10 comments/ 21676 views/ 0 favorites The Cost Ch. 01 By: bsi8412 I find it hard to believe, looking back, that I could ever have wanted this for myself. But I did, and it is for that fact alone that I am still here. Old, but always new. I have lived for a very long time now and I have tired of my existence for the majority of it.. I look in the mirror as I am oft to do. A glance only, but it is enough to tell me what I already know. Nothing ever changes there. I took so much joy in the fact that the years did not touch me in the ways that they do others, when I was younger. I still look young, this is true, but it is certainly not a word I would use to describe myself without adding the word "seeming" to it. My hair is a very dark brown, worn short and slightly mussed in keeping with the current popular fashion of my apparent generation. My skin is unlined, always tan, and my body is slim, though toned and strong. I don't have to do anything to keep my body fit, although I do, if only for the pleasure it gives me and to pass the time. My height was remarked upon in my early days at 5'8". Back then, I was considered quite tall. Of course now it is only considered average. My mouth is wide, my lips generous and full, and my nose is proportioned well with the rest of my face. When I smile, and I've been told that I have a "killer" smile, my cheeks dimple slightly. My jaw line and fore head give my face a strong appearance. Many over the years have considered my eyes to be my most remarkable feature, a color so dark as to appear black from far off. Looking closer, flecks of a brown, almost honey, color can be seen in the irises. My gaze has always had an intense, penetrating feel that has only grown greater with the passage of time because of the depth added behind them. I appear to be twenty years old, but upon looking into my eyes, most add anywhere from five to ten years to that. I know that I cut a striking figure, though to be honest, it is a fact I have long since taken for granted. And why shouldn't I take it for granted? I know that regardless of what happens, my appearance will remain basically unchanged. I can cut my hair and it will grow back in the same way that it does for everyone else, but I could stab myself in the heart or slash my wrists open and nothing will happen. As soon as I pull the knife from my chest or when I am done drawing the blade across my arm, the wounds will close as though they never were. If I were to be shot in the head, the bullet will remain there for a moment before my body begins to expel it, and when the bullet is pushed out, the hole will close. All of these things have happened to me, some on more than one occasion. I have even been crucified twice. The short of it is this; I cannot die. Not for any reason, no matter the cause. Yes, I have tried to kill myself. My first attempt was about eleven hundred years after my birth and my reasons were simple. I had grown tired of the loss associated with my immortality. I only tried once more after that attempt, but as I am not fool, did not attempt it again knowing that it would be futile. Do not misunderstand, I do not consider myself depressed. No one alive truly knows me well, but the people that I meet and acquaintances would not describe me as a sad person either. Like anyone else, in this respect, I feel the pain more than I do most days and it becomes too much. Now, I just seclude myself until I come out of it. I am not a freak who enjoys inflicting pain upon myself. I just didn't know it would be like this when I started down this road. I write all of this now and I honestly do not know why. I do not know who will read it, if anyone even will. I feel a change coming. I feel it strongly and perhaps that is the reason why. Thousands of years have passed since this all began and I have learned to trust strong feelings like this. Or perhaps it is simply because I want to and that has always been reason enough for many of the things I have done. Over the many years I have accumulated a great deal of wealth. I own many homes and at present I reside in Birmingham, Alabama. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Truthfully, I find that I like it here. The people are polite and I enjoy the weather. I purchased a nice house in a rich little neighborhood. It is not as opulent as many of my other homes, but I like it. My neighbors are nice, not too nosy, and it is close to many nice shopping areas. I have been here for almost five months and, so far, have found little to complain about. I stand in the magazine section of a Barnes and Noble in one of the aforementioned shopping areas; this one called "The Summit". Why it is called that, I do not know. It is not on a particularly high hill. It has more than a few nice stores and restaurants though. I select a magazine purporting to have the latest gossip on an actress whose work I enjoy and head to the coffee shop section of the bookstore to purchase it and a large soy milk vanilla cappuccino. Caffeine, like many other stimulants, has little to no effect on me, but I enjoy the taste of the drink. Few things have an effect on my system. I can drink a fleet of sailors under the table and I could ingest every cleaner under the average kitchen sink and remain undisturbed. Except for the terrible taste left in my mouth. I was in a weird mood one day and thought it would be amusing to try it. I knew nothing would happen. Well, I figured nothing would happen. After making my purchase I move out of the way a little so that the next customer may be assisted while I decide what to do. I have been at home alone for the past few days and feel a desire for human contact, so I walk over to one of the remaining tables and sit. It is the weekend after Thanksgiving and many people are out shopping for Christmas, so the bookstore is more than a little crowded. I settle back into the stiff chair that was probably designed to be just comfortable enough to make you want to sit for maybe half an hour but uncomfortable enough to make you want to get up if you stay much longer than that. I begin thumbing through my magazine and sip on my coffee. A few minutes pass and I notice a shadow over the table top. " Do you mind if I sit here? The rest of the tables are full." A quick glance around shows me that the tables are indeed full and I look up at the guy. He is well dressed and his voice is kindly, so I nod and give him a brief smile before returning to my magazine. Sharing a table with a stranger is not what I had in mind for human contact, but I see no harm in it and so do not mind. He puts his coffee and book down on the table and as he sits offers me his hand, "Thanks, man. I'm Shane, by the way." I set my magazine down, put on a polite smile and take his proffered hand into mine to give it a firm squeeze. I open my mouth to give him a name in return, and as I do, I actually look into his eyes. His eyes are very blue, a bright color that I can only describe as arctic. They are far from cold though; there is a palpable warmth that radiates from them. Taking in the rest of him, I peg his age to be late twenties, maybe early thirties. He is dressed simply in tan slacks and an open collared blue polo shirt. He is tall, maybe 6'1", and well muscled, not bulky, but athletic. His hairline is receding slightly. Only slightly, but it is still noticeable, and his hair is worn cropped very short. Perhaps he is in the military. He is a very attractive guy, in any case. His eyes are what hold my attention though; they remind me of someone I used to know and care about deeply. Not so much their color as what I see behind them. I change names like I do clothing and was prepared to give him one of the many that I use. I change my mind though, and give one of my more real names. I've used it many times over the past few decades and I feel like I can call it my own. "I'm Paul. It's a pleasure to meet you, Shane." "Likewise, Paul. Wow, you have a really strong grip," he says, frowning slightly. He has no idea. I am not a very large guy. I weigh 140 lbs naked but am probably stronger than ten men that are twice my size. I noticed an increase in my physical strength after the change occurred and have only grown stronger over the years. He is not the first to be surprised by how strong I am, though I am usually more careful about showing it. "Yeah, I'm freakishly strong. Sorry," I chuckle softly. He smiles, showing a nice row of pearly white teeth. They are likely the product of braces, they are so straight. "Quite all right. I'll just know better than to pick a fight with you." Especially since I would win. "So, where are you from, Paul?" "I recently moved here from California." Which is true. I still own the Beverly Hills estate, but I needed a change of pace and scenery. Plus, I had lived there for almost twenty years and I did not want my neighbors to become suspicious about my lack of aging. Really, twenty years had been pushing it. I usually change locales every ten years, fifteen at the max. I may return in a few decades. I really enjoyed myself out there. The unapologetic superficiality was rather refreshing. It was nice to always know where I stood. "Is it that obvious that I am not from around here?" "No, I just thought that I heard an accent when you spoke." "Really? What accent did you hear?" I ask, genuinely curious. I am a master of accents and can pitch my voice in any manner that I wish, so for him to hear an accent when I do not intend for one to be heard is strange to me. "French, a little Italian. I don't know, it's kinda hard to pin down because it is not extremely noticeable." I have lived in both countries for extensive periods of time. "I have traveled around a lot. Maybe that is what you hear," I say. "Maybe." He looks me up and down briefly, sizing me up. We spend the next couple of hours talking and exchanging stories. I find that I like Shane a great deal already and, in my mind, we are already friends. The saying that patience is a virtue that increases with age is a load of bullshit. The older I get , the more impatient I become. I want what I want and I want it quickly. It has been the cause of some reckless behavior in the past. Sure, if nothing much is going on, I can just sit and be content. I am not fidgety. I have very few wants these days, but they burn very deeply. I find out that Shane's last name is Moore. He grew up close to Birmingham, but left for a few years during a stint in the marines after which he decided that was not the lifestyle that he wanted and chose to go to culinary school to become a chef. He moved back and is now a private chef for a wealthy family very close to where I now live. His reason for being in the bookstore today is to find a recipe for duck as they are throwing a large dinner party in a couple of nights. He is unmarried and has a schnauzer named Abe. I find his personality to be endearing. He is thirty one and I can tell that he has been through some grief in his life, but this has not destroyed his playfulness. He has a very easy manner about him. I especially like that he is very direct and open. And his sense of humor, while at odds with my own dry and weary sarcasm, almost has me out of my chair a couple of times with laughter. I very seldom laugh. I decide to give him as close to the truth as I can manage when I tell him things about myself. The age I give is twenty four and I am an investor. The age is, of course, a lie, but the investor part is true. I have invested the majority of my holdings in several offshore accounts under several false corporations. A brokerage firm in New York handles my accounts and mine alone. I pay them greatly for their loyalty and secrecy. I do not tell him how vast my wealth is. I honestly do not know myself, and really, as long as I am able to stay in the lifestyle that I am accustomed, I do not care. All I do know is that it is in the hundreds of millions range. In general, though, I am very vague about my past. I give him as many specifics as I can without giving away too much, but I know that he can tell I am hiding something. I am thankful when he does not press it because I find that I dislike lying to him. Wow, those pesky morals sure do rear their heads at the strangest times. Normally, I can lie without hesitation or thought and I make no apologies about it. Everyone lies. I find that we have a few interests and hobbies in common as well. I am delighted to learn that he enjoys rock climbing. This is a favorite past time of mine that I find incredibly relaxing. He tells me of a local boulder field that he frequents. "The tallest boulder out there is only about fifty feet, so my friends and I don't use ropes, only a crash pad. We just try not to hit anything on the way down if we fall," he laughs. I join him in his laughter as I picture someone trying to dodge jutting rocks as they scream on their way down. "It has been a while since I have been out climbing. I used to make frequent trips to Arizona and Colorado. They have some amazing rock formations there." I also climbed Mount Everest once, though it was not called that then. I was trapped under an avalanche for days before I clawed my way out. Fortunately, extreme temperatures do not bother me much. I still made it to the top and I consider it to be one of the higher points in my life. Few things are beyond my capabilities, both mentally and physically, but that tested my limits and for the first time in ages, I felt alive. It is a sad thing to have nothing to strive for but still feel the urge to reach out for something. There is a saying that the happiest people are those who have ceased to hope. Those who expect nothing and can never be disappointed. I agree wholeheartedly. I feel his hand on mine and look up. "Are you all right? You looked like you went away for a sec." His eyes are full of concern and I feel bad for bringing the mood down. I pull my hand away and shake my head, forcing a smile on my face. "It's nothing. I was just thinking about something." It is a lame excuse, but it suffices because he relaxes a moment later and sits back in his chair again. My ass is beginning to numb; we are way past the half hour shelf life of these chairs. The stream of shoppers coming in for the After-Thanksgiving sale is still flowing steadily and a look outside shows me that it is now late in the afternoon. I marvel at how comfortable I feel around him already. He truly does remind me of Ash. His quick and ready laugh, the thoughtful pauses between sentences; many of their mannerisms are similar. They look nothing alike physically; in fact, aside from height, they are very opposite. The resemblance is still there, though, and perhaps that explains why I am so comfortable around him. I cared for Ash a great deal and still think of him every day after all these years. It is because of him that I exist as I do now. He made me what I am. I should hate him for making me this way, but as I said before, I wanted this for myself. He never could deny me anything I asked for. We continue to talk for a few more minutes but I can tell that the conversation is beginning to wind down. He looks at his watch. "I can't believe we've sat here talking for almost two hours. I wish I could hang out longer, but I have to get back to my employer so that I can have their evening meal prepared by seven." I nod my head and stand, grabbing my magazine. I am a touch sad inside, but I cover it well this time and he does not notice. My God, I miss him already. I think I may have a crush, and at my age. The silliness of it makes me smile. "I should be going as well. It was a pleasure to meet you, Shane Moore." "Absolutely. Hold up for a sec and I'll walk you to your car." He walks over to the register and pays for his book. Since I am not eager to part with him just yet, I wait. I don't have to wait long. Every register is open and the lines are moving quickly. He smiles as he walks back toward me with his bag in hand. "Okay, you ready?" No. I nod my head and he turns for the exit. I fall in beside him and have to resist the urge to reach for his hand. We reach the door and he pushes it open and waits for me to pass before he lets it go. This simple act touches me for some reason. As we step outside, I pull my sunglasses from the collar of my sweater and put them on. The air is dry for Alabama and unseasonably warm. Neither of us are wearing coats nor do we need them. I nod my head in the direction of my car, a brand new Porsche that I purchased two months ago. I tell myself that I do not care for material things, and really, I don't. However, I do enjoy my luxuries and make no apologies for them. When we reach my car, he whistles softly. " I'm so in the wrong line of work. " I hope he does not think me a materialistic snob. For someone who does not want to occasion comment, I really walk a thin line of it flaunting my wealth like this. "It has its shitty moments, trust me. In any case, you enjoy doing what you do, do you not?" I ask. He smiles again. Such a happy person. "Yeah, I really do." "Then that is all that matters. I would much rather be doing something I enjoyed." I say. We stand for a moment in silence, knowing that it is time to go. He looks at the sun just over the trees for a second before turning back to me and speaking, "I'm really glad I met you, Paul." He pauses and looks at the ground, taking a deep breath and looks back up. "I don't usually walk up to strange people in a bookstore and start talking to them." "I know." I take off my sunglasses. His eyebrow goes up. "Really. What else do you know?" He is asking if I know that he is gay, and yes, I do. You don't live for thousands of years without learning how to read people and my skills in that department are damned near empathic. I hold his gaze for a moment before raising my own eyebrow in response. I smile slowly and say nothing. He understands my meaning and releases the breath he was holding, relaxing visibly. "You knew the entire time?" he laughs. I just continue to smile and nod my head. "Well, then that really makes this next part a hell of a lot easier." He shakes his head, still laughing. "I would love to see you again. Are you free tomorrow morning? Say around 9:00?" My grin grows wider. "No." His eyes widen and his smile falters and then disappears altogether. "Oh, okay. I. . ." "Will 8:00 work for you? That would be better for me. That way we could grab breakfast, perhaps." I do so enjoy playing with people. His eyes light up and he throws his head back and laughs, "Yeah, 8:00 will work just fine, asshole. You don't like making things easy, do you?" I unlock my door and sit down. I look up at him, the sun right behind his head, and speak seriously though I am still grinning like an idiot. "I have found that the things that I have to work for in life are the things that I appreciate the most." I reach over into the glove box and pull out a pen and a pad of paper. I begin writing my number down. "And nothing is ever easy." He shakes his head, laughing softly, "This is true. So I guess I'll have to stay on my toes around you." I finish writing my number down and stand, reaching down for his hand. "No. I imagine that eventually you will find your way onto your back." I place my number in his hand with my left and with my right I grab the back of his head and pull him down to kiss him softly on the lips. I do not make it a lingering kiss on purpose. As I pull back, I notice the wondering look on his face. He does not understand my last comment. I laugh, a deep throated chuckle. "Call me in the morning when you wake and we will plan out the day in more detail." I get into the car again and put the key into the ignition, turning it. Pushing down on the brake, I put the car in reverse and look back up at him. The Cost Ch. 02 Note from the author: I chose to re-write chapter 2 because I decided to take the story in a different direction than the one I originally intended. Plus, some of these new choices simply made it easier for me to explain some of Paul's actions. To be frank, after going back over the original chapter 2, I thought it sucked a big one, and though I suppose that isn't always a bad thing, in this case, it was. This is actually the third version of this chapter. I would really like to thank Angel for all of her help! She was very helpful in pointing out quite a few of the things I missed in version 2. Thanks again, Angel! Your support has been great too! I would also like to thank Mary! She has started a great website call Rainbow Community Writing Project, which is home to an extremely talented group of authors whose work really blew me away. Mary also gave me more than a few helpful pointers which prompted me to go back over this chapter and change some things. She also set up a great home page for me, and I would like to thank her again for all of her time and effort. If you are not familiar with the website, I highly recommend you check it out. The address is rcwp.homestead.com and it, like Literotica, is free for people to view. * A Very Long Time Ago. . . "Will you not reconsider?" I speak softly into his ear. Ash is still inside me. My legs are wrapped around his waist and his tall, muscular frame is stretched out over mine with his head on the pillow beside my own. We are both covered in sweat from the activities of only moments prior. More mine than his, though. Up until the final stretch, I had been the one on top, riding and doing the majority of the work. In sex, this has always been my favorite position. Submissively in control, so to speak. I realize this might not be the best time to ask questions of this nature, but I have never been one to hold my tongue when I wish to speak of something and patience has never been one of my strong suits. Ash turns his head toward me and kisses my neck, raising himself up onto his elbows. He holds my gaze with his own for a moment, sadness crossing his face for a split second before becoming blank. I can already tell what his answer will be. "No," he says simply, all the while holding my gaze with his arctic blue eyes. Among our people, blue eyes are a rarity. Almost all, like myself, have brown. His height is another rarity. I am considered very tall, but he tops me by almost a head. No one matches or even comes close to his height. "No? That's it? Just no?" I speak sarcastically. He does not answer and continues to look at me, ignoring my sarcasm. I move from beneath him and he slips out from inside me. Sitting up beside him, he rolls over onto his back and crosses his arms behind his head. He is still silent as he gazes at me, showing no expression on his face. I am annoyed now and sparks of irritation flash from my dark eyes as I meet his gaze challengingly. "You have it within your power to make it so I live forever. Why would you deny me this?" His beautiful eyes are unreadable when he answers, "The cost would be high." I am incredulous that he would speak of money. "Fine." To me, of all people. "Name your price." He laughs, reaching his arm out to grasp my waist as he effortlessly pulls me to him and crushes me against his powerful chest, kissing the top of my head. His hands lift me to straddle him again, as we were in the beginning of rounds one, two, and three, and I sit atop him looking down into his laughing eyes. My annoyance increases at his finding the subject so funny and I make a move to get off of him, but he grabs hold of my hips with both hands and grinds my ass against himself. He is getting hard again, and fast, but I am no longer in the mood. I move again to get off of him and, again, he has no problem keeping me right where I am. Still keeping me straddled atop him, he sits up and wraps his left arm around my waist, stroking the back of my head with his right. His eyes are serious when he speaks, "You speak of price as though you think I would actually charge you." He kisses me softly, teasing my tongue with his own, and my irritation begins to wane. Breaking the kiss, he hugs me to him and whispers in my ear, "You should know better." He tongues the spot right below my ear; he knows the spot drives me wild, and my irritation subsides completely. I am getting hard myself and I reach beneath me for Ash's now completely hard, and not inconsiderable, cock, slipping it back inside of me. It goes in easily; we have been doing this for hours already. I raise myself up, squeezing my muscles along his length, before slowly bringing myself back down, eliciting a groan from Ash. He lies back onto the bed and grabs my waist again, helping to facilitate my up and down motion. Our movements are becoming faster and our breathing more labored. The noise we are making are extremely loud as well, but I have no worry that the guards will enter my chambers, thinking I am in danger. Ash and I have been together for almost three years now, and they are used to our. . . activities. Ash is one of the few that they do trust me alone with. It has been months since the last attempt on my life was made and Ash himself had taken care of that one. I helped a bit as well; in my family, we are trained, and trained well, to be our own last line of defense should our guards fall. But I only dealt with two of the would-be assassins; Ash killed the other six before I even had a chance to help him. If my own impending orgasm is any indication, then I know that Ash will be close to his own as well. I slam back down onto him one final time before he sits up, clutching me to himself to keep me impaled on his cock, and flips me over onto my back. We always finish this way. He pumps himself into me slowly at first, hitting my spot with every thrust, causing me to cry out. I reach down to my cock and begin to slowly stroke it. It doesn't take long for my release to come. Fluids erupt from me for the fourth time that night, covering my stomach and some even reaching as far as my neck. Ash smiles wickedly at me and I make a feeble attempt at a smile of my own, though I am still being wracked by the waves of pleasure pulsing through my body. His thrusts pick up in speed and it is not long before his body tightens up as he spurts his own come inside me. Laying on top of me with his face buried in my neck, he moves his mouth to my ear and murmurs , "I love you." I say nothing, but wrap myself more tightly around him. It is not that I don't feel the same; I do. I am just floored to hear him say it. He never has before, though I have suspected for some time that he does love me, and much as I want to say it back, I just can't find it in myself to do so. To me, such a declaration would forfeit power, and it has been ingrained in me since birth to never give up power needlessly. Regardless of the circumstances or the forum. He raises himself up onto his elbows and looks deep into eyes again. Pushing hair the color of my own out of his face, he must see something that agrees with him, because he smiles widely a moment later and lowers his face to mine. We kiss for a long time before he pulls back once again. "You don't have to say it. I know," he says simply. He then rolls off of me and lies on his back, pulling me close. I twine one of my legs through his and drape my arm across his stomach, my head resting on his chest. Listening to his heart beat, I am amazed that it is beating so evenly and the last thing he said before our recent bout of lovemaking hits me. I am hesitant to ask the next question, especially after his declaration, but I have to know. I pull back, a puzzled look on my face, "If it is not money you speak of, then what is the cost?" ************ It is a quarter after two in the morning that night when I am awoken by a strange noise at my front door. My home is equipped with an alarm system, but I have not turned it on because I do not feel the need. The neighborhood is a safe one and I am also unafraid of being harmed for obvious reasons. All of the lights are off inside, but I am able to see as though the sun were out. When I hear a sound at the back door as well, I throw back the covers and stand. I am naked, so I walk into the closet and quickly dress in a pair of black sweatpants and a long sleeved gray shirt. My senses, like my strength, are heightened as well. I can see the craters on the moon unaided by a telescope and I am able to hear the sound of a leaf falling off of a branch from a quarter of a mile if I strain my ears. My sense of smell is a wonder; the world is an encyclopedia of scents for me. My home is a three story, sprawling brick affair with six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a room set intended for use as a library, a basement that appears to have been turned into a game room by the previous owners, and a large stuffy attic. The closest neighbors are about four hundred yards away and the perimeter of my property is surrounded by a brick wall about seven feet high with a gate at the end of the long driveway that lets out onto the road. The front yard is the size of a football field and well manicured with trees interspersed through it. I have two gardeners in my employ who come out twice a week and keep the lawn maintained and clear of leaves and the like. A large patio leads into the back yard from the back door. My back yard is not so large compared to the front; the property ends about fifty yards from the patio door and then there are only woods, but I do have a large, heated pool with a diving board at one end and a hot tub at the other. There is a four car garage on one side of the house with a door leading out from there and a heavy wooden door at the front large enough to allow entrance to four people standing shoulder to shoulder. I stretch my hearing out like a radar and stand still for a moment. There are three men at my front door and five at the back on the patio. There are also two at the door coming out of the garage. I hear others in the distance. They are not far and I cannot tell how many but I believe they are surrounding the wall around the house. My sense of smell detects the scent of sweat and the faint aroma of gunpowder and, since I do not own a gun, I assume that they are armed. I walk back over to the bed and reach under my pillow to grab the knife that I keep hidden there. Eight inches of razor sharp steel that I have not had to use for a very long time, but I keep it there anyway. Old habits die hard. I slip it into the waistband of my pants. In seconds I am at the side of the house directly over the garage. I slip a window open and jump wide of the house. As I plummet towards the ground, I study the two men by the door. They are both dressed in black from head to toe with bullet proof jackets covering their torsos. Each holds an automatic weapon equipped with a silencer in addition to high powered automatic rifles strapped onto their backs. A lot of firepower for one person. Still in the air, I come to a decision. These men are going to die. All of them. My nature is not a very forgiving one, and I do not believe these people are here to sell me cookies or bibles. I am also a predator at heart. My predatory nature has not reared its head in a long time, but I am suddenly hungry. I seldom feed these days; it is not as necessary as it was in the beginning. Back then, I had to feed almost every day, but over time, my cravings began to wane and it has now been almost six years since the last time I felt the urge. I attribute this, among other things, to my age and am thankful for it simply because the ramifications of killing people in this day and age make it too much of a hassle. I land on the ground a few steps behind them and the slight noise I make alerts them to my presence. As they begin to turn, I leap at them. Grabbing the first one by his head, I twist it hard all the way around, snapping every bone in his neck. He begins to fall to the ground just as the other turns fully to face me. I do not give him a chance to make a sound before launching my foot through the air to catch him in the nose, sending the bone flying into his brain. He dies instantly, his face a ruin, and falls next to the other. I stand straight and look around. I do not have the time to be idle if I am to take the rest out before they begin making too much noise. My neighbors are not exactly close, but I do not wish to take chances. Hearing the soft sound of a silencer equipped gun being fired, I quickly turn in the sound's direction. A man dressed exactly like the two I have just killed has a gun pointed at me and is firing once again. The first bullet, I take in the left shoulder and Iswiftly jerk to the right to avoid the second bullet. He speaks into something at his collar as I reach for my knife. "Target is -!" He does not have an opportunity to finish because I have thrown the knife at him and it is now protruding from his throat. I am very handy with knives; I can hit a moving target with deadly accuracy at better than a quarter of a mile these days. Even when I was human, knives were extremely dangerous weapons in my hands and they are even more so now, with my supernatural strength and sight. He claws at it as he falls to his knees, but he is rapidly losing strength and the knife is sunk to the hilt with the blade sticking out of the back of his neck, so he is unable to pull it out. I hear a voice at the front of the house. "The target is what?" he says in a heavily accented voice that I believe to be German. I tear through the flesh of the wound in my shoulder and dig the bullet out, tossing it to the ground. The bullet hole closes instantly and there will be no scars. There never are. The only evidence of my being shot is the blood on my shoulder where the hole used to be. Reaching down to the body of one of the soldiers, I strip him of his rifle and sling it across my back. I grab both of their guns, one in each hand, and hold them ready as I sprint towards the back of the house. I feel a bit like Rambo and have to resist the urge to laugh. A second later, I turn the corner and do not hesitate before firing five times in quick succession. The silencer does its job and there is only a barely audible sound as each bullet leaves the gun. The bullets find their marks as each man takes one in the head and they all noiselessly fall to the ground. Blood splatters all over my patio and I know that if I do not wash the blood away before it dries, then I will likely need a pressure washer to clean the mess. My eyes spot three more walking around the wall and I take them out in the same manner, causing blood and brain tissue to cover my walls now too. I run across the patio past the bodies and keep going past the corner around to the other side of the house. I see two more and, without breaking stride, I squeeze off two shots which they take between the eyes. I am moving extremely fast now; these people do not have a chance to cry out or fire their weapons at me because all they see is a blur, if they even see that. Which is fortunate, because I do not enjoy being shot. It kinda hurts. Rounding the corner to the front of the house, I spot the three men on my front porch and they look ready to bust down the door. Less than ten seconds have passed since the man I took out with my knife went down. In addition to the three at the front door, I notice two more wandering about the front yard and I see two large SUV's at the end of the driveway, each with someone behind the wheel. The gates are open as well, which surprises me because a code is required to open them. I change tactics this time because I wish to question one of these men. Two of the men at the front door go down as the others did. The other, I shoot four times. He takes a bullet in each hand and one in each thigh. As he falls to the ground, I turn my attention to the two in the yard. They both take a bullet through the head as I run to the end of the driveway. The front windshields only crack slightly as I shoot and I realize that the windows are bulletproof. I throw the guns down as useless. I would throw the rifle down as well; I have not even had to use it once, but it is not a hinderance to my movements so I leave it where it is. Launching myself into the air towards the hood of the car, I kick the windshield hard three times in rapid succession before landing. The windshield finally breaks and I reach for the man's neck as he fumbles for the door handle. I rip away his throat and a shower of blood sprays my face. I jump off the hood onto the ground next to the door of the other SUV. I do not bother with the window and just rip the door off of its hinges. Wincing at the loud sound the tearing metal makes, I casually toss the door several yards away onto the grass. The man is frantically backing away from me into the passenger seat. I know I must look a sight covered in blood as I am with a rifle strapped to my back. Throw in the ripping away of doors and this man must think that some sort of hell beast has come for him. I smell the odor of urine and I look between the man's legs to see that they are wet. I cannot help but laugh. I decide that I wish to question this man instead of the one on my front porch. He finally reaches for his weapon and I am surprised he has not done so already. I quickly lean forward into the car and grab his hand before he can reach the gun at his hip. I shake my head slowly and smile. With the heel of my other hand, I strike him hard in the temple and he crumples. He is only unconscious; I was careful not to hit him hard enough to kill. With one hand, I grab him by his shirt and throw him over my shoulder. Perhaps I should worry that there are others, but I am confident that I have handled them all. I do not hear or smell anyone in the immediate vicinity, but there may be more close by. I will find out in a moment. I reach the front porch and find the man I have shot, but not killed, clutching one of his legs with his ruined hands, tears running down his face. The smell of the blood is inntoxicating to me, but it does not whip me into a frenzy like it did in the old days. A person might think I am a monster now, but really, I am nothing compared to how I was back then. "Please help me," he pleads in an accent I peg to be mid-western American. I drop the man I am carrying and lean down beside him, pushing his hair out of his face and wiping some of his tears away. I can be kind when I wish and I am seldom needlessly cruel with people I am about to kill. "I am sorry, I know that it hurts. I will call an ambulance for you in a moment." He is in no condition to tell me anything useful, but he can answer a simple question. He grabs at my hand with both of his bloody ones, adding more blood to what is there already. "Yes, thank you. Thank you." I wonder at his training and his common sense. He cannot truly believe I will call an ambulance for him. "Just tell me one thing before I do. How many of you are there?" "I don't know. Fifteen, maybe twenty." His face is a rictus of pain and his breathing is getting ragged. Judging from the amount of blood pooling around him from his legs, I believe I have hit a major artery. Dying from loss of blood is not a pleasant way to go. It is a slow death and feels much like suffocation. So I've read, anyway. It is not like I would know from experience. "I need you to be certain. If I am to call an ambulance for you, I need to be sure that there will not be anyone else coming for me." He thinks for a moment. "Twenty, definitely twenty. There's no one else." "You are sure?" I stroke his hair. "Yes! Now, please. . .!" His stupidity is really quite pathetic and I almost feel bad for him. But he did come to kill me so I am not inclined to be merciful. "All right. Let me help you inside." I gently grab him under each arm and lift him to his feet. Once he is standing, in a move too quick for him to see, I reach for his neck and twist it all the way around as I did the first man. Killing him in this manner is a mercy, anyway. I could have left him to die slowly. He falls to the ground and I pick up the guy that I discarded. The Cost Ch. 03 Note from the author: First, I want to thank all of the people who have sent such kind e-mails to me telling me how much they are enjoying my work so far. Since this is the first time I've tried my hand at writing, except for papers when I was in school and they don't count, its very reassuring to know that people actually do like it. Thanks again for all the support! Second, I would like to thank Mary and Angel again. Their advice and help have been most illuminating Lastly, I just wanted to make clear that some of the views expressed in this work do not necessarily mirror my own. You'll see why I had to make that distinction after you read this chapter, lol. Please, no e-mails with threats of burning in hell:) That said, enjoy this chapter and I promise, I'll have the next one out in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Sorry this one took so long, but I'm starting to pick up some momentum. Thanks again, and enjoy! * It is almost five in the morning when I pull up to the Sheraton hotel. The valet is still off duty, so I park my car in front of the large doors before I run inside to procure a room. I have changed from the clothes I was wearing earlier, but I have only changed to another pair of sweat pants and long sleeved shirt. I go through phases where clothes and my appearance are important to me, but I am not in one now. The bored-looking young man behind the desk barely glances up at me when I approach the counter, probably because I look like some punk kid, but I quickly grab his attention when I pull out my wallet and start waving platinum credit cards and cash around. Money may not make the world go round, but it sure as hell greases the wheels and gets it to spin a bit faster. First impressions have a great deal to do with it too, and I make a mental note to go out and buy new clothing. After doing a quick mental checklist of the things that I have packed in my lone bag, I bump that note up to a priority. For now, money will suffice. The clerk makes a good show of seeming enthusiastic and peppy as he quickly checks me into, what he assures me is, one of their best rooms. "I'm sure it will be fine," I say wearily as I slip the card key into my pocket with one hand and pull a couple of twenties from my wallet with the other. I am suddenly tired and have to forcibly suppress a yawn. This is unnatural, for me, anyway. I seldom have actual need of sleep, though I do sleep frequently only because I am bored, and I have not felt tired since, well... I honestly cannot remember the last time I was physically tired. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Chamberlain?" he asks, the false chipperness of his deep voice turning to genuine appreciation as I hand him the twenties. Chamberlain is the last name on the new credit cards and ID I am using. I have cut up the old ones, reasoning that if someone is trying to follow a paper trail on me, this should slow them down. Of course, leaving Birmingham would have been even more helpful. Being a "role model" for the virtues of reason and logic, I am still having trouble believing that I am standing in the lobby of a hotel in the very same city that I was attacked in only hours ago. I doubt the dead bodies have even been removed from my home yet. After leaving the house, I did go to the airport. My jet was there waiting for me, along with the package containing my new identity and money. Predictably, I sent the jet on its way without me at the last minute and asked one of the airport security guards for directions to a decent hotel. The name I am using now is Grant Chamberlain, and I am twenty-six years old. I should dye my hair to match the ID, but I think I would look silly with blonde hair. And I claim not to be a vain person. I did say, however, that I am impulsive when I want something. Reason and logic are cast aside and my impulses take over. I want to see where, if anywhere, this thing with Shane goes. I realize it may seem I am thinking with my dick right now, and perhaps I am. Thousands of years of life have not destroyed the basest of desires in me, even if they come very seldom these days, and, in that way, perhaps I am more human than I think. I still believe that, with Shane, it is more than that. It is rare that my attraction to a person goes beyond physical. Really, aside from the comment about his finding his way onto his back, I have not thought of him sexually. Much. More importantly, he is able to make me laugh and I find comfort in his presence. I also stated that I am a predator at heart and I do not relish the idea of running away from anything. I have always been the hunter, never the hunted. I almost take offense to the idea that it could be otherwise. That said, I still do not feel badly for the men I have killed. Having killed many over the years and witnessing the deaths of countless more that were not even by my hand, I really believe I am numb to the entire concept of death. It is not as though I will one day die, so why would I identify with a concept that is alien to me? I have been this way for too long now and I don't think I even remember what it was like to fear for my life. I might pity humans, or envy them depending on my mood, but I cannot genuinely sympathize. Not anymore. I know it may seem that I am a cold and uncaring monster, if I am to be judged by human standards. But I am not human. Those standards do not apply to me and those judgments are therefore meaningless. I was not always like this though. I was always a hard person out of necessity when I was human. I had to be, due to my position. There is a saying I read in a book once: "On the heights, the paths are paved with daggers." None, save one other, was higher than me, and a soft person would not have survived long traversing the roads I traveled. But I was never this hard. That person seems even more alien to me than death. Really, I think I died that day. I am snapped back to reality by the young man behind the counter when he repeats his question, though a bit louder this time, "Sir! Will there be anything else I can assist you with?" He doesn't look or sound as eager to help as he did a few moments ago. That's twice in the space of less than a day that I have just zoned out, and I worry I am getting old when I think of how tired I am feeling. I am definitely tired. There is no mistaking that feeling, strange though it is. "Actually, there is something, " I pull more than a few bills from the wad of neatly folded cash, passing the twenties for larger, "Could you please park my car for me and carry my bag to my room? The car is right outside the door and the bag is in the passenger seat." His eyes bulge at the amount in my hand. I believe I have well over a grand there, and he looks at me like I have lost my mind. "I can't accept that much, sir!" A wave of dizziness comes over me. I grab the edge of the counter as I lay the money down in an effort to steady myself and I feel the heat spark from my eyes, unbidden, as I look at the clerk, strangely furious all of a sudden, "Then donate it to the needy if you must, just park the goddamned car and bring my bag to the room!" It was not my intent to snap at him or to use my eyes to sway his mind like that. I also lost control of my tone towards the end of the sentence, and I worry that I may have damaged him. It is very delicate work to manipulate a person's mind, requiring a great deal of finesse and control on my part. Some minds are easier to control than others and it usually depends on the strength of will of the person I am trying to affect. I think of it as bending a person's will to my own. It takes a great deal of willpower to live for ten thousand years, even with, or maybe because of, the fact that I can't die, so it is never a question of contest when I match my will against a mortal's. I just have to try harder with strong individuals and the risk of damaging them increases with the effort involved. I only use mind control sparingly these days, on the rare occasions when I hunt and when I feel it is important. I do not, and never have used complete mind control for sex. That equates to much the same as rape to me. I have gone through lazy periods in the past where I have used the power of my eyes and voice to quickly get what I want, but I would earn a reputation as a witch, or some other nonsense of the like, and end with angry mobs of people brandishing pitchforks while tossing torches at my door. This resulted in several hangings and a few burnings at the stake for me, but only because I allowed it. Sometimes, I just wasn't in the mood to slaughter hundreds of people. Certainly no mob of angry villagers, no matter their numbers, could stop me unless I let them. And there were quite a few times I did not. Nowadays though, the villagers are more numerous, their gossip spreads far more quickly, the pitchforks they wield have turned into guns, and the torches have become rocket launchers, so I try not to rock the boat more than I have to. No sense in letting the entire world know that vampires actually do exist. Even if there is only one left. If I had my way, there would not even be one. But the way of how to end a vampire's life died with Ash, as did the way of how to begin one. The young man's eyes glaze over instantly as he mechanically picks up the keys off the counter and moves stiffly in the direction of the front doors. I call out a weak apology in his direction that he does not notice and head to the elevators, swaying slightly with each step. He will snap out of it when he is done with his tasks and will probably be a bit slow, mentally, for the next few days. Hopefully that will be the extent of it. Strange though it is, I feel more badly for this young man than I do for all the dead men in my garage. More, I worry at my loss of control. I do not normally manipulate people so blatantly with my abilities. I have always preferred a more subtle approach when going that route in the past, even when I was being lazy, and I have never done it without conscious effort on my part. As I ride the elevator to the top floor, nausea adds itself to the mix and I sit down on the floor, clutching my stomach with one hand while covering my mouth with my other in fear that I will vomit. I try to focus my attention on the numbers telling me what floor I am on but have to soon clench my eyes shut when my vision blurs, causing me to see double and making my stomach want to leap from my mouth. What the hell is wrong with me? My immune system is impregnable and I have not been sick once since becoming a vampire. I have walked for thousands of years through all sorts of disease, a few of which destroyed entire nations, and come out unscathed. Airborn viral infections, sexually transmitted diseases: none of them can affect me. Sure, an upset stomach and bouts of dizziness are small when compared to leprosy, ebola, and the like but, for me, small things of this nature are enough to shake my world to its foundations. Fortunately, I make it all the way to the top floor with no one getting on the elevator with me. I doubt I would have the strength to stop them from getting me into an ambulance and carting me off to a hospital, where who knows what their tests would show about me. The doors open and I stand, needing the rails along the inside of the elevator to drag myself up. I have only made it a few staggering steps outside the doors when a sharp pain in my stomach brings me to my knees and I stumble onto the carpeting in the hallway. It feels like a small demon is hacking away at my insides, and he has brought very sharp tools. Liquid pushes up in the back of my throat, and I am unable to stop myself from sicking up on the floor as a small blob of blood erupts from my mouth, landing thickly in a congealed pool on the carpet. It is only a little, maybe half a pint, if that, but the dizziness and nausea are momentarily forgotten as I take in the disturbing sight. Obviously, I am upset that I am vomiting, not to mention the rest. That I am throwing up blood is the extremely disturbing part. It is not my own. I know what my own blood smells like. Aside from the smell of the blood on the carpet, which I do recognize, it has already begun to congeal, so I know that it belongs to the man I fed from earlier. Now I am not going to go into great detail on the workings of my metabolism because I do not believe it is necessary to reveal how regular my bowel movements and such are, but my metabolism does work at a much, much higher pace compared to that of a human. It has been almost three hours now since I fed, so the blood should have long since been digested and broken down. There should be nothing in my belly to begin with for me to throw up, and I have never gotten sick from feeding before. Whoever I feed from could be riddled with all sorts of diseases and none of them would affect me. I am not sure exactly how it works. I only know that it does work, and that is enough for me. Staring in horror and puzzlement at the mass of blood before me, I almost do not notice that my head is beginning to clear. The nausea downgrades to a vague queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach and I finally stand, taking a look at the crimson mess on the carpet one last time. My steps are slightly shaky at first, but they become stronger with each move as my head steadies itself. By the time I reach the door to my room I am only feeling slightly queasy, uncomfortably so, but it is bearable, and I slip my key card in the slot, pushing down on the door handle to enter my room. I flip on the light as I shut the door behind me, sparing a brief glance at the large room before heading straight to the bathroom. I turn the light on there as well and turn to look at myself in the mirror. For the first time in ten thousand years, there is actually a change in my appearance. It is subtle and would likely go unnoticed to any eye but mine, but I am so used to seeing the same thing every time I look in the mirror that the irregularities jump out at me like a pop-up book. My face has a slightly drawn, almost haggard look and I look quite pale. I have gone months without sleeping and eating before, coming out looking like the very picture of health. True, I do not look terrible now either, but even these minute changes are worrisome simply because they are not normal. Still studying my reflection in the mirror, the bathroom seems to spin spastically as I am doubled over by a crushing pain in my abdomen, far worse than the previous. I can feel the vomit rising quickly in the back of my throat and I throw myself down on the floor as I flip the lid to the toilet seat up. More blood hurtles from my mouth into the porcelain white commode. Not just a little, like last time. I estimate about six or seven pints of blood are floating in the toilet by the time I am done emptying the contents of my stomach. Probably most, if not all, of the blood I drank earlier. A few more drops splutter from my mouth as my retching subsides, and I collapse onto the floor next to the toilet, curling myself up in the fetal position while clutching my stomach. The pain quickly fades, but I feel incredibly weak, weaker than I have ever felt before in my long life. And hungry beyond reason. I am tempted to dip my head in the toilet and drink the bloody toilet water, but I don't think I can move at the moment and the blood is likely what made me sick. Then there is my pride refusing to let me drink toilet water like a dog, so I remain curled up on the floor. I lie this way for a minute or so before I reach for the toilet seat, dragging myself up to a sitting position. It is another minute before I chance standing up, and I sway slightly from the effort of doing even that. The nausea is finally gone, though, which is a better than a small relief. I had almost forgotten what throwing up was like. I grasp the edge of the counter by the sink with both hands to keep myself upright, taking deep breaths while I pray that my strength returns. I have no idea who I pray to. I do not follow any organized religions and, truthfully, I think most of them are foolish. I actually met Jesus a few times. I kept hearing things about him and decided to seek him out to see if there was any truth to the rumors. There was definitely something special about him and he was a very kind man, but I am not sure if I think he was, in fact, the son of God. I am not disputing the claim, I simply saw nothing with my own two eyes to support it. The love that radiated from him to everyone was very genuine, though, and I felt very... accepted in his presence. I don't think he was a very big fan of organized religion either, based on things he said. I heard him speak a couple of times and the gist of his message could be boiled down to two things, really. One: love your neighbors. More importantly, I think, is the second: The kingdom of God is inside you. His second lesson always stuck with me. Those who followed long after his death changed his teachings, along with the writings that came before, subtly in some ways, majorly in others, and took God out of man, putting him in an unattainable heaven, where he, or she as the case may be, is of no real use to anyone. Their reasons for doing so are only conjecture on my part, but if one thinks about it, the reasons should be quite obvious. As for loving your neighbors, I have, in all the time I have lived, seldom seen more sanctioned hatred come from one institution. Divisiveness and dogma were not among his teachings, but kindness, love and acceptance were. I doubt Jesus would have been very pleased with the church's role throughout history, especially using him as a figurehead to support their claims and actions. Jesus could see his followers twisting his words, even then, and I could see that it bothered him immensely. All religions are man made, and therefore flawed. This is one of the reasons, and there are others, that I don't follow a particular faith. It's not that I don't believe in something, I just don't think any one religion is right. Someone must hear my prayers though, because my strength soon returns, and suddenly, I feel fine. Dandy, even. I look at myself in the mirror again and am more than a little relieved to see that my appearance has returned to normal as well, though I am still extremely tired. And ravenously hungry. Well, at least I don't look it. Ha. Yeah, I would laugh if the whole thing weren't so troubling and if I didn't feel like I would pass out on the floor at any moment. A soft knock at the door announces the arrival of my 'bellboy'. I do not hurry when I move to answer the door as he will not go anywhere until he has finished his tasks. I open the door and the poor young man is standing there, eyes still glazed over, holding my bag out with one hand with my keys in his other. I almost feel bad for what I am about to do next, considering what I have already done to him, but I am so hungry and tired. We all do what we must, though, and I am what I am. As I take my bag and keys from him, his eyes snap into focus and I can see his awareness return, which is a good sign that there will be no lasting damage. He blinks a couple of times as he takes in his surroundings, his confusion apparent from his facial expression, "Wha-?" I catch his eyes, loosing a measured amount of heat from my own, and pitch my voice so that he hears it as if I were speaking between his ears. "Thank you," I open the door further and gesture towards the bed, "Come inside and sit down." The dilation of his pupils is immediate as my "suggestions" take hold of his mind, but they do not glaze over like they did earlier. This is the way it is supposed to work. He is under my control, but he can still think, in basic terms, for himself. His thoughts, words, and actions will be entirely his own, except for my specific commands. The other way is far more complete, but it is also far more dangerous for him, as I've stated before. He does not hesitate to obey my commands, but he smiles uncertainly at me as he steps into the room. I flash him a reassuring smile of my own before closing the door behind him and locking it.