood in the elevator of the art museum by himself as it slowly lowered him to the basement level, where the records were kept and where Lydia worked. He didn't know if she would be there, and he knew that if she were the killer he suspected she was, she would be long gone. Lydia had proven she was too smart to linger any longer than she had to. 




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05



He again brought to mind the mystery of his wounds healing, the shock on both their faces, and her completely naked breasts against his skin. He remembered the images that he had experienced in the alcohol and morphine induced state Lydia had put him in.

He had seen things in her, both frightening and beautiful. He hadn't been able to make them out, all of it as blurred and distorted as his sight had been this morning. He had sensed she was hiding something, hiding a lot actually. But he had also felt her loneliness, and her need to help him. He didn't understand why she had saved him, or why she had taken care of him after the incident in the alley. 

She was a complete mystery.

"A beautiful mystery," he said to himself, very clearly remembering the erection she had given him as she nuzzled his neck, her impossibly perfect breasts warm and soft against him. He had thought she might bite him, and the conversation with Sue in the forensics lab drifted back to him.

"A vampire?" he had asked jokingly.

"Maybe someone who wishes they were..." she had said.

The doors opened, heralded by a small musical tone. He walked through the records room, it's vast space filled with cabinets, storage and bookcases. It was a maze, and he could easily see himself getting lost. He pictured himself dying down here, and Hollins finding him, shaking his head, muttering, "He just couldn't follow orders." 

Michael knew his career was probably over, and in all likelihood, he would be brought up on charges over Rossetti's death. He knew his only chance of getting through this with minimal damage would be to follow Hollins every last word.

And by the last word, Michael equated it to bending over, dropping his pants and asking, "Please sir, can I have a little more?" like a good, little bitch. 

And yet here he was, disobeying orders again. He had no choice really, and Michael had realized that as he polished his other sidearm earlier that day, the one he kept hidden behind his couch "just in case." 

His brother had been killed and the body was missing. People had been killed in the process of stealing his body, and now his partner had been killed in the line of duty by a monster out of a horror movie. Somehow, his brother was connected to Larry Crispin, a serial killer of notorious fame around the country murdered via another killer more intelligent and quick than any he had ever read about. 

In the middle of all this, a prostitute had gone missing, presumably Crispin's most recent and final target, and no one knew if she was dead or alive. It was a puzzle with pieces that just didn't fit together, a mystery so locked up with dead ends that Michael doubted he could ever crack it. He knew there had to be something he had missed, a key to the unlocking the mystery.

And Lydia was the key. He knew that she could make the pieces the fit.

He stopped at the end of the first row of ancient looking books twenty yards away from the elevator doors. The room had an ancient smell of paper and paint, old leather and dust. The room had a character all it's own, and he was sure it had its share of secrets to hide. In fact, if a person didn't want to be noticed, wanted to slip away from the view of the world, Michael thought this place was as good as any to get lost. The shadows and low lights gave it a unique presence, a quality that was both fascinating and foreboding at the same time. It was a sanctuary for all things old and mysterious, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed that on his first trip here.

"Michael," Lydia said, her voice filled with surprise.

He turned and saw her behind him, carrying an armful of file folders. "You have a talent for sneaking up on me," he smiled.

"And you have a talent for surprising me, detective," she nodded curtly and walked past him, the heels of her shoes clicking and echoing through the basement.

"I need answers, Lydia," he followed, hurrying to catch up.

"I don't have any for you."

"Bullshit," he said, trying to keep pace with her, "Something happened last night."

"Besides the large creature in the alley?" she regarded him sarcastically.

"Yes," he put his hand on her shoulder, and she stopped as though frozen. He realized from the look in her eye that "frozen" wasn't as accurate a description as poised, ready to strike. 

She looked at him defensively and he knew she had just fought the instinct to drop him for touching her. He could feel her anger like heat pouring off a burning pile of brush. When he was a boy, he helped his father cut brush on their land and burn it in the spring. The heat that came off those brush piles could have singed every hair on his face off in a second if he got too close. Lydia burned with her own fire, and while Michael knew he needed to step back, he sensed that she wasn't angry towards him.

He needed to get closer.

"Your hand, detective?"

He withdrew his hand slowly and smiled disarmingly, "You have a lot of anger."

"Who doesn't?"

"Look, I'm not here in a official capacity," Michael began.

"You never are," Lydia said dryly as she continued walking towards the rear of the basement. Michael wondered where the affection was he had felt from her last night, and whether he had dreamed it or not.

"My partner is dead," he told her as they came to a reception desk. Lydia put the files down the desktop and looked at him. Michael could feel the affection beginning to surface again, if faintly so. 

He said, "The same the fucker that attacked us probably killed him, Lydia. My boss just revoked my badge and suspended me from duty because he was on my watch when it happened, and I couldn't tell him who had saved me from that thing. He thinks I might have had something to do with it in a criminal sense."

Lydia looked at him. "Why didn't you say anything about me being there?"

"Eventually, they'll see what I've seen and put two and two together. And then I won't have any leads at all on what happened to my brother. I need to talk to you first."

"Why me, detective? Why am I so damn important to your investigation?"

"Because identical boot prints were found at both crime scenes, because when I showed you that umbrella you flinched, because you seem to know a whole hell of a lot more than you're telling me. Maybe you didn't kill anybody, but you know something."

"A lot of people wear boots."

"What size do you wear?"

She crossed her arms. "A size ten."

Michael shook his head. "You're lying."

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. Could some of her telepathy have rubbed off him that night? Could he have been something of telepath even before then or just very intuitive? It didn't matter, because the truth of it was he was right, she was lying.

"Size nine, detective," she admitted. "But a lot of women wear a size nine."

He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and opened it. There were two footprints on it, one partial from the tip of the toe to the beginning of the heel. The treads of the footwear were like large, Neanderthal fingerprints she knew would match the bottom of her boots perfectly. Lydia smiled to herself with a sense of humility. She had been so confident in her precautions, so wrapped up in not leaving anything behind over the years that she had taken the little things for granted.

And now, instead of fingerprints, she had left footprints for people to find. In her confusion over Steve, she had left her umbrella, which the detective had tracked back here to her place of employment on a hunch. All little things to be sure, but they were important little things. 

They were the little details, and she knew better than anyone that the devil was always in the little details.

"Detective," she said, shaking her head, "I'm a secretary, a records keeper for the museum."

"And you fought that thing last night. I watched you, and you've got moves and speed Jet Li never dreamed of. You somehow healed my wounds and..."

"And what?" she asked, remembering the intimate moment between them, the need and affection that joined them together. She tried to shove the memories back, push them all far away from her so she could think. They were like a song that she just couldn't get out of her head, repeating on her over and over. 

"You," he said, still unable to get the image of her bare breasts out of his head, "You did something to me. I need to know what is going on, Lydia. Please, you're my only hope of finding who did this to my brother. You were there."

Lydia could feel his kindness again, his honesty touching her deep with in her heart. She tried to close it off, but she couldn't deny it. They had been strangers forty-eight hours ago, and now, they were joined together through the shared experience of healing. Michael only knew it on very basic level, but he was smart, and it wouldn't take long for him to figure it all out.

Lydia sat down, and offered a chair to him.

"Sit, please Michael," she gestured.

"Where did you go last night?" he asked.

"I had to leave you," she said quietly, "You passed out after your wounds healed, and I had some business to attend to before the sun came up."

"You don't like the sun?"

"I have a," she searched for the right words, "A condition, that makes my skin very sensitive to sunlight. I'd die within a few minutes of direct exposure. UV radiation is like poison to me."

"So you stay down here all day?"

"I live here, detective," she said, "A special arrangement from the powers-that-be."

Michael looked around doubtfully. "Kind of a creepy place to set up housekeeping, isn't it?"

"My needs are simple," she said.

Michael nodded.

"What do you know about Larry Crispin?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes penetrating her, searching for the truth. "What do you know about my brother?"

Lydia breathed deep. "I stumbled onto Larry by accident. I was out for my evening walk when I came across him. When I realized he wasn't just going to fuck the girl he had with him, I intervened and let myself in."

"Through the front door?"

"No."

"Through the window?"

She paused for a moment. "Yes, Michael. Through the window."

"It's a fifth story window with no fire escape."

"I know," she smiled softly.

Michael shook his head, leaving that mystery alone for the moment. He asked, "Did you kill him?"

Lydia looked at him. "Yes, I killed Larry."

"How?"

"I choked the life right out of him."

Michael sat silently for a moment, taken back by her brutal honesty. It was strange, hearing her talk like this, hearing her so casually and calmly talk about killing someone. "What about the girl? Maricel LaVoy?"

"She was alive and well when I released her. I sent her on her way," she lied.

"She's still missing, you know?"

"I can't vouch for her whereabouts."

"You found Larry's memento box and left it out for us to find?"

"Yes, I did."

"How did you know where to find it?"

Lydia smiled. "I have something of a psychic twinkle, detective. I think you know that..."

Michael nodded. "I do."

"He was a bad man, Michael. A very bad man."

"I know," he grimaced as he rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on, "How did you get through that window?"

"Is it important?"

"Unless someone shot you out of a cannon, then yes it is very important."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"After what I saw last night, I'm willing to keep an open mind."

Lydia searched his heart, and found he was telling the truth. There was no turning back if she told him, and she knew she was about to complicate her life a hundred fold. But her attraction and need for him, her trust in him as a kindred spirit had eased her mind a little. In a strange way, she felt a little safer with him. 

Her mind was uninterrupted by the darkness of the thirst for the moment, and she could think very clearly. It was clear that both she and the detective had run out of options in this situation, and she had to play her hand. She sat back in her chair, looked at him and said quite frankly, "Then let me get you a drink. This may take some time."

***

Maricel had managed to slip out of the museum through an air duct, running from the basement to ground level. Once dusk fell around six that night, she knew it was safe to be outside. She had borrowed one of Lydia's coats and worked her way through the narrow ductwork system, her enhanced instincts and sense of direction guiding her. She had not wanted Lydia to see her like this, to see her in the throes of her thirst. She had lost control with Lydia before, and managed to seduce her. She could feel Lydia regretted it, and she had no desire to hurt her friend again.

She could still feel her in the back of her mind, talking to someone. They had been talking for a while, and Maricel knew Lydia was both afraid and attracted to the man, the detective that had been following her. Maricel also felt the yearning within the detective for Lydia, and something else. It was dark, painful and ugly. She couldn't quite find the words to describe it. Yet, Maricel felt confidant Lydia would be safe with him no matter what.

She felt the uncomfortable grip of jealousy squeeze her.

The small, rectangular air vent on the side of the building popped out and clanked to the ground. Maricel lowered herself out, feet first and dropped ten feet to the alley, landing as graceful as any cat. It was in this alley that the night before, detective Rossetti had been brutally attacked by whatever the thing was that had went after Lydia and her friend. Maricel looked around the shadows of the alley for a moment.

"Steve was here," she said out loud, feeling the echoes of Rossetti's last moments of life still reverberating through the walls of the alley. His screams were still carried on the wind, fading slowly but losing none of their meaning. It was thick with his essence, like a rolling fog, and she licked her lips as she picked up traces of his blood on the ground. She knew instinctively that any blood she did find wouldn't be of any good, so she began walking. She blended into the thin stream of people walking to and from as she let herself be guided by her new set of instincts.

"Who is Steve?" she wondered out loud, and remembered the creature in the alley. She remembered the searing pain she had felt when it attacked, and the depth of its hatred and love for Lydia.

She seemed to walk forever, lost in her thoughts until she came to a familiar apartment complex. The sprinklers were on despite the fact that it was clouding up again for a storm, the droplets of water catching the warm glare of the sodium lights in the parking lot. She hurried through the corridors of the complex until she came to the door marked number seventy-seven. She knocked, and heard a voice from behind the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Maricel."

"Holy shit," the voice said excitedly as the locks disengaged quickly. The door swung open, and Tiffany looked at her in utter amazement. Relief washed over as she cried, "Maricel, get your ass in here! They said you were missing!"

Maricel smiled at her. "No, I'm okay. Just had to lay low for awhile."

"The cops have been asking everyone about you," Tiffany said, her overly large hoop earrings clattering as she led her friend inside and closed the door, "Did that fuck hurt you? I knew I shouldn't have let you go alone."

"He tried, but a friend helped me out," she said as she removed the heavy coat and sat down. The living room was illuminated with bloody red light from the kitschy lamps Tiffany had put red party bulbs into. "Killed him, in fact."

"So it's true," she said in total amazement, her Brooklyn accent so thick it had no place being anywhere near the west coast, "That guy was the Front Page Predator?"

"In the flesh."

"Fuck, you are lucky."

Maricel only shrugged. Luck didn't seem to be a part of the equation.

Tiffany looked down the hallway and into her bedroom, shouting, "Missy, Maricel's back!"

A door opened and Missy came running into the room, her face smiling and beaming with joy.

"Mary," she squealed, hugging Maricel tight against her. She could feel Missy's breasts against her body, and knew that she was naked under her nightshirt. Maricel returned the embrace in full, feeling the thirst welling up slowly. Missy's black hair was short and slicked back, a typical haircut for today's lesbian. But her face was almost angelic, not hard and angry. She was a petite lesbian, a delicate example of a forbidden love, a love that was dedicated to Tiffany with an almost blind loyalty.

"Are you okay, girl? I have been worried sick about you," Tiffany sat beside her, put her arms around her and hugged her close. Maricel let herself be comfortable in the embrace, her head resting on Tiffany's large, surgically perfected tits. Maricel looked at them, covered only by a low cut tube-top. She could see Tiffany's nipples were hard, protruding out like beacons. Maricel felt her own tingle and rise as she rubbed her cheek against the exposed half of Tiffany's cleavage. She put her arms around her.

Missy sat on the other side of Maricel, putting a hand on her back and rubbing up and down, "Did Tiff tell you the cops have been cracking down on everyone looking for you?"

"Yeah," she said.

"The one who questioned me was a hottie. Wolverton was his name. Missy and I would have fucked him so hard, "Tiffany said, and then winked at Missy, "If we were into men..."

Missy made a kissing face at Tiffany.

"Where have you been?" Missy asked.

"I've been recovering," she said softly, letting her hands slide down to Tiffany's legs. She felt the course fibers of the gray sweat pants with her fingers, and she found that even the simple things felt different to her, somehow more real. Beneath the fabric she knew were toned and muscular legs, a dancers legs. 

Tiffany worked on the side of her "escort" job as a stripper, and a damn good one at that. Her breasts and rock hard body had made an impression at every club she worked at, making her a sizable little fortune off the overly horny men of the world. She had seen Tiffany dance, and the woman was amazing. Had it not been for certain twists in her life, and maybe some of the few unfortunate choices she had made, she might have been a professional dancer in any venue she wanted.

"Did he rape you, baby?" Tiffany asked quietly, her long, curly reddish-purple hair hanging in her face. Maricel sensed that even now, Tiffany wanted her. She never changed, her mind always on sex, always on the lookout for a source of gratification. She could see Tiffany undressing her in her mind already, and Maricel found she didn't care all that much. 

In fact, she was beginning to enjoy it as the thirst maintained it's iron, relentless grip on her. She stretched out to Missy's mind and found she was in the same place.

She thought it was funny, that for as much as these two women claimed to love each other, deep down they were just as unhappy as they had been before their declaration of homosexuality. They lusted after both men and women, anyone to fill the emptiness in their lives. Maricel realized it was true that misery loved company, and if these two were anything, they were a prime example of that adage. It wasn't that they didn't care for each other, because they did. But Maricel knew that lust didn't equate to love, and lust would eventually fail where love would have succeeded.

Tonight, however, that was irrelevant. Their special relationship, their mutual attraction to her was what she needed, what she craved as she felt her pussy become hot and slick.

"No," Maricel said, gliding her hand up Tiffany's arm and resting it on her shoulder, "He only made me realize some things about myself."

Tiffany looked at her hand, resting on her shoulder, her green eyes filled with curiosity. "Like what?"




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05



Maricel sat up and looked at Tiffany. She said, "I realized I'm not who I thought I was anymore. I've changed in some major ways, Tiffany, and sometimes it's scary for me."

"Change is always good," Tiffany smiled, her full pouty lips a seductive frame to white, perfect teeth. Maricel could sense that Tiffany believed they were talking about sex, and while that may have been true on some level, there was a darker purpose. Not that Tiffany could see that, or was even sharp enough to see five feet past her own nose. Maricel smiled, the grin of a cat that was just about to eat a canary.

"I think so," Maricel pulled her t-shirt off with one fluid motion, revealing her naked breasts to Tiffany and Missy. Tiffany only sat there and smiled, amazed and shocked. Missy looked at her, eyes filled with a desire and hunger. They had been trying to seduce her into a threesome for so long, and now after of years of refusal, she was coming on to them.

"I thought you weren't into women," Missy said uncertainly, drinking her friend's body in.

Maricel stood up, moved to the center of the room and unzipped her jeans. She dropped them to the floor, slipped her shoes off and kicked the pants away. She stood naked in front of them, the thirst amplifying her horniness and charging her with a euphoria she had never known.

"Like you said Tiff," she smiled as the darkness overtook her. She ran her tongue over the tips of the fangs inside her mouth as she rubbed her breasts, "Change is always good."

***

Lydia sat back in her chair, the entire story (minus the incident at Steve's apartment) told about who she was and what she had been doing on the fire escape when she saw Larry about to kill Maricel. Michael looked like he expected to wake up from a dream, his mind processing the incredible nature of Lydia's story. He was silent for what seemed like an eternity. They had been talking for over three hours now, and the clock on the wall beside her desk read out that it was past nine in the evening.

Michael had listened to her story, his face cool and expressionless. He thought her tale might fit better between episodes of "Tales from the Crypt" and "The Red Shoe Diaries." He had heard a lot of tall tales from people over the years, everything from aliens in the toaster oven to demons in the cerebellum making people castrate themselves. He couldn't quite tell if she was feeding him a line of bullshit or not, though her explanations seemed to fit the facts. 

Sure, she flew in through the window at a high speed... sure, she boiled Crispin's brain with her mind... sure. His doubt was kept in check only by the undeniable feeling that she was in fact telling the truth. But it still didn't explain Stephen, or that thing in the alley.

She was still holding back.

"Okay, let me get this straight," he said, popping some aspirin in his mouth and dry swallowing them, "You are a three hundred year old vampire, a telepath, and a member of a species of...nocturnals... that exist outside the normal flow of the human race. You have to kill every few days in order to survive and one night you happened upon an infamous serial killer about to pop a hooker, you flew in, saved the day and let her go free."

"That's right."

"You just flew in the window like Supergirl?" 

"That's right."

"And is Count Chocula the leader of this vampire nation?" he laughed.

"No," she responded smoothly, "A man named Demeras is currently in charge."

"I see," Michael shook his head in disbelief. Was she crazy? Was he crazy?

"You don't believe me?"

"No," he said, standing up from the chair and leaning against the wall as he lit a cigarette. He offered one to Lydia, and she took it. It was a Camel Light, her favorite.

"You know these will kill you," she said as he pulled out his lighter and flicked it on, igniting his cigarette.

"And they won't kill you, right?" he replied, touching the flame to the end of her smoke.

"No, actually," Lydia smiled. "Regeneration."

"This is bullshit," he said, a jet of smoke escaping his nostrils.

"Think of my wounds from the alley," she said to him, "You saw it yourself, I had a gash across my face that would have scarred a normal personal for the rest of their life. I healed in a half an hour, with no scar."

"Maybe I was loopy from the alcohol and morphine?" he countered, "I could have seen Elvis on a date Mama Cass and been fine with it."

Lydia regarded him coolly. "Your experience with morphine is such that you can tell when you're too far along to know what's real and what's not."

Michael reeled inwardly from the low blow. "How did you know about that?"

"I know a lot about you," she said, taking a deep drag on her smoke, "I know that you've been battling a morphine addiction ever since your first partner died, I know that your wife, Barbara, wasn't it-?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"-Barbara left you because of the addiction and because she couldn't watch you destroy yourself," Lydia continued, "I know you miss your wife every night, and you miss your son every day. I know that your brother's death had truly hollowed you out, and now that Rossetti is gone, you've considered a more permanent solution to your problems."

"What?" he asked incredulously. 

"Don't be so deliberately obtuse with me," Lydia stood up and walked over to him, her stride graceful and powerful. The position of power in this conversation had been shifting back and forth between them all night, and Lydia had to reclaim control. She stood in front of him, their smoke mingling as she looked into his eyes. "This morning, after Chief Hollins suspended you and read you the riot act, you went home, drew a bath and got in..."

Michael tensed, his cool façade crumbling fast.

"You took the gun from behind the couch," she paused for a moment, taking another drag and seemed to look through him, "The one you keep 'just in case'..."

Michael said nothing.

"You brought it with you into the tub. You loaded the gun and put it in your mouth, hoping that the hollow point bullets would blow enough of your brain away to effectively kill you. But you couldn't, something was preventing you from pulling the trigger. And you wept, Michael. You cried and unloaded the gun, placing the clip on the washbasin."

"How did you know?" he whispered, awestruck at her complete knowledge of what had happened. He felt his world falling apart, and he could no longer hide it. He leaned against the wall fully, his own weight almost too much to bear. She was inside his head again, and he could feel her presence.

"We joined that night I saved you, Michael," she said softly, her nose only a mere inch away from his, her breasts pressed against him firmly creating a wonderful pressure.

"How did you heal me?"

She said, "I don't know. I don't how that happened, but a piece of me passed to you. Maybe it was our skin touching, or the intensity of the emotions we shared."

"You almost bit me," he realized.

"Yes I did," she admitted. "But I didn't."

Lydia turned to walk away, unable to maintain her composure as his emotions flooded her. Michael was getting to her, and she felt she was going to have to run as far as she could from him to avoid the feelings he was stirring up yet again.

"Why," he asked. "Why didn't you bite me?"

"Because you're special, Michael," she said and added, "You wouldn't understand."

"Then show me."

"I can't."

"Do what you did to me before," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder again. This time she made no defensive move against him and no anger came from her. Michael felt a swell in his heart for her, and felt he was on the verge of something incredible, something crucial. "Show me Lydia."

"I can't."

"Please," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're still holding back on me. Please help."

Lydia turned to him slowly, and pulled him close to her so their bodies were flat against each other. Michael felt his heart beating in his ears, the blood pumping furiously through his body as her thigh wedged between his legs. He felt an erection, maybe the most ferocious one he had ever had, growing in his pants. If this bothered Lydia, she gave no indication as her hip pressed into his crotch. She opened her hands and placed her palms on the sides of his head, letting her fingers drape over him.

Her lips trembled a little as she let her eyes melt into his, past the barriers of the physical world and beyond into the soul. Michael shuddered as she penetrated him, entering his world and opening a doorway between them. 

Michael was thrown abruptly forward in his mind, speeding along at a dizzying speed as he was brought forth into her mind. He was almost blinded as he saw the intricate tapestry of her being. Her emotions and thoughts touched him physically within this realm, brilliant with color and searing with internal luminescence. They swirled and coalesced around him like a second skin, saturating him. He saw her life, the long nights and even longer days she had spent so terribly alone. He felt the guilt over her countless victims, and sweet Jesus there was so many of them as he sped by. Each of their faces memorized and committed memory, like a memorial display in a museum of atrocities. They screamed and bellowed, a part of them all forever trapped within. 

He saw the darkness itself, the thirst hanging over Lydia's mind like a pitch-black storm system. It roiled and churned in the infinite space of her soul, lightning flashes touching her heart and burning. In the mass of this spectral incarnation of the darkness, a face rolled under the surface of its reality, stretching and bending the cloud cover as though it were a thin cloth pulled too tight. The face leered at him, powerful and alive with an inhuman intelligence. It was an unholy entity from beyond the world, connecting all of its hosts together in bondage for the soul, heart, and mind.

Lydia felt her grip tighten slightly as they were both wracked by the power of their fusing, and blood began trickling from Michael's nose in a small snail trail.

"I... have to...stop," she whispered, her voice quick and breathless.

"No," he snapped, putting his hands to hers, his eyes locked, "NO!"

Lydia realized that she couldn't terminate the bond now. He was using that part of herself she had passed to him that night as a wedge, a barrier preventing her from shutting the link down. She desperately tried to fight it as Michael neared the memories she did not want him to see.

The face disappeared and the storm clouds lit up, as though someone were projecting on a movie onto them. Michael saw the murder of Larry Crispin, the terrible deeds he had done, and the rescue of Maricel LaVoy. He witnessed the biting of her to save her from the AIDS virus and the subsequent transformation. He saw the moment she and Lydia had shared right here in this basement, he saw the feelings that Lydia harbored for him, the unexplainable attraction she was nurturing. Michael could feel the wind of the psychic journey on his face grow cold and frigid as images of his brother bombarded him.

This is what she wouldn't tell him, the elusive piece to the puzzle.

"No," they both said in unison, their voices filled with sorrow and regret. 

Michael could feel her guilt as though it were his own. He felt Lydia trying to block this memory, but she was failing. Michael summoned all his will and pushed forward. He saw his brother, so innocent and naive in his sheltered little existence walking along the street. Through Lydia's eyes, he watched the events of his last night alive unfold.

"No," they sobbed, their minds unifying into one. Michael was now feeling what she had felt, their hearts merging.

Michael saw them together, in bed and making love. Lydia had tricked Stephen into loving her, and he had brought her home with him. Michael was astonished by the power of the love Stephen had felt for her. It dawned on him just how lonely his brother really had been, how being so afraid of letting anyone in had cost him his happiness. But in this memory, Michael saw that he had found happiness in Lydia for those few minutes before the kill. Michael felt his heart break, shattered over the misguided love of his brother, the abused emotions and tragedy that was to inevitably follow. 

He saw the umbrella, Lydia's umbrella in the corner, forgotten and cast off. He could feel the sensations of their sex, and the emotions that his brother had unlocked within her. Tears flowed from his eyes like a waterfall as he saw Lydia lose the battle against her demons, and bite into Stephen. He watched the grisly murder as though he had committed it, and he began to scream.

"Why did you do this?" they asked each other, their voices still locked and synched together, Michaels anger unleashing inside their bodies

"I couldn't stop," they wept, Lydia's guilt overpowering them just as quickly as the truth was revealed, "I couldn't stop. I wanted to, but I couldn't. Forgive me please..."

And then, out of nowhere, a black shadow fell over their minds. It was powerful and evil, filled with rage and hate, fueled by an infinite depth. They gasped, their bodies convulsing together as the fight in the alley appeared in the clouds, like a grainy picture from a movie. He saw the monstrosity, and the moment of recognition from Lydia when she saw it was Stephen. His body hadn't been stolen, and only one person had killed the doctor and guard at the morgue after he had become this creature. In the dreamlike flashback, it looked right Michael and said in a wet, gurgling voice, "Brother..."

Blood was now steadily flowing from Michael's ears and eyes as he began to lose consciousness. Lydia held her breath, and with a desperate scream she broke the bond, sending them both reeling backwards. Michael hit the wall with a thud and slumped to the floor as Lydia hit her desk, falling to her knees. Michael's blood was in her hands as she stared at him, his eyes wide and filled with crimson tears 

"Oh my God," he whispered over and over.

"Michael," she tried to speak, but her throat was closed off. She felt the anguish of her actions threatening to destroy her, and all she could do was bury her face in her bloody hands.

Then, as if lightning had struck both of them, they froze, each of them grimacing with pain. They were electrified with a psychic energy, pulsating with it as another mind met theirs and seized their thoughts. As the picture being forced into their minds began to focus, Michael and Lydia saw Maricel through a window with two other women, naked and enticing them.

'That's impossible, she's here,' Lydia thought.

'No she's not,' Michael replied mentally.

Lydia realized that someone was watching Maricel, that it was not Maricel herself broadcasting this image. 

The creature had followed her, and was getting ready to attack.

***

Maricel smiled as she massaged their minds with her own, using her new abilities to make them more receptive to her suggestions. She could smell their blood pumping furiously through their veins, excited and aroused as they stood up from the couch. Missy had a dreamlike quality to her face as Maricel bent her mind to her will. Missy pulled her nightshirt off and exposed her body to Maricel. She wasn't as toned as Tiffany', but her body was round and supple, her breasts fully peaked. She was a perfect example of how a woman should look in Maricel's opinion.

Just like Lydia, she thought...

Tiffany had been the easiest to control as Maricel turned her gaze towards her, her eyes burning with lust, her heart smoldering in the heat of the darkness.

"Take your shirt off, Tiff," she instructed.

"Okay," she whispered as she pulled the tube top off, letting her massive breasts hang free. Maricel saw the twin scars on her breasts where the implants had gone in, faintly visible against her tanned flesh. Tiffany rubbed her nipples and moaned, her eyes never leaving Maricel.

"Missy, take her sweats off," Maricel touched Missy's chin and nudged toward Tiffany. Missy smiled and slid her hands down Tiffany's body, over her ribs and then to her hips. She palmed the sides of the sweats and slid them down, revealing Tiffanys bald pussy. She daintily stepped out of them and stood straight, with Missy beside her. Tiffany put her arms around Missy and looked expectantly at Maricel.

"Love me," she whispered, opening her arms to them. They went to her and embraced her, rubbing their bodies on her, the wetness of their cunts drenching her thighs as she caressed them. She cupped their breasts and kissed them both. Maricel was drunk with her power, lost in the possibilities of her decadent desires as the thirst raged inside her. She felt Missy drop to her knees and begin licking her pussy, putting one leg on her shoulder as she worked her tongue in and out. Tiffany went behind her and held her, massaging her breasts and necking on her. Maricel laughed, her head thrown back as she reveled in the pleasure.

Maricel lay down on the floor, and Missy followed her, returning to work on her crotch as Tiffany straddled her face, bringing her pussy to bear. Maricel grasped her thighs and began licking, suckling on her. She couldn't see Tiffany's face, her view blocked by her huge breasts, but she knew Tiffany was on the verge of an orgasm. Maricel stimulated both their minds and kicked their pheromones into overdrive. Missy moaned uncontrollably into her pussy, causing Maricel to come close to her own orgasm.

When Tiffany's hips bucked and her pussy spasmed, the orgasm hitting her hard and fast, Maricel revealed her fangs and plunged them into the tender skin just above her cunt. Tiffany screamed, a rapturous mix of pleasure and pain as blood gushed over Maricel's face and soaked the carpet. Her body convulsed as Maricel drank deeply from her. She could taste the vaginal fluid mingling with the blood. Tiffany's eyes rolled back white in the dim, red light of the living room, her breasts bouncing with each convulsion. Her arms hung limp at her sides as she felt her body growing cold. A strangled gurgle floated from her mouth as the vampiric virus invaded her body.

Maricel was so transfixed with Tiffany that her mental hold on Missy began to slip. Missy slowly came around to her senses. It wasn't so much that she had her face in Maricel's cunt, or the fact that she was flicking her clit with her tongue that made her stop suddenly. When she felt something slick on Maricel's stomach and looked, seeing dark red blood smeared across her hand, Missy throat hitched and she tried to scream. Only a pathetic whimper eeked out.

She got to her knees, her hand held out in front of her in shock, her mouth slung open in a stupid gape. She looked and saw Tiffany, her back to her, shaking and writhing like some twisted marionette. Tiffany's head fell back at an impossible angle, and she knew that something was wrong now, something horribly wrong. Only the shiny whites of Tiffany's eyes stared blankly at her, her mouth lolled open and her tongue poking out. Missy found her voice and screamed.

She stood up to run, but Maricel heaved Tiffany off her like a rag doll and she tripped over her girlfriend. Maricel was on her like a rabid wolf, her hands impossibly strong as they gripped her biceps and then crushed them. Missy was screaming bloody murder now as Maricel bared her fangs, hissed and plunged into her neck so hard that blood spurted to the ceiling. Missy fought for a few minutes before her voice drowned in her own blood. Then venom paralyzed her as it had Tiffany, and she lay limp on the blood soaked carpet as Maricel feasted on her.

Maricel could only utter feral growls and animal-like noises as she drank deeply of both of them, relishing the feeling of her naked body sliding over theirs, the blood a hot, slick reminder of her new passion. She laughed and began licking the blood off them. She started with Tiffany's still rock hard nipples, taking time to clean them thoroughly and finished ten minutes later with Missy's hands. She sucked each blood stained finger clean, her lips sliding off each tip with a satisfied * pop *!




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05



"Thank you, lovers," she whispered dreamily, her eyes glowing bright blue in the hot red light. "Thank you so much."

Maricel swaggered drunkenly to the kitchenette and turned on the water. The pipes groaned a little as the refined and recycled water emptied into the basin. The drain gurgled and echoed as she waited for the water to warm up. She closed her eyes, her body electrified as it digested the blood, the essence of the two women. Maricel could feel them inside her, the best parts of them. She realized now that a vampire didn't just feed on their prey, but also assimilated part of their being, their soul if you will, into their own.

She smiled broadly, her hands crossed over her breasts as the water began to steam, the spectral wisps of evaporated water caressing her body with a natural tenderness. She opened her eyes, and looked through the window behind the sink into the night. 

A pair of blood red eyes burned in the shadows, not more than a foot away from the glass. The pupiless fiery orbs stared back at her with an intensity that burned through the back of her head. She froze, her body cold and a million miles away. The pleasure and excitement of her first feeding were replaced by an unspeakable fear as their eyes locked. She saw the eyes tilt to the side a little, as though the owner were regarding her with an amused curiosity. 

Through the glass, over the draining of the hot water in the sink, she heard a deep, bestial growl that vibrated the all too fragile glass in its flimsy wooden housing.

"Oh my God," she managed, her voice choked and shaking badly as she tried to make her legs move.

The burning eyes seemed to squint at her, or maybe bend in a smile she couldn't see. She felt very certain that she didn't want to see the smile, to see the countenance of whatever it was looking at her.

When the glass exploded inward and cut her face, she felt no pain. Her screams never made it past the point of being an impulse in her brain as the creature exploded through the wall of Tiffany's apartment. The sink bent forward, the pipes moaning in protest as they snapped allowing water to geyser to the ceiling, showering them. Maricel felt powerful hands close around her throat as she was lifted into the air. The room spun around her and blurred, becoming only distant sensation to her overwhelmed senses.

She closed her eyes.

...to be continued...



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 06



"TURNING POINTS"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

***

Michael and Lydia slowly rounded the corner of the complex, taking great care to be quiet as they neared apartment where Maricel was. It had only been ten minutes since they had both seen the mental image of the creature stalking her. The vision had been violently planted in their heads and brought them both to their knees. It compelled them to go to Maricel, to try and save her. The creature wanted them to come.

Apartment number seventy-seven was the one that they had seen in their shared vision.

Michael drew his gun and motioned for Lydia to watch his flank. The night grew dead silent they quickly moved through the rows of apartments Michael hoped no one was watching. He looked at the windows and found drawn curtains both lit and darkened. If anyone was watching, he couldn't tell. As they approached the block of apartments numbering seventy through eighty, Lydia heard the sound of rushing water. It was the sound of a broken pipe hemorrhaging water uncontrollably.

'I can feel him', Michael thought as they approached apartment seventy-five.

'As can I', Lydia replied, her thoughts focused and precise, so unlike they had been no more than a half hour ago when she had revealed her secret to Michael. 

They had joined telepathically, and she showed him her true nature, the heart of an unwilling vampire. The joining had fused them together somehow, and they could now talk to each other with just a simple thought. Lydia had not wanted Michael to see the whole truth, and she had done her best to block him from seeing everything. She had wanted him to see all the little details of her life to better understand why she was the way she was. The decision to share her soul had not come lightly for her, but she finally committed to it only under the condition that she keeps hidden the truth about who killed his brother.

She knew he could never forgive her if he found out.

But she had been weak. 

In that weakness she had slipped, and the fact that she was the one who had killed Stephen Wolverton. Michael had seen that it was her who had not only took his life, but somehow had cursed him with this new existence. Lydia had feared Michael's wrath and hate, but strangely, she hadn't been able to read his thoughts or sense his emotions when it came to Stephen. It was like he had turned himself off to her, he had somehow found a way to block her connection to him when it came to his brother.

Michael stopped in front of seventy-five.

"Here," he whispered as he put one gloved hand to the doorknob. 

It opened with a barely audible squeak and swung wide. Lydia stood beside Michael and gasped, almost loosing her grasp on her twin blades as she beheld the sight within. The living room lights were bright and cheery, casting a warm glow over the massacre piled on the floor and furniture. A man lay crumpled on the beige carpet, his back broken and turned so his feet were touching the side of his head. His eyes were wide and glassy, criss-crossed with hundreds of bloody vessels that had burst in the climax of his death. A pool of blood had soaked into the carpet from the back of his skull, his dark hair matted and sticking to the fibers.

"Oh Jesus," Lydia whispered. 

She looked to the couch and saw a woman's body sitting there. The body looked so relaxed that Lydia imagined she never even saw the attack coming. After her head had been severed it landed on the opposite end of the couch and came to rest on the left cheek. The woman's eyes were shut, thankfully (she might have been sleeping), but the mouth was popped open in a silent scream. Thick, bloody tangles of auburn hair surrounded the decapitated head and spread wildly in all directions. 

The once blue couch was crimson and angry in the warm light. The smell of urine and feces filled the air of the room making it hard to breathe through the nose. Michael knew that it was typical of a recently deceased body to let loose of the body functions. There was something else though, something more potent than the stink of death floating around the apartment. There was a strong smell that reminded him of concentrated ammonia. 

"Come on," Michael whispered.

Michael closed the door gently, his hand slipped into his jacket in his effort not to leave finger prints, and moved onto seventy-six. The door was unlocked and unnervingly ajar. Michael opened it hesitantly and found another body. An old woman had died in her wheelchair, apparently losing her head from behind. Blood had sprayed all the furniture in front of her in a high-tension spray. Her body was still in the chair for the most part. Her legs laid on the floor just as useless in death as they apparently had been in life. Her thick, brown house shoes had been knocked off her feet. The wheel on the over turned chair was slowly spinning, losing it's momentum and winding down. 

Michael looked down. A pair of bold, horn-rimmed glasses rested at Michael's boot tip.

"Stephen didn't want anyone to know what he was about to do," Michael muttered as he closed the door, "He made sure when finally went after Maricel, no one was close enough to hear."

"God forgive me," Lydia said quietly as the door to apartment seventy-six closed.

"You're sure he's in here?" Michael asked as they reached the door of apartment seventy-seven.

Seventy-seven was at the end of this row, so there had been no one to kill on the other side of the apartment. Michael thanked God for small miracles.

Lydia closed her eyes and felt inside the apartment, stretching out and feeling what lay beyond. She shivered and felt Stephen's icy cold presence in the room just behind the door. He was waiting and not at all afraid of them. He was like a cold slab of obsidian in her mind, impenetrably black and sleek and yet possessed of some irresistible attraction. He wasn't just in the room. His anger filled the entire apartment like some thick smoke. 

She could sense Maricel, still alive but somehow different. Something had happened to her. Lydia took a breath, "They're both in there."

"And the other two women?" Michael asked grimly.

"Dead," she replied. She tightened her grip on the blades, calming herself for the confrontation that was to follow. They glistened in the night, reflecting the sodium-glare of the lampposts that lined the courtyards of the property.

"Ready?"

Lydia nodded as Michael opened the door slowly. As it gave way, water began trickling out around their boots and draining along the incline of the sidewalk. 

The room was glowing red, illuminated by the party lamp and crimson bulb burning brightly above the entertainment center. An eerie silence filled the room as they stepped in, weapons at ready. There was no sign of Stephen or Maricel, only a wet floor and soaked carpet. The same stench of ammonia was here as well, only much stronger. Lydia could hear the water spraying very clearly now. 

Michael realized that the water had flooded the apartment as he walked slowly across the living room. He looked into the kitchen and saw a gaping hole where the sink and wall had been. Water was spraying up in a geyser to the ceiling and flooding everything. Michael took his flashlight out and clicked it on, a noise that seemed impossibly loud to him The water that pooled around his feet was pink as the blood in the carpet was lifted from the fibers and carried away.

"Stephen was pissed," Michael remarked, motioning to the shattered kitchen.

"Apparently."

They walked back into the living room, their boots sloshing in the bloody water. Several articles of clothing floated out from the hallway. A couple pairs of panties, a t-shirt and what Michael guessed were shorts drifted lazily by along with a few bottles of perfume. Lydia's long, black coat dipped in the water with each step as she neared the center of the room.

"They both died here..." Lydia paused in the middle of the living room, tilting her head and closing her eyes as if she were listening for something, "She tricked them both into loving her, though I don't think it was any great undertaking. Both women wanted her..."

"What else?" Michael eyed the clothes as they floated past him. A lacy red bra and a t-shirt with the phrase "Frankie Says Relax" washed by as Lydia tried to piece together what had happened.

"Maricel bit one in while they were intimate..."

Michael took two steps towards the dark hallway. He could sense Stephen back there, somewhere.

"The other was able to slip free of her influence," Lydia said as she held her hand out to the air, listening for the voices of the past, feeling for the clues. Their screams were still lingering in the air, their final moments still etched into the essence of the apartment. Lydia felt these impressions, these psychic etchings, as a blind woman would brail. She continued, "But Maricel caught her and fed."

"So where are the bodies?"

Lydia opened her eyes slowly and pointed to the hallway. "There."

"Okay then."

Michael flashed his light down the hallway, and saw only more flooded carpet and shadows. The three doors that lined the hallway were shut. He guessed the one at the end was a bathroom, and the two opposing were bedrooms. The light reflecting off the pink water sparkled and distorted on the white walls of the hallway. They cautiously entered the hallway, Lydia holding her blades at ready as Michael reflexively bought his gun to ready.

The sounds of their boots sloshing in the water echoed in the hall, and there was an audible grunt from the bathroom. Michael felt his hair rise up as he looked at Lydia. Her eyes were a bright blue, almost glowing as she looked back at him and nodded. He thought again of the dead people in the two neighboring apartments, the gruesomeness of their demise and briefly saw himself murdered at the hands of his own brother.

Would Stephen be able to recognize him? If he did, maybe he could reason with him, somehow reach that part of his humanity... But then, that hadn't seemed to be the case back in the alley. 

He shuddered and pushed the thoughts away as he grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door opened and in the transition from dark they were almost blinded by the white neon light of the bathroom.

The first thing Michael noticed was the sound of the sink groaning. The low-pitched grunt they had heard earlier was the pipes losing water pressure as the kitchen sink bled. The second thing he noticed were the two naked women posed in the shower stall. The glass doors had been shattered and broken, leaving the stall open for all to view the grisly centerpiece. 

Michael stifled his gag reflex as he took a step inside. The tall one hanging from a belt looped into the vent in the ceiling was named Tiffany. He could feel her identity, her last moments of life before the end. In his minds eye, he saw this woman as she had been before now, and was filled with sadness. She hadn't been a bad person. She wasn't a murderer, a drug dealer, a pedophile or thief. She was just an ordinary person. The kind of person Michael had been sworn to protect. She surely didn't deserve this... 

Lydia had to force herself to look at the bodies. Tiffany had lost herself when the virus had been injected into her from Maricel's fangs. Perhaps it was merciful the virus had never had the chance to complete the transformation. Tiffany would remain human in death.

A twin pair of puncture wounds was visible above her vagina, just shy of actually piercing her outer lips. Her thighs were streaked with blood, and as Michael looked up he realized to his horror that her breasts had been removed. They had been torn off, along with most of the skin and tissue from her chest. Raw muscles were angry and bright red in the harsh light contrasted by purple and blue shadows in the valleys and under-workings of her anatomy. Strange, viscous gnawing marks showed where the creature had finally had his fill and stopped. Something, something that had once been his brother, had eaten her breasts off. Michael felt his stomach getting ready to heave and he turned away.

"Tiffany and Missy," Lydia said quietly, putting her hand on his shoulder as he puked. A stream of yellow bile ejected from his mouth and splashed into the water. Even after everything he had seen as a cop, he apparently hadn't seen everything yet. 

"God rest their souls," Lydia closed her eyes.

Missy was laying in the tub, almost totally flat on her back, her legs hanging over the edge of the tub, cut by the broken glass of the shower door. Streaks of blood marked the side of the tub in long red runners. Her neck and been ravaged, and Lydia recognized the handiwork of a virgin vampire immediately. The bites were erratic and frenzied. Missy had been spared the sadistic manner of Tiffany's death, though as she got a better look, Lydia realized that her eyes were gone. She stared into the empty gored sockets and felt tears welling up. 

This was her fault. 

In the end, it was her fault.

Michael finished puking and stood up, unable to look at them. He wiped his mouth off and breathed deeply regaining his composure. The pipes groaned again in their ghostly wail and were then overpowered by a guttural snarl from behind them. It sounded like a mix between a lion and some demonic grizzly bear from the underworld, a familiar sound that Michael remembered from the night in the alley beside the museum. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and stood straight up. 

They both froze, and Michael turned slowly in unison with Lydia to face the hallway.

Standing in the rippling water, only partially lit by the illumination from the bathroom was the creature. Its powerful legs were taut and rippling with power. Michael could make out its fish-belly skin glimmering in the faint light. Its alien anatomy flexed and unfurled in anticipation of the kill. Searing red eyes focused on Lydia as its mouth opened, unspeakable black fangs and offset razor-like teeth anchored in its gums. 

Michael saw it's large, snake like penis hanging down between its legs. It seemed to move on it's own, an eyeless albino serpent waiting for the moment to strike. Powerful hands equipped with hooked talons, connected to arms that even the most dedicated of body-builders could never have hoped to achieve, opened and closed. The knuckles snapped and popped like rocks banging together.

She wasn't sure, but Lydia thought it was smiling at them.

A moment of silence passed between the three of them.

"Where is Maricel?" Lydia asked, her blades offensively ready.

The creature cocked its head, not in confusion or ignorance, but in amusement.

"Where is she, Stephen?" Michael asked, hoping that the use of his name would somehow help him get through to his brother.

"Look," it rasped, and they were struck again by the images from its mind. Like it had been at museum earlier, they were helpless to stop the dagger of the creatures mind. They saw brief flashes of the creature feeding on Tiffany, the removal of Missy's eyes and the beating it gave Maricel. Lydia winced in pain as she saw the creature dig into the young woman's mind with all the tact of a bull in a china shop, shattering her senses and destroying her. They saw they creature fling Maricel across the room in a gleeful anger. 

Michael sobbed inwardly as he saw his brother giving way to the murderous rages of the thirst, his anger no longer that of a righteous victim but that of a seduced maniac.

He was starting to kill for the pleasure.

"No, Stephen," Michael whispered as blood began trickling out of nose. His head was pounding from the invasion into his thoughts. He knew he couldn't handle much more of this.

In the mental movie projected into their minds, they saw Stephen grab Maricel's limp body and carry it to the bedroom. The creature's foot long penis moved of it's own accord and caressed her thighs. It slid like a boa constrictor to her pussy and forced it's way in, tearing her as it passed.

In the vision, Maricel opened her eyes and screamed, her arms held down by its massive hands. She struggled and suddenly was cut off as the creature mentally commanded her to stop screaming. The creature's cock stiffened inside her, and Michael knew it was ripping her apart inside. Maricel's eyes were wide with fear and pain as it tore into her, thrusting with a bestial lust and growling like a wild animal. Michael felt sick again as it came. Black, viscous fluid squirted out from her vagina as it released it's horrible seed inside of her. Maricel found her voice again and screamed.

"You son of a bitch!" Lydia cried, her anger and horror so powerful Michael could feel it like heat from an inferno. "No, stop it!"

Michael felt something building up in Lydia, something that scared the creature momentarily. It drew back for a moment, uncertain as to what was happening, the smile drained from its face. Summoning all her anger, Lydia was able to break the vision and send them crashing back to reality. There was a moment of disorientation as though a blindfold had been pulled off their eyes. The force of Lydia's mental attack sent Michael reeling back against the wall. The back of his skull struck hard making stars streak across his field of vision. 

Lydia launched herself at the creature. Her blades hissed through the air and her eyes ablaze with a blue fire. But the creature was ready and pistoned it's powerful fist out, catching her in the chest. The wind was sucked out of her lungs as she collided with the fist, her legs lurching forward under their own momentum. Lydia wheezed as the creature turned and grabbed a thick handful of her hair. It held her like this, suspending her over the floor by her hair as she fought to catch her breath. Lydia cursed herself and realized she had underestimated Stephen again. 

Michael came to his senses and stood up. Leaning against the wall he raised the gun and took aim. He was seeing doubles of everything. He strained and squinted taking the best aim he could. He squeezed off two rounds at it. Both shots caught it in the abdomen leaving nasty holes. A thick black ichor oozed from the wounds and dribbled down its body. It looked down at the bullet holes and then to Michael. Michael felt a crazy guilt sting him as it frowned an expression of complete shock. It released its grip on Lydia and she collapsed to the flooded floor with a splash. The creature turned to Michael.

"She killed me," it growled, every word sounding as though it were being torn from its throat.

Michael felt tears stinging his eyes. "I know, brother. I know"

"She KILLED me," it repeated. There was a pathetic undertone to it's deep voice.

"Stephen, we can get you help," Michael said softly, "We can beat this."

"What have I done?" it breathed, its face contorted into a grimace of sadness and pain as it looked at its monstrous hands. "The women... I can't stop it..."

"Did you kill Maricel, Stephen?"

The creature turned its head away.

Michael took a step towards his brother.

"Stephen, did you kill her?" he asked softly

"Kill me," it said quietly.

"I can help you, so can Lydia."

The creature's head snapped around, its eyes glaring red at the mention of her name. Michael held his breath, suddenly feeling very foolish for having gotten so close. Michael looked down at Lydia. She was lying face up in the water and completely knocked out. Her hair was floating in the bloody water just an inch or two away from the creature's foot. Michael looked back up and met his brother's inhuman eyes.

"Don't kill her." Michael said, "Please... she can help."

The creature grunted with disgust, turning its head down to her. Its broad chest heaved with anger, the sinewy arms taut and clenched.

"We can end this," Michael offered.




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 06



The creature made to move against Lydia and Michael fired a warning shot into the ceiling. The report was painfully loud in the small hallway, and Michael knew they were running out of time. Someone was bound to here the gunshots. The police would be here soon.

"Don't," Michael cautioned.

What remained of his brother looked at him carefully, studying him trying figure out if he was bluffing. The creature knelt down again.

Michael fired again. The bullet zinged by the creature's pointed left ear and lodged in the living room wall. The creature stood back for a moment, its head cocked at a deadly angle.

"Steve," Michael said evenly, "Don't do this. You don't want to die..."

There was a moment of complete silence between them, the only sound being the rush of water spraying up in the shattered kitchen. It was a stand off. Steve was challenging Michael, daring him to pull the trigger.

Michael gently squeezed the trigger.

The creature ducked down and grabbed Lydia before Michael could respond. It roared with anger and held her soaked body in its arms. Michael held his gun on target, but knew he didn't have a clean shot. With a massive growl, it hefted Lydia up above it's head, turned and pitched her into the living room. She sailed the distance as though she were shot from a cannon and crashed into the far wall. The drywall gave way and crumbled as the two-by-four supports cracked by her passing. Michael watched Lydia disappear through the hole in the wall and fall to the ground outside. 

It snapped its head back to Michael.

"She killed me!" it roared.

"Please, Stevie..."

"SHUT UP!" the creature bellowed and lunged forward. Michael instinctively pulled the trigger again and again. The shots were deafening in the enclosed space, the darkness lighting up with each blast. It was like a strobe light flashing, making their movements jerky and erratic. Michael saw the glowing red eyes of his brother pass close to his own, and the carrion stink of its breath invade his nose as he fired his last round. He was crazily aware of the hot spent shells hitting the water and hissing. 

A spray of black blood soaked him and he knew he going to die. Instead, he was left shaking in the hall, alone and completely out of ammo. He waited for the attack, but it never came.

The creature was gone. He flashed his light to the walls and saw the black, thick blood spattered everywhere. It seemed he had hit the creature with every bullet he fired, and it still was not slowed down. Michael looked back in the bathroom and saw the window had been busted out. The creature was gone again. 

Michael holstered his gun and hurried back down the hall. Before he could leave the hallway, he heard a muted moan coming from the bedroom to his right. He hesitated, worried about Lydia and yet needing to know where Maricel was. He tried to open the door and found it was locked. He jiggled the handle once more and then kicked the door in. The hollow core door splintered and fell apart. 

Maricel lay on the bed, naked and covered in blood. It's horrible oily semen was stained on the bed and her legs, a stench not unlike rotted fish curling up from it. He knelt beside her and put his fingers to her jugular vein. She was still alive her pulse weak yet steady

"Maricel?" he yelled and shook her shoulders, the sounds of sirens coming close. If someone hadn't heard the commotion here prior to him firing his gun, it was a sure bet the whole neighborhood knew something was going on now. He slapped her again, "Maricel LaVoy?"

Maricel stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

"Miss LaVoy?" Michael sat her up gently. She looked around, her eyes darting about wildly. 

"Help me, please..." she said, her voice drained.

"Can you walk?" he asked, but was sure she couldn't. After having that baseball bat of a cock inside her, he doubted any woman could walk in the aftermath of that. Maricel shook her head and leaned against him. She held onto his neck as best she could as Michael wrapped her in the bedspread she had been raped on. He reached under her legs, trying not breath through his nose. The oily semen dripped down onto his hands as he picked her up and hurried to the living room.

Lydia was standing at the door, looking solemn and defeated. 

"They're almost here," she said.

"I know," he huffed as he stepped outside, "Take her real quick."

Lydia took Maricel from Michael and held her there, looking at her face and thinking of what she could possibly that would be of any comfort. Sorry you got raped by a monster from beyond the grave? Sorry I bit you and fucked up your life? Lydia only smiled as best she could and held her friend. Maricel, for her part, rested her head against Lydia's breast and promptly slipped out of consciousness.

Michael tried the door handle on the nearest car, a pre-historic looking Volkswagen Rabbit. The door opened and he set about the task of hotwiring the vehicle. Lydia glanced around and saw people looking out their windows at her and Michael, people picking up phones and making frantic calls. Some of them were in their doorways, looking at her with fear as they wondered what had happened.

"We have to go, Michael," she said.

The sirens were now with a block of them, loud and accusatory.

"Come on you miserable piece of shit," Michael hissed as he sparked the wires. 

The car sputtered to life and shuddered, the ancient muffler coughing and spewing blue smoke. Lydia opened the door and laid Maricel down in the back seat gently, folding her legs up as best she could to make her fit comfortably. She placed her blades on the floorboard behind the passenger side seat and got in as Michael put the tiny car in reverse. He shifted into gear and hit the gas. The tires squealed and smoked as they peeled out of the parking lot and onto the main street. 

***

Chief Hollins stood in his office, looking out the window at the brightly lit city. He chewed on his cigar, his eyes filled with impatience and frustration. He hadn't really expected Michael to just stay home and take it easy. He hadn't truly believed that Michael would simply let this go and stay out of the way. Maybe that's why he was so thoroughly pissed off at that moment. He knew that he should have locked that defiant little prick up in the holding cells with the other trash of the city. But he hadn't done that. No, he had instead let Michael go and trusted him to do what he was told.

The phone rang. 

Hollins sat down at his desk and looked at the ringing telephone, not wanting to answer it. On his desk were the forensic reports on Stephen Wolverton and Larry Crispin's murders. He knew damn good and well that the cases were connected. He knew that the same fucking person had committed them both. He knew all this. He didn't have to read what his experts had gone to great lengths to scientifically prove. What they didn't realize, what Michael Wolverton didn't realize was that it was his job to know.

But who could have known Michael would connect the umbrella Lydia had absent mindedly left at the crime scene? Who could have guessed that after how many years of not being caught the vampire bitch would be stupid enough to leave footprints? What were the odds that Lydia would kill one of the nations most notorious serial murderers ever? And who the fuck could have guessed that Steve Wolverton would transform into the atrocity he was now? Hollins shook his head. There were so many variables and unknowns in this mess that it made his head spin like a top. And in the middle of all this shit is Michael Wolverton.

The phone rang again.

"Hollins," he said.

"We have a problem, here Mr. Hollins," a smooth, slippery voice said.

"The situation is being contained," he replied. He wasn't sure which one he was talking to. They all sounded alike on the phone. Always over-dramatically severe and full of self-importance that only their supremacist society could breed.

"We put you in charge so that these situations wouldn't occur," the voice reminded him, "Much less need to be contained."

"Look, I can't help it if that cluster-fuck Geer can't keep your girl in line," Hollins took a deep drag on his cigar, "He lost control of her and as far as I'm concerned, the fault lies with him. You should keep your bitches on shorter leashes."

There was a moment of silence. "Our control of Lydia seems to be a strong as yours over your subordinates."

Hollins felt his face flush red. "Wolverton is a loose cannon and beyond anyone's control. He's too fucking unpredictable."

"Indeed."

"We know Wolverton and your girl were at a homicide scene tonight," Hollins said, "Based on what the boys are telling me, it was that thing Lydia accidentally created. Thirty people saw them leave the apartment and steal a car after a series of gunshots. Five people are dead, though none of them from gunshot wounds."

"The aberrant?"

"That's a safe bet."

"And what of the girl missing from Crispin's apartment?"

"Witnesses at the scene say they saw Lydia and Wolverton carrying out some woman. Nobody is sure who she is or if she was dead or not."

"And the media?"

"The media is biting at my ass as usual. I know we don't need any unnecessary attention here-"."

"Unnecessary attention is exactly what we want to avoid. The human government will not stand for this. You know that."

"Look, I've already managed to implicate Wolverton in the death Detective Rossetti. If he had just stayed put, he might've gotten out of this missing only his badge. But now that's he been seen at another murder, his credibility is shot. Wolverton isn't a problem. Every cop in the state will be looking for him by dawn," Hollins explained.

"Kill him and anyone else traveling with him," the man on the other end of line said flatly, "But I want Lydia Renee brought alive, Hollins. We will make arrangements for whatever story you need to cook up, but just get rid of Wolverton and that girl, if she's still alive."

"And what about that Steve Wolverton? He's not going to stop killing just because you tell him to. He's a monster." 

"We have already dispatched someone to deal with the aberrant. It need not concern you."

"This fucker sliced up one of my best detectives and has killed seven people," Hollins yelled, "It doesn't concern me?"

"Remember who you're talking to," the voice snapped, "Don't forget who put you where you are, human."

Hollins hated it when those pompous pricks referred to him as "human" almost as much as he hated the vampires. The elitist society believed they were superior to humans, and they took every opportunity to express that belief. But that didn't stop him from working for them. They had treated him pretty well for covering up and doctoring their indiscretions and mistakes within his jurisdiction. 

He was their bagman, one of the many middlemen in the vast political landscape between humanity and the vampire nation. He wasn't precisely a familiar, but more of a contact for hire. And because he wasn't a familiar, he didn't belong to any of the bloodsuckers as property. So he could afford to talk back to them where others would have simply cowered.

The bottom line was no matter how much they may have denied it to themselves they still needed him.

"And no more mistakes," the voice warned, "It would be a shame if you lost your position over such simple matters."

Hollins glared at the phone. "Yeah, it would be a shame."

"We'll be in touch, Mr. Hollins."

Hollins almost hung up and then asked, "I got one question though..."

He thought that maybe the man on the other end had hung up. But then he heard, "What?"

"Why is this Renee woman so dangerous to you guys?"

"Is it important?"

"As far as I'm concerned, she deserves a medal for killing Larry Crispin. She did us all real big favor on that one. She seems like a real stand-up woman."

"And your point?"

"What'd she do that was so bad? It just seems to me that if she was such a threat, you'd have killed her and been done with it," Hollins reasoned. They were hiding something, something big they had neglected to tell him when they transferred Lydia here from wherever the hell she had been before. He had rarely seen the vampire nation get jumpy over anything, let alone one single vampire amongst millions.

"Ms. Renee is, shall we say, a unique woman," the voice bitterly said, "As much of a problem as she is, the powers that be feel she is worth more alive than dead."

"You didn't answer my question," Hollins said.

"Good night, Mr. Hollins."

The line went dead.

Hollins hung the phone up.

He smiled to himself ruefully and pondered Lydia Renee. There must have been some kind of spectacular shit that went down in order for the vampire nation to label her an extreme risk and yet keep her alive. Maybe she had the dirt on one of the elders and had bargained for her life in return for silence? Maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Hollins leaned back in his chair and wondered if Michael knew what she was. He wondered if Michael had pieced together the puzzle and discovered the truth. Hollins hoped so, because his stubborn pursuit of it had already cost him his badge and retirement. Now it looked as though it would cost him life. Once the vampire nation ordered you dead, you were dead. 

Still, if he had figured it all out, why would he be running around with the woman who killed his brother?

Hollins grabbed the phone.

"Officer on call?" he asked.

"Miranda here, sir."

"I need to issue a statement in a few hours," Hollins told her, "Get me the file on Michael Wolverton."

***

"Where are we going?" Lydia asked quietly, her eyes staring into space as they merged onto the freeway, heading north. The stench from the creature's semen was filling the car, and they rolled down the windows to air out. Cool, night air fresh from the Pacific hit them hard.

"I have a cabin at Mount Shasta," he said, "That's where we are going."

"I need some things from the museum."

"Yeah, I have a lot of stuff from my place that I need too, but we're just shit of luck," Michael said bluntly, "You know how many people saw us back there? If the cops aren't already at digging through our homes they're on their way."

"Do you think they'll suspect us?" Lydia asked as the lights of passing cars and lamps illuminated them from shadow briefly, and then disappeared, only to start again a moment later.

"They'll believe we did it more than they'll believe a seven foot tall monster did," Michael muttered, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, "But we have bigger problems than that."

"In know. Stephen is still out there."

"That's one," Michael nodded as he pushed the car to seventy, "But we also have the connection of those women to Maricel, and Maricel to you and then you to me. We're in a stolen car and we still have to get out of San Francisco unnoticed with a naked bloody woman in the backseat. We also have the fact that I am under suspicion for one murder right now. Those people at the complex I.D. me and I'll be all over the evening news."

"But they can't think you did that to those women," Lydia said.

"Chief Hollins thinks I had something to do with Rossetti getting mutilated," Michael said, "And now I'm placed at another crime where at least five more people have been mutilated? It looks really bad, Lydia."

"So what do we do?"

Michael thought for a moment. "First, we ditch this heap get another car, take a back road out of the city and then make our way north. We get Maricel some clothes and make sure we get all our money out of the bank before they seize our accounts."

"You think they'll freeze my account?"

"When you turn up missing they will."

"Good point." Lydia nodded, "And if they didn't, the elders would do it anyway."

"Once we get to Mount Shasta, we'll have to figure something else out."

Lydia nodded, and then put her hand on Michael's balled up fist as he shifted the tiny car into overdrive. "Michael?"

"Yeah?" he looked at her.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For helping me," Lydia said, and nodded to Maricel, "For helping her."

Michael nodded and smiled a little. 

He was still processing the fact that it was Lydia who had caused this mess in the first place. He felt angry with her, even spiteful despite the fact that he harbored a deep attraction for her. He wanted to forgive her, to find someway of exonerating her from what she had done to Stephen. 

But it was so hard to find that elusive bit of reasoning that could clear her of his wrath. She had murdered his brother, and while he wanted to comfort her, he also wanted her to pay for what she had done. And now Stephen had been condemned to a half-life as a beast that murdered everyone it crossed. 

"He's starting to kill for pleasure," Michael said finally.

"I know," Lydia sighed, "It's the thirst."

"He asked me to kill him back there," he said, his heart breaking at the memory of the anguish in his brother's voice. That horrible disfigured voice.

"And you tried to."

"He's still coming after us," Michael looked at her briefly, "I can feel him moving, in the back of my mind."

Lydia nodded. "Me too."

"Is there anywhere we could go that he couldn't find us?"

"I doubt it, Michael," she leaned her head against the window, "He's linked to me in a way that I can't explain. He should have been dead after I... I finished feeding."

"There's no point in being tactful," Michael scowled, "You killed him. Why is he still alive?"

"Was there anything in your brother's physical make-up that was odd? Any diseases or genetic defects?"

Michael thought for a moment. "Not that I can recall, although he did have a brain tumor when he was seven. Almost killed him."

"Usually, a person becomes an undead because their body rejects the virus that causes vampirism and a mutation occurs. Their blood is already thick with the virus, but the body or the mind won't allow for a successful symbiosis. They're a half-breed between humans and vampires."

"Zombies?" Michael asked, "Is that were the story of zombies came from? Fucking vampire rejects?"

"Pretty much," she said as she pulled her cigarettes out of her inside pocket. Thankfully, none of them had gotten wet in the fight back at the apartment. She continued as she lit up, "But it's vampire law, so to speak, that anyone who is bitten be watched until they complete the transformation, just to be sure an undead doesn't happen."

"But you drained Stephen dry, right?" he asked, a more than subtle hint of reproach in his voice.

"Yes," Lydia took a drag on her smoke, "When you don't leave any blood for the virus to take hold of, it can't reproduce itself and dies."

"And yet, here he is."

"I can't explain it," she frowned, "All I can figure is I left some blood in his body, enough for the virus to take hold. But how it mutated him like this, I can't say. Usually zombies lose their hair and get really pale, they become emotionally unstable, almost autistic in away, staying alive for only forty-eight to seventy-two hours. They pass along their mutated strain of the virus to anyone they bite, which is why they're so dangerous."

"Night of the Living Dead?"

"Right," she said, "That's why the vampire nation keeps a close eye on them, to contain them."

"Because if humanity ever was lost to zombies, then you lose your food supply..."

"That's right," she said quietly, feeling guilty as she looked at him. His anger was radiating off him in waves.

"Fuck me running," he muttered, and then, "Wait now, what about the people Steve has killed? Shouldn't they be infected with his strain of the virus?"

Lydia shook her head, "No. He savaged those people and ripped them to pieces. Tiffany and Missy were dead before he fed on them. The virus can't take hold in a host that's already dead."




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 06



"The heads," Michael said suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"I was just thinking that's why he takes their heads off," Michael said, "Maybe that's why he's so violent. He doesn't want his strain to pass on."

"It's possible," Lydia said.

They rode in silence for a moment, the only sound being that of the tired, overworked engine of the Volkswagen.

Finally, Michael asked, "What made you go after Stephen in the first place?"

"Do you really want to talk about this?"

"Yes, I do," he shot at her, "You killed him, I want to know why."

"You saw my thoughts earlier, you know."

"I want to hear it," he growled, "Time for some accountability Lydia."

She glared at Michael, both angry and hurt, but mostly ashamed. She had dreaded this moment ever since she found out Michael was Stephen's brother. She had worked so hard to avoid it, used every tactic she had learned from her long life spanning three hundred years, and still, in the end, she had opened herself up to him and revealed the secret of her guilt. She had exposed herself to this human, and she still was not sure what she hoped to gain from him in return. Her face burned hotly as she took another drag on her smoke and said, "I sensed his purity, his kindness."

"That's a good reason," he muttered.

"He was pure, untainted."

"He was a virgin," Michael said flatly, "He was afraid of women. And rightfully so, apparently."

"Normally, I wouldn't have gone after him," Lydia said, "But I couldn't help myself, and I gave in. If I had been able to think, I would have let him be. But he was untouched by another woman; his essence was pure and irresistible. It's a rare find, a thirty-year-old virgin."

"He wasn't untouched."

"What?"

"He wasn't untouched," Michael said without looking at her. His jaw clenched tightly as he changed lanes and prepared to exit the freeway. "When he was seven, the same year they removed the tumor, he was molested by our uncle."

Lydia fell silent. "Oh my God."

"He was afraid of any kind of intimacy," Michael explained, "It scarred him. Stephen finally told my mother what happened when he was twenty-five. He was plagued by nightmares and waking dreams. His life was falling apart. He lived in constant fear."

Lydia looked at Michael gently. "Just like you did?"

Michael wouldn't look at her as they took the off ramp and slowed to a stop at the intersection. The red illumination from the traffic light clearly showed Michael was getting ready to cry, and Lydia wanted nothing more than to hold him and comfort him. His eyes were glassy as he bit his lip and glared at the light. The pain was rolling off him now in waves, and it hurt her to be this close to him. 

In the back seat, Maricel stirred a little, and then went back into her deep sleep.

"Yes," he finally said, his voice choked. "I didn't remember it until he did."

"Did your uncle go to prison for what he did to you both?"

"Yes, he did," Michael said as they entered the outskirts of Northern San Francisco. "And he'll be there for a long time to come."

Lydia looked ahead into traffic as the night died and morning began loom on the horizon. They would have to find somewhere to hole up and hide. She knew that the following day was going to be dangerous as they waited for the cover of night to leave the city. 

In that time, the police would get closer to finding them, Stephen would get closer to finding them, and Michael would be one step closer to hating her forever. But she took comfort in the fact that no matter how much he may hate her it would never equal the hate she kept for herself.

She turned her head to look at Maricel, her body tired and beaten. Lydia had failed so miserably, and she couldn't help but feel the despair clutching at her heart. She began to realize that all sins, all transgressions eventually catch up with you. And if you're lucky, it'll be you who takes the fall and pays the price. But mostly, she figured as she looked at Maricel's battered face, mostly it was the innocent.

She looked to Michael, so quiet and wounded, and thought that it was also the people you loved.

***

Michael had been right about the police freezing their bank accounts, and Lydia had been able to withdraw all of her six hundred thousand dollars of her savings before the lock out. She had visited a contact at Bank of America that was also a familiar for one of the more influential members of the vampire society. He was sympathetic to her situation, and despite the danger to himself, allowed her to withdraw the money. His influence had made getting the money a snap, and no questions had been asked over her large withdrawal. 

She imagined after her picture was posted on the television in conjunction with several murders things would grow more complicated. Not mention the horde of slayers that would try to track her down. Michael had cleaned out his checking account through an ATM machine right before he ditched the Volkswagen. His life savings were in a safe at his cabin in Mount Shasta, and clear of any banking institutions. Between them both, they had just under nine hundred thousand.

Four days after the incident at the apartment, Michael had bought a used Ford Ranger from an ex-drug dealer he once used as an informant. On their last day in the city, Michael invested ten thousand into purchasing guns and ammunition for the trip. Again, his ties to the underworld as a cop came in useful for securing the unregistered firearms and special ammo. Hollow point silver bullets were the only order he made, of which he received three thousand rounds. He bought a good-sized trailer to stack their arsenal and supplies in.

While Michael worked during the day, Lydia and Maricel waited for the evening in a sub-par hotel room. Maricel had been unconscious since Stephen had raped her a week prior, wracked by a high fever and tremors. Lydia had cleaned her up as best she could, and did everything within her power to heal the damage to her vagina as she had healed Michael's wounds. It worked to a degree, but Maricel wouldn't be having sex for a long time to come. 

Michael had taken their sizes and bought them new clothes. Lydia had kept with her style of black leather and white shirts while she dressed Maricel in simple casual attire. As she had dressed her and bathed her, she looked for bite marks on her. If Stephen had bit her, then she would be in danger of mutating as he had done. She thoroughly inspected her body, and found nothing. She stroked Maricel's cheek, and felt a wave of sadness wash over her.

"I am so sorry," she whispered as she ran her fingertip over the young woman's brow and then down into her shiny blonde hair. "Please wake up."

Around eight o'clock that evening, Michael returned to the hotel. He looked tired and worn out.

"Everything okay?" he asked as he flopped on the bed next to Maricel.

"So far," Lydia replied, "She still hasn't woken up."

"Give her time," he said as he stretched out, his short, dark hair mussed and frayed.

"Michael, can I ask you something?"

He shut his eyes, and she felt him closing up again. "It's personal," she added.

"We can hear each other's thoughts, Lydia," he said as he covered his dry eyes, "Privacy is a thing of the past."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"All this," she motioned to the clothes and then to the car and trailer parked outside, "The guns, the car... everything. Why help us?"

"Because I'm a sucker," he sighed, "And because I'm going to be hitting some wicked withdrawals here over my morphine habit in a little bit. And I'm going to need someone I can depend on to get me through it."

"I can't help you," she looked away.

"You understand addiction as well as I do," he sat up and looked at her, and for the first time since the joining in the basement of the museum, he really opened up to her, "You probably know it better than anyone."

"How can you be so kind to me after what I've done?"

Michael was silent for a moment, and then, "I don't blame you. I mean, I did at first, and I was so angry over my brother, over Rossetti that I just wanted revenge. But when Stephen did what he did to those girls, to their neighbors and to Maricel, and even to the doctor and guard at the morgue, I realized something. I ignored it at first, because I didn't want to see it..."

"See what?" Lydia asked, unable to meet his eyes.

"That you're just as much a victim here as Stephen, or Maricel or anyone else involved in this mess," Michael said softly as he scooted to the edge of the bed.

"A victim?"

"I blame the fucker who bit you," he said, "I blame him for this. You couldn't stop what happened to Stephen anymore than Maricel could stop what happened to those girls, or Stephen could stop himself from doing what he did."

"But I could have," Lydia whispered, "I could have just fed off some vagrant in the alleys, but I-"

"Could you have stopped?" Michael asked pointedly, "I mean really, could you have overpowered the thirst?"

Lydia was silent, uncertain of what to say. 

She had been expecting him to yell at her, berate her for her crimes. She had been ready for the sting of rejection and heartbreak as penance for her deeds. Instead, he was regarding her with sympathy, and with kindness. He was trying to understand her, and to somehow bridge the gap between them. Lydia had believed there was too much blood, too much violence and evil between her and the rest of the world to ever know real kindness again. For all her amazing gifts, all her amazing powers, the one thing could not do was make someone love her. She had tricked Stephen into doing it, but in the end it had been hollow and destructive.

But then, she supposed no one could make anyone feel something they didn't come by naturally.

Lydia felt her heart split in two, and she could no longer hold back the tears. She began weeping, her shoulders jerking with each sob as the gravity of her situation hit her so hard it took her breath away. The pain in her chest reminded her of the blow Stephen had put there in the apartment, powerful and merciless. That's how emotions were, she thought, powerful and without any mercy. 

Michael sat for a moment and then went to her. He pulled her close, his strong hands holding her shoulders tight.

"I am so sorry," she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I know you are," he said, "I know."

They dropped to the floor together, Michael simply holding her as she cried. They sat on their knees together, trying to comfort one another. Michael felt her grief and guilt inside his soul as though it were his own, and he knew she was genuine about her anguish. Phantom pains ached in his body as he felt the throbbing of Lydia's bruised chest and shoulders. He allowed himself to open his heart to her, unsure of how it would all turn out, but confident he was doing the right thing. He exposed his essence to her as they held each other. He showed himself to a vampire and decided that this would be the test of her resolve, the test of her feelings for him.

"Lydia," he whispered into her ear.

"Yes?" she sniffled.

"I know you're used to being in control, but I need you to let that go for now," he said as he stroked her thick, dark hair. He was acutely aware of her mouth against his neck, and knew he was taking a terrible risk. But she had been in a place to bite him before, and she hadn't.

"What would you ask of me?"

"Something has happened here, and I don't know if it's just the fact of two people thrown together under intense circumstances or if it's more than that, but I know what I feel."

Lydia could not look up. 

For all her strength, for all that she had seen and done in this life, she could not look at him. She wanted to hear the words that danced on the tip of his tongue, and yet she feared them all the same. She knew that his confession to her would mean his death, in one form or another. She knew that she wasn't in control of the thirst, and that it would take him as it had his brother. Lydia wanted to tell him to not speak, to simply forget about her and leave, but her mouth could not form the words. Her heart could not give license to such a thought.

"I'm sorry if I've been rude," he said, his hands stroking her back though the thin material of her blouse, "I know what it's like not to be in control."

Lydia nodded, her eyes hot with tears.

Michael took a deep breath.

"I love you, Lydia," he admitted to her, his eyes closed as he waited for her reaction.

She broke their embrace and looked at him, finally allowing her deep dark eyes to look into the blue of his own without any telepathy or hidden agendas. There was no searching for hidden truths or facts, seeking the advantage over one another. There was a trust between them that formed as they gazed into each other's eyes. It was an invisible and unbreakable attachment that was almost as pronounced as the psychic bond they had shared since the museum five nights ago. She touched her hand to his cheek, the stubble of his unshaven skin prickly and comforting against the sensitive tips of her fingers.

He closed his eyes as she placed her other hand on his face, her thumbs running over his eyelids gently and then down the bridge of his nose. She felt her nipples become erect as she explored his features, never once before having considered the erotic possibilities of simply touching a man's face. In a face there was truth, and in truth there was comfort. There was something undeniably final about the expressions on a person's face, if you knew how to read those expressions. And as Lydia had been doing it all her life, she quickly learned who was genuine and who was not.

This man was genuine.

Michael raised his hands to her arms, gently holding her as they knelt before each other.

"I love you," he said again, and with his words came a release of the guilt and pain he had carried over his wife and son. By loving her, he was able to finally let them go, parts of his life he could never have back again. His love for them was strong, but the promise of an even greater love from Lydia had brought him back into the light. She felt his keen sadness over the loss of his son, never being able to see him grow up and living with the knowledge that he would call another man father. And yet despite that pain, which would never go away, she felt hope from with in him.

"I love you too, Michael," she said softly as he opened his beautiful blue eyes. She pulled him close to her and kissed him. She had imagined this moment, the touch of his lips and the sensations it would bring for so long now, ever since she had first met him. It seemed to be so long ago. He returned the kiss with a gentle yearning that made her skin rise as his hands slid around to her back, pulling her close. 

The darkness within her, the thirst screamed at her in impotent rage as it was locked out by the power of Michael's love for her. It taunted her, filling her head with doubts that he was really in love with her, that she had subtly manipulated him as she had Stephen. But the pure content of his love, the fine details of every thought she sensed from him, from the highly erotic to the simplistically emotional countered the darkness and kept it at bay.

She pulled away from him and began unbuttoning her blouse, her eyes never leaving his. She felt certain that she could never look away from him again as they saw into each other's souls. Michael watched her as she slowly undid each button, pulling the bottom of the blouse out of her black leather pants and letting the fabric slide back off her shoulders. In the soft yellow light of the dirty hotel room, she found a place of calm and peace with this human, this man who loved her despite her many faults and sins. She sat there, bare breasted for him to see, and she relished his loving appraisal of her body. 

Her breasts were large and heavy, yet incredibly firm and in defiance of gravity. Twin shadows cast down across her toned mid-section as she got up on her knees and began to undo her pants. Michael felt his heart beat quicken as he watched her, mesmerized by her beauty. The shirt fell away from her arms as she stood up, falling gently to the floor in a silky crumple at her bare feet. He stood up with her as she undid the last button of her leather pants and slid them off. She kicked them away and stood before him, exposed and vulnerable.

Michael took his t-shirt off, revealing his muscular frame to her. His nipples were as hard as hers, and he felt his erection was painfully cramped in his jeans. He undid the fly and let his jeans drop, followed by his boxers. He nudged them off and to the side with his feet, taking a moment to undo his boots and lose his socks.

And there they were, naked and together and open to the each other. It felt to both of them that they were about to make love for the first time all over again.

Lydia took a step closer to him and gently grasped his eight-inch long cock. It was full and thick, the head a swollen tint of purple as the large veins running the length of his shaft pumped blood furiously. His pubic hair was trimmed and groomed, his sack hanging heavily down between his thighs as his cock pointed straight up at attention. She massaged his penis, working her fingers slowly up and down his shaft, memorizing every detail of his manhood. She rubbed her thumb over his head and felt a bubble of pre-cum forming at the small eye of his penis. She rubbed the sticky substance into his skin, making him shiver as she held his gaze.

She looked down at his abdomen, and saw the places where the cuts from his encounter with Stephen in the alley should have been. They were still gone, erased by whatever power had arisen from the two of them being together that night. 

Michael raised his hands to her large breasts and cupped them, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin. Lydia closed her eyes as she touched him, relishing the feeling of his rough hands teasing the skin of her areolas and nipples, tweaking them as they moved closer to the inevitable. When their lips finally met, they could barely catch their breath as their minds shared the erotic thoughts and intentions they had for each other. Images of his cock sliding in and out of her, hard and wet from her pussy filled his mind as he kissed her. She was left breathless by the intensity of need for her, the thoughts he had of spreading her legs open and licking her, licking her until she came for him. She wanted him to eat her out so badly, to have him pleasure her like that.

Michael took one of the spare blankets off the bed and laid it on the floor. He guided Lydia down on to her back and without a word, began kissing on her neck. He worked his way up and down her jaw line, and then down the crook of her neck, over her chest and then to the slopes of her breasts. He kissed and licked his way around her nipples and the side swells of her tits as she laid her arms above her head. He flicked her nipples with his tongue and nibble on them as his hard cock grinded against her thigh. Lydia closed her eyes as he licked his way down her stomach, the kisses becoming hotter and more wet as he approached the area below her navel.

He began French kissing under her navel while dragging his tongue down further until her reached the beginning of her clean-shaven slit. He spread her legs wide and positioned his mouth over her cunt, his breath hot against her sensitive skin. She gasped a little as he began slowly licking her, from end of her lips to the other. His lapping was slow and deliberate as he slowly pushed his way into her sex with his tongue. Lydia felt her insides tingle as he began working on her clit, circling her and nibbling on the hard button ever so gently. She squirmed a little under his mouth as he stimulated her. Her breathing had evolved into a breathless panting as he flicked her clit with his tongue and slid a finger into her vagina. She was moaning and cooing his name as he brought her closer to her orgasm. Her hands slid through his hair as she felt the wave cresting inside her, crashing towards the finale.




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 06



"Oh God, Michael!" she screamed as she came, her body wracked by the intensity of the orgasm. Her vaginal fluid spilled out and drenched his face as her hips bucked and her eyes rolled back into her head. The room was spinning as she lay there, feeling Michael raise up bring his cock between her legs. She looked at him and laced her fingers behind his neck as he lowered his face to hers. They kissed as he entered her, the large, plump mass of his head pushing into her and actually stretching her a bit. She moaned into his mouth, tasting her own juices as his shaft filled her up. She murmured against his lips as they joined together, and she took his cock in completely to the hilt. She felt his balls against her ass, comforting and full.

"Make love to me," she whispered as they began to find their rhythm, slowly at first as she got used to his cock, the feeling of it and his incredible width. She closed her eyes, and found images of blue skies and crystal clear water stretching out before her. In this vision she could feel the pleasure of his cock thrusting in and out of her and yet she was standing on a plateau, the sun setting over a vast ocean. She hadn't seen a real sunset since before she had been bitten, and it pained her to know she never would again. And yet, from Michaels' mind came this vision he shared with her, the bright colors and heat of the sun as clear as if they were her own memories. She felt the warmth of the light on her skin, and where there should have been a horrible burning sensation of the ultra-violet light eating through her, there was only bliss and she remained untouched. In her vision, Michael stood behind her, and she was aware that they were naked as they were in the real world outside their minds.

The actions of the vision mimicked those in the real world as they switched positions and Lydia rode on top of him, grinding against his cock and bouncing up and down on him. Soon, she was no longer even aware of the dirty hotel room, only the brilliant sunset above them and the crash of waves against ancient rocks and sand, a phantom mist of ocean spray covering their naked bodies as they made love.

Michael looked to Lydia, her hair and tits bouncing back and forth as she rode his cock, her head tilted back so far the cords in neck showed. She was moaning his name, loving him in a way he had never known. They were on a bluff above his favorite beach on the southern Oregon coast. He knew it was always too cold to be undressed there, and yet, it was warm like a Caribbean beach. The harsh wind of the pacific held no sway here in their vision, and they melted into each other. He reached out and massaged her breasts, holding them as though they were gold. To him, he supposed they were. They were two beautiful large pearls in the wealth that was Lydia. He seemed to know that she was a forbidden treasure, but he had to have her, he had to know her and make her his own.

Time wound down and everything seemed to be in slow motion. Every thrust of her hips, every sensation that exploded through his body, every fiber in her being seemed to slow down with a purpose as he lost himself in her. When the orgasm came, it was strong and all consuming. 

Michael cried out, something he never did during all of his lovemaking with his wife and before, his hands grasping her hips. She grabbed his hands and laced her fingers through his, their grips a match for each other as Lydia experienced her second orgasm in time with his own. Their mouths hung open in breathless pleasure, no words even being able to come close to the emotions surging through them. The electricity of their love for each other seared through them, burning them together forever, and they both knew that would never know happiness without the other.

But more importantly, for this first time, they both felt safe.

***

As Michael and Lydia made love, and as Stephen crouched in a sewer tunnel not more than twenty miles away nursing his wounds, Maricel found herself in the same nightmare she had been having ever since she had gone to Tiffany's apartment. 

In Tiffany's living room, red from the party lamp, she saw the television blaring. On it was some porn flick of two people having sex on a bluff over a beach at sunset. On the wall above the entertainment center were three posters. The first was of Lydia, below her picture were the words 'WANTED BY THE POLICE, DEAD OR ALIVE." Next to that poster one of Michael, the man she knew Lydia loved, and also the man who had saved her from the creature. The police believed he was a murderer, though she knew he wasn't responsible for what had happened to all those people. The police thought he had something to do with Tiffany and Missy being killed, their neighbors and for a security guard, and a doctor and another police officer. Finally, she saw a poster with her face on it that simply read "MISSING." 

Blood was spattered across the posters, dribbling down the paper and onto the walls.

She turned and saw Tiffany and Missy, both naked as they had been when she killed them. They were covered in blood and grotesquely wet-looking in the hot red light. Their eyes had gone a milky white and they glared at her accusingly. They began kissing each other passionately, grabbing at each other and laughing, somehow mocking Maricel as she stood alone. When they broke their kiss, Missy looked at Maricel, but where eyes should have been there were only black sockets, empty and open like two bloody mouths. She raised her hand and pointed, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

Maricel covered her ears and she slumped to the floor, realizing she was naked as well, covered in the blood of her friends. Tiffany stood before her as the creature walked out of the hallway and grasped her. It lowered its alien-esque head down to her chest and it's fangs unsheathed from its mouth. With a roar, it bit into her and began feeding, tearing flesh away to reveal the muscle beneath. 

Maricel screamed as Tiffany looked directly at her, her pupiless eyes burning holes into the back of her head.

And then, she felt something stir inside her. She felt tiny hands grasp her insides and pull, releasing a pain unlike any she had ever known. She double over as whatever it was inside her began to grow incredibly fast, pushing her organs and bones and muscles away. Her stomach distended outward, bulging like a balloon ready to pop. She lay on the carpet, writhing and screaming as finally her skin could go no further and ripped open. 

Blood spurted to the floor in a wash of gore as her baby birthed itself. It was covered in her tissues and blood as it crawled immediately to the creature and gripped its leg. As she lay there dying it opened its glowing red eyes and mewled at her. 

... to be concluded... 



Beyond Nocturne Ch. 07



"RESOLUTIONS"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

Author's Note: 

Before reading this final chapter to "Beyond Nocturne" I highly recommend that you read the previous chapters. The following may be confusing if you don't.

***

The sun slowly rose from its slumber, the sky turning to a pastel display of soft yellows, oranges, pinks and finally a reluctant blue. The omnipresent mass of Mount Shasta stood quietly and immutable against the sunrise, it's banks and cliffs blanketed with a white layer of snow. The air was crisp and piercingly cold, the first wisps of mist starting to curl and stretch like ghosts out of the cedar and pine trees that surrounded the small city nestled at the base of mountain. The streets of the Mount Shasta were quiet, peacefully muted as the hour turned to seven and the world began to wake up from its slumber.

Maricel shivered, even through the heavy ski-jacket she wore, standing on the handmade deck of Michael's cabin. The cabin itself had been built on one of the hillsides surrounding Lake Siskiyou and offered a spectacular view of the mountain and lake itself. Michael had joked it cost him a small fortune to build the cabin here, but it had been worth the price. Maricel hadn't seen the logic in his investing so much money into this tiny two-bedroom cabin until now. They had arrived at Mount Shasta a month ago, and until this morning, she hadn't taken the time to even go outside, let alone consider watching a sunrise. The pristine beauty of the sunrise somehow made her feel comforted, that there was indeed some greater force at work in the world. But this was as close as she could get to it, for as she watched, her skin began to grow hot.

The first rays of sunlight crested the ridge of the mountain, and she ducked back into the cabin. Painful welts had started form on her face, even in the few minutes leading up to the actually presence of sunlight being too much for her vampiric physiology. She sighed and walked through the silent shadows of the cabin. Michael had built it himself, everything was hand crafted and carefully constructed to meet his simple standards. She removed her jacket and sat down on the large sofa in the living room. 

Her stomach felt uneasy and thick. She could feel the thirst needling away at her again. It had been two days since she had last fed, and her thirst had not been quenched. She imagined that Lydia wasn't doing well either with Michael's solution to their unique problem. Since they were hiding in an area with a small population and a less than transitory community, feeding on live people here was impossible without risking exposure. So Michael had gone to Sacramento and used some of their money to buy twenty gallons of blood meant for transfusions. He went through another of his connections in the underworld to make the purchase, and Maricel had been grateful for his generosity.

But the blood had been flat, like soda pop that's gone flat after sitting out for too long. With the connection to it's human host long since severed, the blood seemed to just lose its potency. Still, it nourished her and Lydia enough to keep them alive. Maricel went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She removed one of the blood packs, poked a hole in it and poured the contents carefully into a glass. Her fangs slid down in anticipation of flesh, and she felt a familiar thrill tingle through her body as she instinctively felt the urge to feed. She drank the blood and slowly the thirst subsided.

"Nothing like a glass of plasma for breakfast," Michael commented, startling her as he walked into the kitchen, his dark blue robe wrapped tightly around his naked body.

"Would you like some?" she asked.

"I'll stick with Folgers, thanks," he smiled and then frowned, looking at her face, "What happened?"

Maricel touched her fingers to the painful raised marks. "Is it bad?"

"Looks like someone slapped you around with a hot poker," Michael said, "Would you like some ice?"

"No thank you," she shook her head and leaned against the counter. She looked to the kitchen window, which once looked out over the lake but was now covered with a think, dark curtain to keep the sunlight out. She looked at Michael, "I wanted to see as much of the sunrise as I could. I guess I waited too long."

"Dangerous," Michael muttered, "You have a death wish?"

"I'm already dead," she sighed.

Michael measured out his grounds and set to work brewing the morning coffee. His once light brown hair, now dyed black was disheveled and wild. He had let three days worth of stubble darken his features. He was a handsome man, and Maricel could see why Lydia loved him so much. She was surprised to find that she herself harbored an attraction for him. Ever since she woken up in the truck on during their exodus from San Francisco to avoid the authorities and... and that other thing.

"Do you think he's still after us?" Maricel asked quietly.

Michael didn't look up as he filled the coffee pot with water. He didn't say it, but she could feel his heart sink at the mention of their pursuer. Michael nodded, "Yes, he's still after us. Lydia can feel it. Can't you?"

"Sometimes I can," she said, "But I'm not as strong as Lydia, so I'm not always sure."

"It'll be a while before he gets here," Michael reassured her, "He's traveling over four hundred miles on foot, through bad weather and trying to avoid being seen. He has to travel at night, so I think we're okay for now. But when he does get here, I've got enough garlic, silver and stakes to make sure he doesn't stay long."

Maricel took a deep breath. "I never said thank you for saving me that night at Tiffany's apartment."

"You're welcome."

"And I'm sorry all this has happened to you," she added, uncertain of her motives as she looked at him. She knew she felt bad for his reluctant role in all this, and that his life as it had been would never be the same. All three of them were wanted by the police in connection to not only the murder of his former partner Rossetti, but also in the deaths of her best friends Tiffany and Missy. It all seemed so unfair to her, for Michael to have been made a suspect. He was the only one among them who wasn't a killer. Lydia had bitten his brother Steven and turned him into the nightmarish creature that was now following them, intent on killing them out of revenge. Steven had killed Michael's partner Detective Rossetti just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She herself had killed Tiffany and Missy in a blood lust, and what's worse she had enjoyed every last minute of it.

Michael's only crime was trying to find the truth.

"We're all over the news," Michael said as the smell of fresh coffee swirled around her nose, "There's a statewide search going on right now for all three of us. We have enough food, water and blood to make it three months without going to a grocery store. We have enough money to take care of all our expenses for a whole year. We're hiding in a relatively calm region of Northern California with an arsenal that the SFPD would be sweating to get their hands on. We're changing our physical appearances as much as we can. Things could be worse."

"Where's Lydia?" Maricel asked, wanting to change the subject. Talking about Lydia helped remind her that Michael belonged to Lydia, not her.

Michael tilted his head back towards the bedrooms. "She's still sleeping. She's dealing with a lot of guilt over this whole thing. She blames herself."

"I know," Maricel ran her hand through her hair, once long and golden blonde but now cut short and dyed to a deep rich brunette, "In some ways, she's right. In the most important ways, she wrong."

Michael poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, his bare feet thudding on the hard wood floor. He took a drink and said, "She started it by biting Steven in the first place, but she's not to blame. She couldn't help it. I don't blame her... this all started with that asshole who bit her. She's as much a victim as you are."

"I'm not a victim," Maricel said quietly as she sat down across from him, "I killed two people."

"Did you have any choice?" Michael asked, his blue eyes resting on hers.

Maricel looked away, recalling how she had sought Tiffany and her girlfriend out, seduced them into sex and then killed them. She could still recall their naked bodies, the taste of their flesh and the drugged complacency on their faces as she lured them into her trap. She also remembered the scream Missy had let out when Maricel had lost control over her and she slipped back to reality. And she remembered how violently she had silenced her...

"Did I?" Maricel shrugged, her eyes feeling hot as the welts on her face healed and disappeared, "Could I have resisted what the thirst was doing to me?"

"You can't dwell on this," Michael said, "They're dead, and there's nothing that can be done about it. Honor them as best you can and remember them, but don't carry the weight of the dead. I'm a cop, I know what I'm talking about."

"There's something wrong inside me, Michael," she said abruptly, surprised she even said the words as she placed a hand over her stomach, "I can feel it here."

"Do you think it's possible Steven impregnated you?" Michael asked, the brief and horrible image running through his mind of the snake-like penis that had hung between the monsters legs, and the damage it had done to Maricel when it arrived at Tiffany's apartment. He though of the horrible, black sticky liquid that had coated her thighs and the bed when they had found her.

"I think so," she confided, her voice choking.

"It's impossible," Lydia said from behind them. She stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed in her black leather pants and white shirt, her red hair pulled back and away from her face.

"Why is that?" Michael asked as he held his hand out to her.

Lydia walked over and kissed him, "Why do you think we never use a condom?"

"Vampires can't get pregnant?"

Lydia shook her head. "The virus that causes vampirism sterilizes eggs and sperm. Unless you bite someone who is already pregnant, no one can be born a vampire. As a subspecies, vampires cannot reproduce. Vampire babies are just a myth."

"So why do I feel like I'm pregnant?" Maricel asked.

"I think your nerves are shot," Lydia smiled gently as she sat down at the table, "You've been through a lot. I think we're all a little off our game."

"Speak for yourself," Michael said, taking another drink.

"Maybe I am off," she shrugged and tried to smile, but somehow, the smile didn't reach her eyes. More importantly, she didn't feel it in her heart. Something was wrong with her, and what worse, no matter how bad it might be, she knew that what Steven had in mind for them all was going to be much, much worse.

***

"Yes baby," Rhonda Hedges moaned against the back seat of her boyfriend's SUV as he pounded her from behind, his cock stretching her ass out with each powerful thrust. Her tits swayed back and forth as they fucked, his hand slapping her ass like he was some kind of sexually-charged cowboy busting in a wild bronco. 

"Fuck yeah," Donnie Smith growled through his gritted teeth as he slammed her. He slapped her ass again hard, a growing red welt forming on her left cheek from his enthusiastic encouragement. He looked down at his body, twisting and working like a powerful, well-oiled machine. His cock rapidly sped in and out of her like one of the pistons in the engine of his beloved vehicle. He was almost as turned on by his own body as he was by Rhonda's shapely figure.

They had pulled off the edge of Soda Creek Road and parked in the bushes near the end of the winding road. Interstate 5 ran busily on the hillside above them as they went about their business, the vehicle rocking back and forth in the dark. Donnie had wanted to go to the lake and park, but Rhonda didn't want to risk anyone seeing them there. Soda Creek Road was further down the freeway, about ten miles south of Mount Shasta, and saw little traffic after sundown. They had parked around 10 p.m., started fucking at 10:15 and were still going strong at 11:30.

From out of the babbling water of Soda Creek came a pale, hulking figure. It was dripping wet and wheezing in the frigid winter air. Its carrion breath escaped its lungs in heavy puffs of thick mist. Glowing red eyes regarded the rocking vehicle carefully, studying it as it quietly came up along the passenger side of the vehicle. It slowly looked up into the fogged over window and saw with its keen eyes the broad backside of a young man. It could smell his blood, his virile essence pumping furiously through his body. The girl, equally as fresh and powerful, was moaning loudly as they had sex.

"Fuck yeah, fuck yeah bitch," the young man shouted as he slapped her. The creature cocked its head, understanding the significance of the domineering attitude and yet perplexed as to why the girl was remotely aroused by it. The creature licked its fleshy lips with a long, serpent-like tongue. It clicked its misshapen razor sharp teeth in anticipation as it felt the sexual energy between the two humans. Its long black claws unsheathed and were brought to bear as they rocked the car.

"You like that, don't you bitch?" Donnie hissed as he slapped her again.

Rhonda rolled her eyes, and in between his rhythmic pounding, said, "Don't... call... me... bitch..."

"Shut the fuck up," Donnie thrust a little harder, and Rhonda felt pain.

"That hurt, you asshole!" she yelled as she made to pull away from him.

Donnie forcefully grabbed her and turned her back into position, his hands painfully tight on her. "We're done when I say we're done, got it?"

"What the fuck is your problem?" she yelled as she struggled against him. She turned, felt him slide out with a wet pop and turned, covering her breasts with her arms. Her long black hair hung wetly against her face as she glared at him with her bright green eyes.

"My problem is you're being impossible," he growled and made to grab her again.

"You grab me again and I'll bust your balls, Donnie," she warned him.

"Don't you talk to me like that," he spat, and before he could raise his hands, the side window exploded inward, showering them with plexi-glass. Rhonda screamed and scooted back against the seat, covering her face as the shards sprayed her and Donnie. She heard a muffled scream from her boyfriend, and chanced uncovering her face. Her eyes widened and she screamed.

Two large hands had covered Donnie's head, completely hiding it from view. His body was shaking and his hands pounding against the powerful grip of his attacker. The veins and chords in his neck were bulging out, his hips twisting and penis flopping about wildly. She could hear a muffled cracking sound. It reminded her of when she had eaten lobster on her sixteenth birthday, a strange wet crunch amplified to the power of ten. Blood began to seep through the powerful, alien fingers as it crushed his head. Rhonda began crying hysterically, frozen in fear as Donnie screamed again and then was silenced as his skull caved in under the vice-like grip of the creature. The contents of his brain exploded all over the inside of the SUV in a shower of gore.

A chunk of something hot and gristly landed on her face. Rhonda picked it off her cheek with fingers that shook badly. Her stomach began to heave and her paralysis broke. She scrambled to unlock the door closest to her. The handle wouldn't give, and she realized that the locks were child proofed. She screamed and tried to climb into the front seat, her bare body slipping against the blood-soaked upholstery. A giant bloody hand pistoned out from the dark and grabbed her leg. She felt the bones shatter and splinter as it squeezed. A deafening roar filled the cab as she was pulled towards the broken window.

Her mind toppled off into the abyss as she felt the still warm remains of Donnie's broken face slide beneath her with a thick, meaty wetness. Her hands struggled for purchase as she was dragged through the window. Shards of plexi-glass broke off in her skin and she went through the window, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. She saw a huge, pale monstrosity standing over her. Glowing hellfire burned in its sockets as it reached out for her with a crimson hand, tipped with hooked claws.

She made to scream again, but was silenced as the creature quickly drew its hand back and swiped. The claws hooked the skin of her face, neck and the soft jelly of her right eye. With one powerful motion, the creature tore half her face and neck off. The remains landed with a quiet splash yards away, her spoiled eyeball rolling a few more feet and then coming to a rest near the roadside.

The creature stopped for a moment, it's face upturned to the night sky. It could feel her on the light breeze like a scent betraying prey to the hunter on the downwind. It could feel Lydia in the air, her presence, her essence. She was powerful and undeniable. She was near, as were the others. The other woman and the man were with her somewhere nearby. It looked north, studying the tree-covered sides of the canyon and then looking away. It grabbed the bodies of the two teenagers and dragged them into the woods.

An unholy roar echoed through the forest, causing both animals and human alike to stop and shiver. It began to feed.

***

"Do you think she's going to be alright?" Michael asked as he stroked Lydia's bare shoulder.

Lydia nestled her naked body closer to his. "I don't know," she replied quietly as she ran her fingers up and down his stomach, "She's been through a lot."

They held each other under the thick blankets of the bed. It was nearing five in the morning now, and while the rest of the world slept, they lay awake, consumed by their thoughts. Michael looked to the window, and remembered how the morning sunlight would shine through the panes of glass. In another time, his ex-wife Barbara would sit in the pools of light on the floor, basking in the warmth. Michael smiled sadly little at the memory, a pain of regret shooting through him as he recalled his wife and son. This was followed by other memories he really didn't want to deal with. Michael shoved them away.

"You alright?" Lydia asked, looking at him and gently kissing his chest.

"Yeah, I think so," Michael shrugged, "The whole world has just changed and I guess I'm just running to catch up..."

"You miss her?"

"Barbara?" Michael asked, and then said, "Sometimes I forget you're a telepath."

"Among other things," Lydia said, "But you haven't answered the question."

Michael sighed. "Sometimes. But only in that I regret the mistakes I made, you know? The morphine addiction, the way I acted. It fucks with your head after awhile I guess."

"I know all about regret," she kissed his neck.

"You know what bothers me the most?"

"What?"

"Some other guy is going to be a father to my son," Michael said, "I mean, I already fucked myself over, you know? And I knew that I wasn't going to be able to be a part of his life like I wanted. But now, I can't even go back to my old life. He'll never really know me, or how much I love him."

"Things change, Michael," Lydia touched his cheek and looked at him, "They always do."

"Wow," Michael raised a brow, "Since when are you an optimist?"

Lydia smiled, embarrassed. She thoughtfully paused for a moment, and then said, "Since I had something to be optimistic about."

Michael kissed her and pulled her close, his hands running up and down her body. Lydia rolled on top of him and was delighted to find his cock hardening against her wet sex. His hands cupped her large breasts, the soft silky flesh heavy and comforting in his palms. Their tongues encircled one another in a passionate frenzy of licking and caressing as Lydia slid her hand down between their bodies and grasped his cock. It was hot, hard and thick in her hand. She could feel the veins throbbing as more blood pumped into his member, causing it to swell.




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 07



"This is optimistic," Michael said in between kisses.

"This is going to sound clichéd," Lydia smiled against his lips as she rubbed his swollen head with her thumb, "But you have such a nice, thick cock."

"Suddenly we're in a porn flick," Michael laughed as she straddled him.

Lydia sat up as Michael continued to massage her breasts. She began to work her hips back forth, her slit opening and lubing up his cock with her juices. She eyed him, "You like it when I talk dirty?"

"Oh yeah," he nodded, "Vampire sex talk is a big turn on for me."

Lydia smiled. "Well I don't mind talking dirty... as long as it makes your big, fat cock hard enough to fill up my cunt and make me scream."

"Oh my God," Michael laughed, "That was terrible."

"So maybe I'm no good at it," she chuckled, "But what I can't say I can always show you."

"You have a beautiful smile," he said suddenly.

"You don't have to lie, you got me already," she rolled her eyes.

"No lie," Michael said seriously, "You don't smile enough."

Lydia shrugged. "Haven't had much to reason to in the last three hundred years."

Michael felt such a rush of love for her that it almost overwhelmed him as he took her in, memorized every detail. Her thick auburn hair had fallen to her pale shoulders in heavy strokes. In the dim light, he could see the curved outline of her body, the flat smooth expanse of her stomach and the pronounced fullness of her breasts. Her eyes were like a cats, and if it had been other situation Michael might have been frightened by their reflective properties. Instead, what should have been unnerving was strangely alluring, even comforting as the smile on her full rosy lips spread wide.

"What are you looking at?" she rubbed her pussy back and forth on his shaft. She felt a need for him building up inside, and she was ecstatic that the thirst has no part of it. The discovery that she could control the thirst enough to be with Michael had been an epiphany for her. Though she could sense the blood running though his muscular body like a normal person can smell an irresistible meal, she was not tempted to bite him. It was as if though the thirst had been blanketed by the power of her love for him, her need for him.

"I love you very much," he said, "No matter what."

Every time he said it, Lydia felt that much closer to being human again. "I love you too," the words rolled off her tongue. They still felt alien somehow, like they were words that she had never been meant to say anyone. But she knew deep down that they were her words, and that she had earned them. More importantly, they were words that held the essence of her relationship with Michael, and they acted as ties, binding them together as perfectly and spiritually as the act of making love.

Michael's cock slid into her with an ease and grace that they had become so used to in the last month that it had become second nature. His long, thick cock filled her up completely, always slightly stretching her out and making her shiver. Her thighs tensed around his waist as he slid in to the hilt. She put her arms over her head and closed her eyes as she began working herself up and down on his shaft, relishing the thick passing of his head with each thrust. Her nipples became hard and erect under his fingertips as she licked her lips. She could feel his mind, solely focused on her and pleasuring her. She opened herself to him and they joined together physically and mentally, becoming for a brief moment one whole person.

Lydia gasped a little as they picked up their speed and rhythm, slow and sensual at first, their quiet moans and groans the prelude to the storm to come. Michael watched the muscles in her stomach flex and release, her hips working and the hypnotic motion of her pussy sliding up and down on his cock. The heat from within was incredible as she rode him, her pussy squeezing and contracting around his shaft as they picked up speed. Michael released her breasts, allowing them to swing free and bounce with the power of their thrusts. He grasped her hips and tried to concentrate on making every movement count. Lydia's hand came down and her fingers found their way to her clit, swollen and hard. She began rubbing it furiously as they worked towards the climax.

"Yes," she whispered, her head thrown back in ecstasy, the cords in her neck bulging out as she moaned. Her hair bounced behind her, mimicking the same vigorous motions of her breasts.

Michael slid his hand up her stomach, over her breasts and to her neck, then back down over her shoulders and arms. Lydia was huffing now, breathless and lustily moaning out loud. She began humping him faster and faster. She locked her fingers with his and pinned him to the bed, doing her best to rub her clit against him. Michael's teeth were bared as he fought off the orgasm now building up inside him. His cock was tingling and going to the extra-rigid state were he was certain he could have balanced a station wagon on it without hurting himself. He was dimly aware that he was sweating as she leaned forward to kiss him. 

"You're going to make me cum," she hissed in ear, her breasts rubbing against his chest, "OH God make me cum..."

***

In the room next to them, Maricel lay on her bed, her hands covering her crotch protectively. The sexual Olympics in the room just beyond the wall were something she had grown used to, even envious of during her stay here. Michael was indeed as attractive man, and she could see why Lydia was so taken with him. He was also very determined or very stupid in her opinion. Every time she was around him, Maricel could sense his devotion to Lydia, his unusually strong attachment to her. Did he know that Lydia was never going to be able to be with him the way he, no the way they both wanted?

Maricel shifted, her hands trembling over her violated crotch, still aching from the abuse at the hands of Steven Wolverton. Or rather, the creature Steven had become. The creature had violated her the way she had violated Tiffany and Missy. In a way, it was poetic justice, she thought. Of course, in accepting that chain events for the truth she had to acknowledge that Steven had been violated by Lydia first. It was she who had started the chain reaction leading them here, to a place of being outcast from everything she had ever known.

Did Michael realize that Lydia, no matter what her intentions may have been, was indeed a villain?

"But that's not fair," Maricel whispered to herself, "Because she saved me from being raped and killed..."

"Did she?" she answered herself, a frown crossing her face. She thought back to the night she had met Lydia, just as Larry Crispin had been ready to finish her off. Larry had been just another job, one more paycheck to round out her nest egg. She had planned on fucking him, even though the thought of it repulsed her. But he was paying serious cash for a night with her, and for the five thousand he handed her, she would have done him and a friend together. In the end, it had all backfired.

Larry had tried to kill her, and it was only Lydia's arrival that had saved her. Larry had infected her with HIV, a virus he didn't even know he had, and her only hope had been to let Lydia bite her, let the vampiric virus destroy the HIV.

"Wait," Maricel sat up, a cold sweat breaking out all over her body. She remembered suddenly sucking Larry's pathetically small cock, faking every moan and exalting growl of desire as she gagged on his acidic member. She felt tears in her eyes as she thought of his revolting load of semen pumping into her mouth. But then, a memory she had buried suddenly birthed itself in front of her. It had been hidden so deep not even Lydia had been able to sense it. 

"He fucked me," Maricel choked as panic began winding up inside her, twisting to a breaking point in her chest. 

After he came, she had wanted to get things over as quickly as possible. Somehow, that asshole had been able to get hard again and Maricel remembered how she had laid down on the bed and he had entered her. It was only for a few moments, because he got the idea to tie her up and pulled out.

"But there was semen still on his dick," she realized.

Larry had tied her up and that was when Lydia had busted through the window, arriving like some dark super-hero from a gritty Frank Miller comic.

"No," she hissed, tears streaming down her face as she remembered the creature suddenly, it's python–like penis entering her and tearing her apart. The rape was just as horrible in remembrance as in the moment, and she began gasping for air as the sensations came flooding back. She could feel it in her head, it's black angry thoughts and hateful spirit, and it's pain and hurt. She tried to call out for Lydia, the headboard in the next room banging loudly against the wall. 

"No no no no," she managed, her voice strained and high-pitched as she tried to move. A sharp pain suddenly registered from her midsection.

She had been pregnant from Larry Crispin, and when the creature had raped her, it had tainted the fertilized egg within. She was carrying the offspring of an otherworldly evil conception, that of a killer and of a monster that had no place in God's creation.

The pain seared through her again and she felt something move inside her, suddenly pushing against her uterus. Maricel's eyes were wide and bulging, her mouth gaping open as she tried to register the burning pain coursing through her body. She put her hands to her stomach and felt a bulge there, small and yet growing steadily. It was if the act of remembering the moment of conception had triggered a growth inside her. 

In the back of her mind she could sense something, or rather multiple somethings. They were simple, like random thoughts powerfully coming to fruition. She envisioned these new developments as balloons, slowly growing in her mind and belly, each one unique and separate from the other. She could feel their thoughts, their confusion and their thirst. She knew in that moment that she was not going to spawn one child, but many. They were beginning to grow and expand. Soon, there would be no more room, and they would birth themselves from her. 

"Lydia..." she whispered, her hand reaching for the door as she fell off the bed.

Her head bounced painfully off the wooden floor. As her eyes cleared of stars, she began to realize why the bastard children inside had suddenly woken up. A cold presence washed over her like a shadow, causing her mouth to go dry and her nipples stone cold. It was familiar and frigid, like a raging, icy black fire in her mind. It was here. The father of her children was here to claim what was his and to take his vengeance. She wasn't sure how far away he was, but he would be here soon.

Maricel gritted her teeth and crawled to the door.

***

"Wait!" Lydia shouted in the middle of an unbelievably good thrust on her lover's cock. She looked off into space for a moment, her hair slicked to her face in sweat from their vigorous sex. Michael found himself frozen, the fear from Lydia arching through him like lightning. He could feel what she was feeling. 

"What is that?" he asked, unsure of the black cloud growing in his mind.

"It's him," Lydia whispered, "Steven is here."

"What?" Michael hissed.

Lydia quickly dismounted him and went for her clothes. "It's him Michael."

"Fuck!" Michael jumped up and started dressing. "How the hell did he get here so fast?"

"Not sure," she shook her head as she slipped her black boots on, tucking the legs of her black leather pants inside, "But he's really pissed."

Michael pulled on his khaki's and t-shirt, hurried to the dresser and yanked the drawer out. The clothes spilled to the floor and he found his shoulder holster and gun. All their guns had been loaded with silver bullets, coated with garlic. He fastened the holster and looked to Lydia, who was already dressed and preparing her long, twin blades. He asked, "You're sure these bullets will work?"

"As much as they can," she said, sliding the blades into her hip mounted sheath, "Vampires have severe allergic reactions to silver and garlic. Not deadly, but enough to make one think twice."

"What about you?"

"I'll live," she said flatly as Michael laced up his steel-toed boots.

"I'll get Maricel," Michael whispered and went for the door when a tremendous crash in the living room made him stop. Through the door, they could here something thrashing around, overturning furniture and shattering glass. Michael heard the television blow out and explode. They stood there, frozen for a moment, listening as the creature went on its tirade through the living room. Something heavy slammed into the hallway, ricocheting off the walls and splintering near their bedroom door.

Lydia reached out with her mind to Maricel, but could not find her. It was as if Maricel has disconnected herself from her somehow. Lydia called out to her, and only found silence in response. Was she dead? Lydia didn't want to believe it, but it was unlikely that Maricel could block her out like that. 

Michael went to the closet and opened the door. From behind his clothes he pulled an Uzi out, equipped with a large magazine and silencer. He tossed it to Lydia and reached in again, pulling out another identical Uzi. They flipped the safeties off and prepared for the inevitable, frozen in place and patiently waiting for Steven to break the door down.

It went silent outside the door, and only the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard, causing the floorboards to creak. A deep, feral growl resonated throughout the cabin, more the sound of a lion or some other great predator on the hunt. Michael felt a cold bead of sweat trickling down his back as he steeled himself. Lydia could feel him preparing, and took comfort in him being there. For so long she had faced the dangers of her life alone, and she had come to believe that for her there was no other way. But with Michael here, she now knew that she could never go back to that way of life. She had a partner now, a partner who would stay with her until the end.

Despite herself, Lydia smiled.

Outside the door, massive claws dug into the walls and pulled. The wood ripped away from the nails that held it in place and splintered with loud *pops* and *cracks*!

"In case we die here tonight," Lydia said softly, her hand steady, finger poised on the trigger, "I love you very much."

Michael's eyes never left the door, and yet he somehow looked at her. "I love you too."

"Thank you Michael. For everything."

There was an ear-piercing scratch at the door, one final heavy footstep and then all was quiet. They stood silently in the dark, their guns drawn and trained on the door, waiting for any sign of what was to come. The cords on Michael's arms were flexed, pulled tight, every muscle in his body brought to attention as he focused all his experience, all his training and all his will on the task at hand.

He prayed hard.

The door blew in, literally exploding in a shower of splinters and broken wood. The creature came through the doorway, unafraid and angry, it's eyes burning red and claws unsheathed. Its pale, mottled skin was stained with blood, its hungry maw open and teeth brought to bear. It bellowed a sound so loud and powerful Michael felt his ears pop. He squeezed the trigger and let the gun do what it did best. He could barely think, let alone hear anything over the creature's howls as the silencer equipped Uzi unloaded it's rounds into the creature's alien anatomy.

"I'm sorry Steven!" he cried, aiming for its head, "God forgive me!"

The creature was gone suddenly, simply vanished from view. Michael stopped firing and looked at the smoking ruins of his doorway and the hall. Debris littered the bedroom, along with gobs of sticky black fluid and chunks of pasty flesh. Lydia walked towards the door, her gun held at ready. She cautiously approached, motioning for Michael to follow. It was strangely silent as Michael's ears tried to adjust. He worked his jaw, hoping to pop his ears again back to normal.

"Holy shit," he whispered, kneeling down and touching the thick pools of ichor spattered on the floor. "This shit feels like motor oil... smells like dead fish."

He wiped the fluid off on his pants and stood up again. They moved into the hallway. Lydia could see past the shadows, her eyes enhanced by the virus in a way Michael's never could be. It was her biological night vision, and through this she saw the trail of blood leading back to the living room. She could also sense the creature; it's pain and hate. Michael had wounded it, but the bullets weren't affecting it like they should have. It was still in the house somewhere, and it was waiting for her.

'Lydia,' a voice croaked in her mind, loud and rasping.

Lydia froze. 'Stephen,' she thought back cautiously.

'What...' the creature thought with great effort, fighting against the mutation that had warped its mind along with its body, '... what have you done to me?'

'I'm so sorry, Steven,' she thought softly, tears in her eyes.

'Kill you.'

'Please Steven, spare your brother and Maricel.'

'Kill... you... all."

'Steven please, your brother loves you...'

The creature was quiet for a moment.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked, his hand on her arm.

"Nothing," Lydia quieted him with her other hand and thought to the creature, 'Take me... I'm the one you want...'

'Loved... you.'

"Lydia," Michael warned, "Don't do anything stupid."

Michael looked into the shadows of his cabin, trying to see it.

'Kill you,' the creature hissed in her mind, and she felt it moving again.

'Please Steven...'

'You hurt me..." it reasoned, 'Now... I'll hurt... you."

"Get ready," she whispered to Michael. He was about to speak when from out of the shadows the creature sprang forward as if though shot from a cannon. It tackled Michael, both of them rolling into Maricel's bedroom, crashing through the door and onto the bed. Michael's gun fired several times, taking the creature three times in the arm and them splintering the ceiling. Lydia fell backwards onto her ass as it kicked her hard in the stomach mid flight. She rebounded immediately charged into the room, looking for a good shot. Only the way Michael and his brother were fighting there was no good shot.

Lydia threw her gun to the floor and reached for her blades.

"Steven no!" Michael screamed as the creature that had once been his brother raised its powerful, muscular arm high in the air. Its claws were dripping, hooked and lethal. It's thick lips curled into a smile, revealing its hideous black misshapen teeth, releasing a vile carrion stench that flowed over Michael.

"She...is...," it screamed, every word being torn from its throat, every syllable final and filled with rage, "...MINE!"

Michael closed his eyes, ready for the end. 

Lydia brought one of her three-foot blades down on its shoulder with all her might. The razor sharp metal cut through flesh and bone, severing the powerful limb in one clean stroke. Black blood erupted from the wound as the arm fell to floor with a dull thud. The arm spasmed and jerked for a moment before going still, oozing gore and leaking it's bizarre, foul smelling life's fluid. The howl of rage and pain that escaped the creature's body blew out every single last window in the cabin, caused every glass in the kitchen to explode. Lydia had to cover her ears and step back as it bellowed, surprised and in agony.

It was twice as dangerous now, and she had to act quickly. She brought both swords up and ran for the creature. It spun and batted at her, catching her off guard and sending her flying into the wall. The wind sucked out of her body as she hit the wall hard and fell to the floor. She looked up and saw the creature raise its other arm and slash at Michael. She heard him screaming and realized he was going to die. It hit her all of a sudden, with the full force of a nuclear explosion. 




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 07



Her Michael was going to die.

She screamed and summoned all her pain, all her hate, all her anger and leapt at the creature. She shot off like a bullet and ran the swords deep into it's back, clear up to the hilt. Her momentum carried them both up and out through the window and into the darkness. A hail of broken glass and wood clattered to the ground as Lydia withdrew her blades and landed on her feet with a feline grace. The creature however landed hard against a cedar tree. She could hear bones snap as it hit and fell to the ground.

She watched it stand up and lunge for her. She jumped out of the way and began slicing at it, her focus burning with rage and searing her heart. Its claws lashed out and caught her left arm. She screamed and released the blade as it spun her around by her arm. It released her and sent her flying into the wall of the cabin. Wood splintered and gave way under the force of the impact, but stopped her momentum. She fell to the ground and scrambled. A strong hand grasped her shoulder and lifted her up and over. Her claws unsheathed and she struck its face, going for the eyes. She brought her remaining blade up and made to strike, but the creature was too quick. It swung her around and smashed her arm into a tree. Lydia cried out as the bones in her right forearm shattered and the other blade fell to the ground.

"Lydia," it hissed as it brought her face to within an inch away from it's own horrible countenance.

"Please, Steven," she reasoned, "I know I was wrong..."

"KILL," it spat at her, "YOU!"

It changed its grip to her neck and began squeezing. Even with her incredible strength, she was unable to break free of the monster's hold. Its claws were deep into her neck now, stabbing at her, creating a pain she never knew existed through her body. Her head felt like it was ready to explode, her eyes crisscrossing with broken blood vessels. She could feel her body going numb as she resigned herself to the inevitable. She recalled the night she had met Steven, how kind a gentle he had been. How trusting he had been. No matter what Michael may have said, she was guilty of murder. Now she was paying the price.

***

Maricel crawled out from under her bed slowly. She hated herself for the fear that had driven under the bed at the last minute. She pulled herself out and sat up to see Michael lying motionless on the bed. The patchwork quilt was soaked with blood. She could hear weak gurgles and bubbling hissing coming from his exposed throat and chest. The creature has slashed him open, revealing the underlying framework of his pectorals and throat. Michaels' eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as he slowly bled to death.

Maricel sat next to him and looked out the hole in the wall where the window used to be. There was no sign of Lydia or the creature as she quickly glanced around. She could hear them struggling in shadows somwhere, and fought the urge to go help. Instead, she turned to Michael. She placed a hand on his open wound. The raw muscle and tissue was hot against her hand, wet and primal. She could feel his lungs straining beneath his rib cage. Bubbles of blood formed over small holes in his throat as crimson liquid trickled from his mouth.

She cursed herself as the thirst began to rise, aroused by all the blood. Even now, it would give her no rest, no distance from it's evil. She looked away as she fought off the urges to feast, to drink. They were so powerful as she clenched her fists tight, the knuckles turning white with rage. Her fangs were ready and sharp in her mouth, and she felt the same sexual excitement that had seduced her into killing Tiffany and Missy. Maricel licked her lips, her heart pounding like a jackhammer in her chest.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No."

She looked at Michael once more, the urge to feed was now raging like a fever inside her, burning her with such a pleasure and promise of fulfillment. Her eyes darted to his exposed neck, the fresh blood leaking away and wasted. She brought her hand from his wounded chest and to her mouth. She extended one bloody index finger and held it hair's width from her lips. She could smell his essence, his vitality. He was sweet and potent, and so very, very rich.

"Michael," she said suddenly, her chest heaving up and down, on the edge of temptation.

"Michael," she whispered again and closed her eyes, putting her hand back to his chest and calming herself. She felt a new power rising up from within her, somehow clouding the thirst and pushing it aside. No, it wasn't pushing it aside, it was changing it. It was the other side of the thirst, the hope and healing that came as a companion to the despair and death of the virus. It was luminous and blinding in her mind as the rolling blackness of the thirst parted and gave way to this undeniable new clarity. It was so beautiful. 

She recalled how Lydia had healed Michael once, cured him of his injuries when they fought the creature in the alley behind the museum. She remembered the miraculous regeneration Michael had undergone, and suddenly understood. For all the death and evil the virus brought forth, it also had to have an opposite to balance out. Everything in life had to have a balance in order to function; men and women, good and evil, night and day, God and the Devil... This was Lydia's gift to her. This was what Lydia had felt when she saved her that night from Larry Crispin and when she saved Michael from Steven. 

Her whole life had been wasted on herself, and now Maricel had a chance to save a life, to give something back. She summoned her love, all the good things in her life she could think of and focused on Michael, trying to let free her feelings of gratitude towards him.

Michael's body spasmed as the power left her body and flooded into his. Maricel was nowhere near as disciplined as Lydia when it came to this part of it, so when the connection between their minds was established, she was shaken by the agony of his body and mind. The tears flowing from her eyes turned to blood as she put pressure on his grievous wounds and tried to heal him.

"Lydia loves you so much, Michael," she said as she brought her body to his, pulling him close. She lay beside him, holding him as she spoke, "I love you for your kindness... please stay with us..."

Maricel felt a sudden rush of power leave her body and surge into Michael. She jolted, her hips bucking as though caught in an orgasm. Her mouth was wide open, eyes closed tight as she felt the pain be lifted from his body and laid on her. She cried out as the skin on her chest began to tear open. The skin split and pulled away, gushing blood onto them both as Michael's wounds began to heal. Maricel fought through the pain, holding onto her sanity with all her heart as her neck split open. The pain began to blind her.

"Michael," she cried, "Please..."

In spite of pain, Maricel did something she had never done before in her life. She turned her face towards heaven and begged God for strength, for courage.

She was not done yet.

***

The creature's hydraulic-like grip was crushing her windpipe. It wouldn't be long now. If she could have, Lydia would have laughed at the irony. Her own creation, the monster that had been Steven Wolverton, was killing her. She supposed it was fair enough. She had taken an innocent life, and now that innocent was here to take hers. Eye for an eye and such.

'How clichéd,' she thought dryly.

"Kill me," she managed, "Spare my friends..."

"NO," it gurgled, tightening its grip. Lydia entered the final stages of her suffocation as her body began to convulse, her choking becoming rapid and stunted. In a last ditch effort she vainly tried to reach out with her mind and attack, as she had done Larry Crispin in what seemed like an eternity ago. But it was no use. She couldn't focus.

Lydia thought of Michael and their time together as her vision began to fade out, the laughter and the love they had shared. She felt if she were going to die, then she would rather see her lover's face than this monstrosity.

Lydia let her mind slip away.

And then it happened.

From behind the creature came a loud, defiant scream and there was the unmistakable muffled sound of a silencer equipped Uzi being fired. The creature howled and staggered back, releasing Lydia. She fell to the ground once more in a tangled heap as a hail of bullets racked the creature. Black blood showered her as its body was pounded by round after round after round. The silencer on the Uzi hissed and thudded quietly as Maricel pulled the trigger and did not let go.

"Fuck you!" She screamed, desperately trying to control the weapon. The gun finally fired its last bullet and ran dry. Maricel looked at the creature, which still stood, wobbling on shaking legs and bleeding to death. The Uzi fell to the ground, hissing and steaming against the cool morning air. The sky was turning a bluish-pink again as the sun prepared to rise. Maricel stood defiantly before the creature, which regarded her with a curious, shocked expression.

Maricel picked up one of Lydia's blades, felt the weight of it and grasped the handle with both hands. She closed her eyes, and thought of the creatures inside her, the rape, Larry Crispin and her whole life in general. She thought of the kindness Michael had shown her, the tragedy of her friends Tiffany and Missy and the damnation of Lydia. She took a deep breath and screamed as loud as she could, her voice breaking and cracking as she lunged forward. The sword plunged into the creature's belly and Maricel actually began driving it backwards. Gore spewed out from the wounds as she pushed the creature into a tree. The blade drove into the soft wood and lodged there, pinning the monster like an insect to a piece of cardboard. It looked dumbly at the sword lodged in its stomach and then at Maricel.

"I'm sorry, Steven," she said quietly, her face streaked with tears and blood. 

Maricel turned away, and as she felt the burning of the approaching sun she knew what she must do. She grabbed Lydia and picked her up carefully, walking back into the cabin as fast as she could go. She hurried past the destroyed living room and through the shattered kitchen. The creature, leaving only three undamaged, had destroyed most of the blood packs in the fridge. Maricel grabbed them as they passed. She kicked the door to the basement open and went down the stairs. A few times, she thought she was going to trip and fall, killing them both. She made it down to the bottom and flipped on the light.

Lydia was in bad shape, but already healing.

"Are you going to be okay?" Maricel asked as she propped her friend up against the dirty wall.

"I think so," she whispered and then looked at blood covering Maricel, "What happened to you?"

"Don't worry," she reassured her, "Michael is okay too. Just knocked out."

"I saw him get slashed..."

"He's going to be okay," Maricel smiled through her tears as she placed the blood packs next to Lydia, "Use these now, Lydia."

"I'm so sorry," Lydia cried, her hand touching Maricel's face, "I'm sorry."

"You saved me Lydia," Maricel looked down, "I forget that sometimes, but you saved me. You gave me a gift... and I'm using that gift now."

"It's not a gift," Lydia shook her head, "It's a curse."

Maricel smiled and leaned forward. She gently kissed Lydia on the forehead and lingered for only a moment. She smiled, "It's what you make of it."

"You're a brave woman, Maricel," Lydia said.

"I learned from the best," she smiled.

Lydia looked to her suddenly. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"There's not much time Lydia..."

"What is it?"

Maricel looked down. "Larry Crispin impregnated me, Lydia. Steven changed the baby inside, and now there are going to be a lot of babies in there..."

"Oh no..."

"If they get out," Maricel choked, more tears falling from her eyes and mixing with the blood streaks on her cheeks.

"No," Lydia shook her head, trying to deny the truth but couldn't as she touched her friend's expanding belly. She could feel the creatures within her, squirming and kicking against her uterine wall. Maricel flinched as they violently scrambled about inside her. They had been perverted and twisted into small versions of their father. Lydia wept, "No..."

"It's not your fault," she said, "Don't you dare carry this with you any further than today."

"I am so sorry," Lydia looked at her.

"Thank you, Lydia," Maricel smiled.

"Thank you," Lydia hugged her tightly, knowing that this would be the last time they were going to speak. Suddenly, they both were jolted as they realized that the creature almost free of it's impalement. Maricel looked up and knew it was time. She left Lydia there in the basement, and with Lydia she entrusted the best parts of herself. It was time.

Lydia watched her friend leave, her heart heavy and wounded as she opened a blood pack and drank from it like one does after being without water for two days. She could hear footsteps in the kitchen above as Maricel hurried away, small plumes of dust falling to the ground, marking her progress. Her heart broke as the footsteps faded and Maricel was gone, still out of her telepathic reach somehow. 

Lydia felt the creature outside, still alive and recovering, albeit slowly. It was in pain from the rising sun, and Lydia felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow and guilt for it as it started to burn, still struggling to free itself.

"Goodbye, Maricel," she said softly as she closed her eyes and sought an absolution. She added quietly, "Goodbye Steven..."

***

Maricel stepped out of the cabin and into the dawning light. It immediately began to singe her skin, and she had to fight the urge to go back inside. She worked her way over to the creature, still writhing and pinned to the tree. Curls of smoke were slowly rising from both their bodies as she crossed the lawn to what remained of Steven Wolverton. A shiny glimmer caught her eye and she stooped down. From out of the grass she found Lydia's other blade. She held it firmly and gritted her teeth as the ultra-violet light from the sun began to crest the ridge of Mount Shasta.

"Steven," Maricel said firmly as she felt a deep pain all over her flesh. She almost doubled over as she stood before the creature, her skin beginning to flame in places. It was almost over. Inside her, the babies were growing faster and faster. Her stomach was now protruding out as though she were eight months along, painfully bloated and ready to burst.

The creature took a swing with its remaining arm and missed as its claws hissed through the air. Maricel raised the blade and with all her strength struck it, severing the arm. The bloody stump pumped the black blood out in heavy, sickening spurts as the dead limb fell to the ground. Green flames were igniting on it hulking alien body as the first ray of sunlight broke over the horizon and shot down through the trees. The lake began to shimmer and sparkle as the sun rose into the sky.

Maricel cried out as her skin burned to ash and blew away, whirling and floating in the morning air. She plunged the blade into the creature's body, pinning it again and insuring that there would be no escape. She closed her eyes and embraced the creature as they were engulfed in a brilliant pillar of green and blue flames that reached high into the air. She embraced the creature, not to hold him from escape, but for the simple comfort she felt was owed to Steven. She could feel his soul inside this monster's body, begging for release. She embraced Steven in the flames as they burned, helping to ease his pain as they crossed over to what lies beyond nightmares and dreams, beyond nocturne.

Maricel felt a final fleeting sense of pain as her hair fell away along with the last of her clothes and skin. There was the ethereal sensation of being lifted away that reminded her of riding the big roller coasters with her father when she was six. She felt small and insignificant, and yet somehow larger than she had just been. She felt the creatures inside slipping away, consumed in the fire, mewling and screeching as they died. 

And then, she and Stephen were gone.

Maricel rested.

***

Michael watched the last of the supernatural flames die down and disappear into the white smoke billowing from the charred remains of Maricel and his brother. He cautiously stepped out onto the lawn, his chest and throat aching from the wounds Maricel had healed. She had saved his life, and he felt very sure that just before she died she had somehow saved his brother's life. He walked slowly across the lawn.

"God bless them," he prayed, looking at the two smoldering ruins.

The air was thick with the glowing embers of their destroyed bodies. Michael found the sight morbid and yet, there was a certain sense of beauty and finality to it he could not ignore. The embers glowed as the smoke cleared, rising up from the two skeletons pinned against the tree. The larger skeleton was blackened and monstrous, it's skull overly large, the jaw gaped open and attached only by the few charred sinews that remained. The smaller skeleton was embracing the larger one, the bones white in places but mostly burned. On the ground beneath Maricel's remains were several burned lumps, twisted and unrecognizable. Michael thought maybe they were organs, something that fell out during the burning.

"What the fuck?" he whispered, kneeling down. He poked at them with a stick, turning them over. For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was seeing, and then it dawned on him. As one of blackened lumps turned over, he could make out a malformed face and a set of arms. Michael jumped back, falling on his ass.

"Shit!" he shouted, scrambling back, "Holy shit. She was fucking pregnant?"

He counted seven altogether as he stood over the remains of Maricel and Steven's offspring. He muttered, "Thank God they died with them..."

Michael turned and went back into the house, searching for Lydia. He looked in the bedrooms, the living room, the bathroom and the kitchen. He began to lose hope as he turned to the basement door. He grasped the handle and stopped, suddenly uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to know. If Lydia wasn't down there, then she was dead. There was nowhere else to hide. He closed his eyes and opened the door.

"I can't do this if she's gone," he whispered and looked into the basement. It was sickeningly quiet.

He slowly walked down the stairs and found Lydia sitting on the floor of the basement, bloody, dirty and unmoving. Michael fought back tears as he neared her, his boots crunching the dirt beneath the soles. He knelt by her and put one hand to her shoulder, touching her as though she might break if was too rough.

"Lydia?" he asked softly and tilted her chin up. "Lydia talk to me..."

Lydia's eyes fluttered and opened. She smiled weakly. "What took you so long?"

"Maricel saved me," he whispered as he kissed her gently.

"She saved me too," Lydia hugged him and pulled him close.

There was a moment of silence between them.

Lydia smiled and buried her face in his neck. The thirst did not rise, nor did she worry about biting him. She simply loved him.

***

ONE WEEK LATER

"Newspapers reported that my cabin was destroyed by arsonists," Michael said as he handed the paper to Lydia from across the diner table. 

She looked at the third page article of the Redding Record Searchlight and saw the black and white photograph of the charred cabin. Fire crews and police were surrounding it, looking official and on the ball as they surveyed the burnt out dwelling. Michael had lit the cabin on fire the moment they left, leaving Steven and Maricel's remains inside. They had left that very night after the attack, not wanting to hang around too long lest they be questioned by the authorities. They had been able to salvage most of the guns, ammunition and supplies before they left.




Beyond Nocturne Ch. 07



Michael had taken extra care to find as many of the bullets from the Uzi's as he could with a metal detector, but only found about half of them.

Lydia folded the paper shut, and the front page caught her attention. The headline read, "Two Mount Shasta Teens Murdered." Below the headline was a color photo of a bashed up SUV spattered with blood. She looked at Michael, "Rhonda Hedges, age 17 and Donald Smith, age 18...both dead and mutilated...you think they bumped into Steven?"

Michael took a drink of his coffee. "It's possible."

"What a shame," she sighed, shaking her head putting the paper down. She looked out the window of the Black Bear Diner. The streets of Redding were bustling in the evening rush to get home as hundreds of cars rolled slowly through the heavy traffic. The sun had been down for an hour now, and the stars were trying to twinkle through the haze. A crescent moon had risen into the sky, lazily going about its business.

"I hope to be out of California by tomorrow morning," Michael said as he looked at the menu.

"Where are we going?" Lydia asked, offering her hand to him.

"First things first," Michael squeezed her hand, "We're going to get our new identities. Names, birth certificates, licenses, social security cards... everything. I know of a guy in Reno who does it all top notch."

"And he'll help us because?"

"His wife owes me a favor," Michael said casually.

"I don't think I want to know."

"You don't," Michael grinned devilishly.

"And after that?"

Michael looked thoughtfully at her for a moment. "Lay low for awhile, catch some moon light, have a lot of sex..."

"I like that," Lydia slid her foot against his leg and smiled.

"Good," he said, "Me too."

"You do know that others will be coming," Lydia reminded him, "We're wanted by both the human authorities and the Vampire Nation. The Elders will dispatch hunters to come after us. There'll probably be slayers too. I broke a lot of Vampire Nation rules and laws... so did you."

"We also stole fourteen gallons of blood from the hospital here too," Michael took another drink of coffee, "And I broke wind when we walked in here. Let's face it, we're rebels."

Lydia laughed. "Charming."

"Hey," he said.

"What?"

"I love you."

Lydia smiled. "I love you too."

***

EPILOGUE

The night was frigid, bitter and bathed in blue nightfall as the lonely, hooded figure walked through the ruins of the cabin formerly owned by Michael Wolverton. The stranger could still feel the presence of the vampire woman called Lydia and her young woman convert. He was certain it was the convert that had died in the fire along with the creature Lydia had accidentally created. The initial thought amongst the police here was that Lydia had died in the fire along with Wolverton. Some bullet casings had been found, but nothing of any substantial concern. Certainly nothing that could add anything but more questions to the already baffling case. He supposed he could see how that might be true. The remains were so burned they could have passed for anyone. They were so destroyed than not even dental records could be established.

It seemed that the bodies had been doubly burned, especially burned...

He knew Lydia was not dead, nor was Wolverton. They were out there somewhere, seeking shelter, a safe haven from the retribution of the Vampire Nation and the human authorities. The stranger smiled and thought how when he was done with them, Lydia will have wished she had perished in the fire. She was clever, and experienced, but she was not a killer. And that's what separated her from him. It was what separated him and his brothers from all the others. What she lacked was what gave him his edge.

A killer instinct.

The stranger took a step back and prepared to leave, his long black cloak billowing behind him. A rustling in the bushes stopped him, and his perfectly attuned ears heard something moving towards him. He grasped his blade from its sheath and prepared for the attack. It was getting closer and closer as he stood still, waiting patiently for it to make its move. The night went strangely quiet, and the only noise was from the distant passing of cars and semis on the freeway a few miles away.

The lake was calm and without any ripples on its surface.

The sky was cloudless and clear, the crescent moon hanging loftily above.

There was the snap of a branch and spray of blood as the slayer was torn apart by his stalker. He desperately tried to cleave the attacker with his blade, but it bit into his throat and pulled violently. His head came loose with a gristly snap and rolled away as the shapeless figure ravaged his body. His hand finally realized he was dead and let go, dropping the blade to the ground in a clatter. The stranger's lifeless eyes reflected the stars above and nothing else.

"Slayer?" the attacker looked at the severed head with impassive yellow eyes, it's pale skin burnt and scarred "Why do you walk on the grave of our mother and father?"

From the dark bushes, two other sets of yellow watched intently as their sibling dragged the carcass of the slayer into the shadows to feed.

Finally, to feed.