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Bloodstorm Part 1

By: WindyCityMadman



Prologue

Buenos Aries, Argentina, September 7,1935, 12:00 Midnight 

She pressed his head close, into the valley formed by her breasts. Her nipples rose to stiff peaks, as his warm breath swirled around them. She felt his firm, male hardness slipping between the moistening folds of her sex. With one hand, she positioned him, while the fingers of her other hand traced random patterns on his chest. She inhaled sharply, as his blunt male hardness pushed into her with delicious slowness.

She always preferred this position, with her on top. It allowed her to control the pace and the depth of the act. His thick pillar of flesh pleased her greatly. He was a man of slim build and short stature in all other respects, save this one, and this had been a pleasant surprise. A little like finding buried treasure, she thought. The intensity of her pleasure soon blotted out all other thought, however, as she sank slowly down on him.

She paused there for a moment, thrilling to the fullness he gave her. He seemed to expand into the very depths of her, all the way to the borderline that nature provided between joy and motherhood. She gazed at him with half-lidded eyes, allowing the tension to build, and then she smiled her most sultry smile. He smiled back at her as he reached up with his hands to cup her breasts, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her body.

She began to rise, as slowly as she had descended, using her knees for leverage. The ache of emptiness he left behind felt almost as good as the joy of being filled. She continued to rise until she felt the ridge of flesh, surrounding his crown, just barely leave her. She waited, skillfully, in that position. She was torturing him in her small way. He brought his mouth up to her breasts, encircling one of her nipples with his tongue this time. She then began to drop again, allowing him to fill her once more.

She decided to start increasing the tempo, the pleasure building and sending fingers of warmth cascading out from her core. It seemed to glow to the tips of her fingers and toes. Her right hand slid down his body, pausing briefly to toy with his nipples, continuing until she reached the place where their two bodies joined. She moved that hand to her body, placing two fingers on either side of the small pearl of flesh that lay between her thighs. The added sensations that this brought her took her over the edge of her first orgasm. She knew that this was the closest to death that she would allow herself to go.

She watched his face closely as she continued to increase her speed. She watched for the subtle signs of his impending orgasm, the beads of sweat on his brow, his eyelids closing tightly, and, most importantly, the throbbing of veins in his neck. She dropped her head in preparation, her long hair spilling over both her face and his.

With a grunt issuing from deep within his throat, his hot seed splashed deep into her. With the fangs that had lengthened in her mouth on the onset of her first orgasm, she tore into his throat. As his blood poured onto her tongue, down her throat, she felt the true joy she had really sought from him. She lost herself in a second orgasm, yet continued to feed until her thirst was quenched.

* * *

Part One: The Calm Before the Storm

"Heterosexuality, or homosexuality for that matter, are luxuries that we cannot afford to indulge ourselves in."
- Jonas Winterhaven, Address to the Gathering of the Third Millennium


Chapter One: In the Beginning

"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth."
- Genesis 1:1

Shady Glen Cemetery, Chicago, Illinois, July 27, 2002,10:00 A.M.

"How many does this make now, Parker?" Mike Ford said in a tone of voice that approached a whine. "Five? Is it six? Or, has this Reaper creep scored number seven? God I hate working freak cases and this one is striking me as freakier than most. Fuck, I dunno, it's like an itch I can't reach; like eyes burning into the back of my neck." He said this as the two homicide detectives threaded their way through grave markers and mausoleums. They were making their way towards a cluster of figures garbed in yellow rain slickers. They both paused to light cigarettes.

"You know it's seven, Mike, so quit foolin' around." John Parker said to his partner of three years. "Do us a favor too; don't mention that Reaper crap 'round these guys. If the Chief thought we were giving Johansen anything to go on, he'd have our balls for breakfast. I feel that itch too. This case ain't just whispering freak, man. It's fuckin' screaming it at the top of its lungs. I wish the brass would get their heads out of their collective asses long enough to give us a green light on this thing."

Political pressure, always difficult in Chicago and more so in an election year, was a delicate part of the equation for law enforcement. The politicians did not want to even think about the possibility of a serial killer stalking the streets; streets that they had sworn to keep safe.

"Once we get the go on this case, then we can throw some real manpower at it." John continued. "We'll be able to focus on some specific areas; hell, we might even get some overtime approved." Both detectives chuckled at the thought of that happening. "This guy is obviously gettin' his rocks off, keeping us guessing like this. He's too eclectic in his tastes to cause a panic. I know it's a pain in the ass to keep quiet about this, but until we get the permission, we'd better not let on to what we've got. I don't want my ass going up a flagpole."

"Parker, these guys here, they all know what's goin' on, so…."

John let his partner ramble on. He was used to tuning him out, like white noise. Sure, even after three years, John still cringed occasionally at some of Mike's habits, but things could always be worse. Back when John had been with Gang Crimes, he had partnered with a guy who had a habit of indulging himself with Mozart and cocaine in the car on their way to a call. That had kept up until some gang banger, more hyped-up than Scott had been, shot him dead in some dark alley.

Mike, in spite of his personality quirks, or maybe because of them, was a damn good detective. His mind worked better under the surface than it seemed to on top of it. If Mike wasn't pissing and moaning about some aspect of their cases, it would be his marriage, his mortgage, his kids, or even the weather. Mike lived to bitch and seemed to enjoy himself more when he was gloomy and miserable. It takes all kinds, John thought, and if that was what it took to keep Mike safe and sane, then more power to him.

Mike Ford looked more like he should be playing basketball for the Bulls, not rummaging around dead people. Standing 6'4" tall and weighing 220 pounds, Mike usually played the bad cop to John's good cop. He was an African-American who, if asked, resented the implication that he was where he was through affirmative action. Mike's clean-shaven head could hold the facts from many cases, simultaneous with almost every statistic that dealt with the current roster from his beloved White Sox. He was a clotheshorse to beat all others and was an obsessive neat freak.

John Parker, in contrast, was your typical Irish-American cop. Maybe, not so typical, since he stood at 5'8" and weighed, on a good day, 145 pounds. However, his flaming red hair, that was always a little longer than regulations allowed, and the splash of freckles that looked, on his milk white skin, like someone had splattered him with red paint, were well known in the department. He also seemed to work better in clutter and disorganization. In fact, the car that they were assigned was divided exactly in half and you could tell whose side was whose.

Some of the things that Mike had just said, John had to agree with. There were many disturbing things about this case, the dead bodies almost being the least of it. He did not like that at all. He preferred clean, simple solutions. Smoking guns were wonderful in his opinion, but this case just didn't seem to have any. No exact cause of death had been forthcoming from the coroner's office, depending on any number of factors, or whom you chose to believe.

The chief coroner had unofficially confided to John that the cause of death, at least the most likely culprit, was simply impossible given the circumstances involved. This little fact, coupled with the complete lack of forensic evidence, left a real bad taste in his mouth. Some parts of the case really smelled like rancid meat, in his professional opinion. These involved some of the coincidences with the location of the bodies, and the fact that, deep down where it counted; John believed what the coroner had told him.

Given the official media blanket on these deaths, the likelihood of copycat killers was a remote one at best. Charlie Johansen had done his best to rile up the homicide squad with rumor and innuendo, but he was really fishing at an empty hole. The city, in the guise of the mayor's office, was leaving nothing to chance. The killings had been ruled, provisionally, as deaths under unusual circumstances. This still left it in the laps of the homicide unit, at least until after the election. When the case finally did get the priority it needed, an entire task force would be formed. Until that time came though, John thought, they were flying without a net.

When John thought about it, it almost seemed that, whoever this was, went out of their way to make the victim selection too random. Serial killers usually selected their victims as if they were filling out a shopping list, or taking job applications. Most killed within their ethnic background and according to their sexual orientation. Some narrowed it down to a particular hair, or eye color. Often this similarity set alarm bells ringing; at least in the heads of the police officers investigating those cases. This similarity was how police had tracked down killers like John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, even going all the way back to Jack the Ripper. They hadn't caught the last one though, John thought grimly.

This case, of course, just had to be different. The victims, not counting the one they were about to view, were from four different racial backgrounds, lived under various economic conditions, they were from different parts of the city, different ages, and to round it all off, were of both sexes. There were only a few similarities that John or Mike could find: where the bodies had been found, the same mysterious manner of death, and other disturbing, but seemingly trivial things. It was just a far out case from start to finish, John thought. What we really need is to get this asshole to just surrender to authorities and we can go grab lunch. Hell, if it were that easy, continuing on the same train of thought, they wouldn't need guys like us.

John's thought took him back to the one thing that kept sticking in his craw. It was like exploring a toothache just to see if it still hurt. What bothered John the most about this case was the manner of death. 

None of the victims had shown obvious signs of recent trauma. They all looked like they had just decided to lie down and take a nap. In one of the cases, the body had been completely devoid of any scars or blemishes to use for identification purposes. Then, when the bodies were opened at autopsy, they would find almost no blood in the body. Never more than a few milliliters were found.

This should have caused major organ damage. Oddly enough, other than the heart stopping, which was major when John thought about it, all of the organs looked healthy. The lack of such damage was probably the real reason for the coroner's concern about fixing a cause of death. He had gone so far as to tell John that it was a statistical improbability that such a diverse group would have such uniformly healthy organ tissues.

All of this information brought up a large number of questions. Questions that no one had been able to answer to anyone's satisfaction. Questions that had been swirling around in John's head for six months now. The answers that he could come up with merely brought on more questions. It didn't matter what he tried; they still popped up in his mind, often in the middle of the night.

"John! You want to call the corpse? Or, you want me to do it?" Mike shouted out, breaking into John's thought processes, as they arrived at the knot of men and women waiting for them, surrounding the silent form on the ground,

"Go ahead, Mike, you take it. I don't think I've got the stomach for this shit right now; you know what I'm saying? "

Mike brought out a micro-cassette recorder from an inside jacket pocket and checked to be sure that he had a tape in the thing. When he was satisfied that everything was in working order, he punched the record button.

"Testing, two, three. Detective Mike Ford, badge number 6264. I am making a preliminary field report on case file 177875-G. The time is 10:18 A.M. The date is July 27, 2002."

Mike rattled the information off quickly, giving the body a cursory once- over at the same time. John did the same, knowing immediately that they would come up with the same results, which still translated into nothing substantial.

"We have what appears to be a Caucasian male, possibly late teens, early twenties. There are no obvious signs of trauma to the body on initial viewing. The body has not been moved or tampered with since it was discovered earlier this morning by groundskeepers. The body is lying on its back, fully supine. The body appears to be fully clothed in a brown leather jacket, black tee shirt, new denim jeans, and black leather construction boots.

"An object, which appears to be a brown leather wallet, is located near the victim's head, a foot, maybe eighteen inches away. The body is located in front of a marker in Shady Glen Cemetery."

This similarity bothered John. All of the bodies had been found in various cemeteries, never the same one, and always well removed from where the victims had lived. All of the bodies had been found with identification that matched the markers where the bodies had been found, but not in any way that made sense. The markers were of people already entombed but they were not related to the fresher body, or had any connection that they could unearth.

There were also no signs of how the victims had been transported. A hearse, John thought, would be a real kick in the balls. It was just another sour note in a symphony filled with them.

"The marker reads," Mike said, continuing his report. "Vincent Chambers, 1902-1956, beloved father, husband, and son. End of epitaph. End of initial report."

Mike gave a small snort of disgust as he shut the recorder off. 

"Fuck it John, they are really dropping the ball on this one, y'know? This perp must know the location of every dead stiff in Chicago. We don't have many more options to try. I think we've gotta run this thing by VICAP." Mike waved to the coroner's people and the Crime Scene Forensic Evidence Collection Unit, to indicate the detectives had finished, for now. "I mean I really hate this guy. I want him bad and I hope he puts up a fight when we find him."

John had to agree with his partner's last sentiment. He couldn't remember a case he had felt so strongly about. Some of the thoughts Mike had expressed, however, John had a problem with, and he had to set the younger man straight.

"Mike, the brass hasn't dropped the ball on this case. This whole mess is as much our fault as it is theirs. We've gotta get the evidence. We've gotta put the pressure on and keep it there. Sure, we know there is some bozo runnin' around out there, getting' his jollies by killing people. We just don't know how he's getting away with it. We have zilch for physical evidence, and VICAP just ain't a hot idea. If the Feds get involved, this whole case will turn into a circus and we'll look like jerks."

VICAP, the acronym for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, was the FBI's computer database that assisted local law enforcement in exactly these types of cases. Another database, the National Criminal Information Clearinghouse, or NCIC, was really only effective once police had suspects to run through the thing.

"The only thing we can do, Mike, is what we're already doing. Keep workin' the back trail on these victims. Interview friends and relatives; maybe somebody saw somethin' worth following up on. We have to keep up the solid police work, until we catch a break in the case. Until we get that break, the only thing we're doin' is this psycho's janitorial work."

"What we really need is for him to walk into some area station house and surrender." Mike said, petulantly.

Neither detective thought this would happen any time soon. This anonymous killer, whoever it was, simply enjoyed the game too much. They had nothing to base this theory on, except for the instinct that any cop develops over time. The whole thing is just so frustratin', John thought, but I'll be damned if we don't throw everything we've got at this guy. He made this a solemn vow to himself as he pulled his pack of Camels out from his jacket pocket and searched for a lighter.

"By the way." Mike said, a grin creeping into his voice. "Did I ever tell you why cops say 'fuck' so much?"

"Nah, you never fuckin' tell me a goddamn thing."

"'Cause, they think if they say it enough times during the day, they just might be able to do some of it when the sun goes down." John could not help laughing.


Chapter Two: Eye of the Beholder

"And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, 'Where are the men which came into thee this night? Bring them out unto us, that we may know them.'"
- Genesis 19:5

I

Park Condos, San Francisco, California, July 31, 2002, 11:30 P.M.

He loved the feel of this man's cock. It fit beautifully in his mouth. His hand stroked the shaft lovingly in the places where his mouth could not quite reach. His fingers, every so often, would stray down to play with the man's balls.

Earlier he had let the man take his ass, allowing him to sodomize him roughly. He had loved the feel of him then as well. Pushing and pulling at him thickly lubricated with K-Y jelly, so as not to degrade the condom. He missed the feeling of a man's come jetting into him. In this insane day, however, it was suicide to do otherwise. At least, with a man he had just met. They had shed those false skins, however, for the oral part of the evening's festivities.

He had met the man at a leather, 'pose and prance' bar, on the darker side of Castro Street. He had been struck to the heart right away by the stranger's strong, good looking features and the rippling muscles he saw under the light yellow, silk shirt. The long, blonde hair did not hurt matters any either. They had struck up a fascinating conversation and seemed to have a great deal in common. It may have been a combination of instant lust and slow liquor that gave him the courage to invite the man to his condo on the ocean. To his complete astonishment, the man had said yes.

Back in the present, his shaft was thickly engorged. He had never been very pleased with his size. This man, however, seemed to enjoy how prominently veined it was.

"All the more texture for the feast later." The man had said at the first sight of him. Larry had not questioned the gleam of desire that flashed in the man's eyes.

Larry's hand moved faster, while he used his mouth to produce more suction on the head. The comparison that darted across his mind was that of a straw, with his mouth trying to suck the come up through him. He wanted to taste him on his tongue, feel him in the back of his throat, down to the very core of his body.

At first, the other man had just massaged Larry's prick with his hand, teasing it until it felt like it was the hardest it had ever been. Then, the man deep throated him in one, swift gulp and Larry had almost came right then. A spasm passed through him, giving a slight shiver to his own movements. That feeling had faded; and then the man had really gone to town on him.


Bloodstorm Part 1



He knew that he was going to blast off quickly, so he pulled the man out of his mouth, now only stroking him. He did not want to hurt the man when his orgasm hit.

It proved to be a good idea, because it was almost instantly after he did that, when he felt the orgasm start. Bolts of pleasure ripping out from under his balls. He could tell this was going to be a good come. And it was. So good, in fact that he never felt him tearing into the blood filled meat of him and start a totally different feast.

II

Sandburg Condominiums, Chicago, Illinois, August 1, 2002, 1:30 A.M.

"I would say that the most pressing problem for the modern vampire," Jonas said to me, in his penthouse condominium. "Is not one of disease, addiction, or any of the other traditional worries. No, our real problem lies in our arrogance." 

I must have looked a little skeptical, because he arched an eyebrow at me; his habit when he felt someone was being critical of him. One does not accuse a being that has seen fifteen hundred years worth of midnight insane; it is both disrespectful and somewhat redundant.

"Hear me out, young one, and you may learn something useful. Diseases wax and wane in the herd of humanity, like the phases of the moon. Only the most foolish predator is caught unawares. We have the heightened senses to provide us our best defense, and that defense is restraint. A mortal wouldn't eat tainted meat; why should we? You were not around to sample the selection that was on the menu when the Black Death was making its presence felt among mortals and our brethren alike! It makes this AIDS thing look like the common cold!" Jonas seemed to realize that he was frothing a bit, and visibly took control of himself. He's honestly not that insane; he just enjoys the attention that his reputation gives him. Having known him for two centuries, I don't see how his reputation can get him more attention and still be safe.

"Anyway," He continued, a little more calmly. "Drugs are also of no consequence. What competition can any chemical enhancement give to the ultimate liqueur, eh? They make the blood taste odd, at the very best." Jonas chuckled saying that. He was always most amused with his own humor. Then, a dark, worried look crossed his face and he started pacing the floor.

"No, the real danger to our existence is all the damned dead bodies we leave behind. I know that, for most of us we only have to slay one victim a year. The others that may die are out of passion or inexperience. Most of us even have the restraint to keep our meals from understanding what they have gone through. At least, the ones that we don't choose to bring into the fold." He said that with a loving tone of voice and his fingertips traced the line of my jaw. I still thrilled at his touch, so many years after I first met him. "It is hard to criticize a fellow hunter for a lack of restraint, restraint that I don't practice every time myself."

"Why are you so worried about this? There aren't that many of us to cause much of a dent in the mortal population, not so they would notice." I said to him.

"I'm sorry; I haven't quite reached my point, have I? I forget that everybody doesn't live in my brain. I'll try to keep that in mind." He smiled enigmatically. "We'll begin at the ending, so to speak; at least, the end of the mortal's life. We'll say you are a law enforcement officer in London three hundred years ago. What would your thoughts be if a body shows up in your district with some troubling characteristics? You might ignore it almost completely, through ignorance. You might chalk it up to witchcraft, or even a vampire. This, of course, is true in the strictest sense. Not a traditional vampire, one that you can fight with garlic and holy water, but a vampire nonetheless, so there is not a hell of a lot you can accomplish. You just don't have the resources to put forth much of an investigation.

"Now, say it is a hundred years ago, in Boston. The exact same corpse shows up on your beat. You'd probably put it down to an American breed of Jack the Ripper. You are moving farther away from the true source of the crime and there is still not very much you can do about the crime. Even fifty years ago, that is where you would stand.

"Now, imagine fifty or a hundred of these bodies dropping in at the same moment. You would definitely think something was going on, wouldn't you?"

"Is that not why we wander so much? Just to avoid those clusters from occurring. We have the Gathering to keep us informed. True, we don't hold it as often as I think we need, but I'm not in a position to argue the fact. Still, isn't that enough?" Yet, I could almost see where he was going with this train of thought. I just didn't want to get hit by that train.

"True, we have survived a long time with what we have in place. The dinosaurs lasted a long time too, though. They couldn't adapt and now they are gone. We have to be more flexible, because mortals certainly are.

"For instance, this problem we're discussing now. There may not be the geographical clusters that I proposed. Yet, with the advent of computers they might as well be in the same neighborhood. 

"In the blink of an eye of my existence, they have made a quantum leap forward in their ability to gather information, store knowledge, make esoteric connections between one fact and another, sift data, and be able to discard the trash from the treasure. National criminal databases, International police records available at the push of a button, these tools now make it possible for that cop in London to put details of that crime into his computer and find a possible match anywhere on the globe. It raises the stakes in the game tremendously."

"Sure, he could do that, but he'll risk coming off looking like a fool." I said, laughing out loud at the thought. "Jonas, the real world, the mortal world, just doesn't believe in us anymore. We may be cultural icons, but we are fictional icons in their mind."

"True, in the modern scientific age, the police would still consider it some type of serial killer. Any type of attention, however, could be injurious. The light that would be thrown on our world could very well be the final straw. We have faced vampire hunters before; I'm sure there are some out there in the world now, in fact. Those are mostly one to one confrontations. They don't threaten the entire race. Could you imagine what it would be like if scientists, the FBI, or a large urban police force, such as right here in Chicago, saw us for exactly what we were?"

With that, I finally realized the full scope of what he was saying to me. I knew our society, my brothers and sisters of the night. We are just too small, too disorganized, too much in love with anarchy, to put up anything like the united front we would need to have to put down that kind of threat. My mind spun with the dimensions of the problem.

"Naming the demon doesn't tame him, Jonas." I told him, using a phrase from my long past childhood. "I accept that what you are saying is a problem, now we need to come up with the solution." There are times when he needs me to play the devil's advocate, or maybe it's my ego that needs to play that role. That may be one of the reasons Jonas and I have such a good relation-ship. He needs the sounding board and I enjoy being that for him. Hell, even after all this time, he still needs me.

"I have some ideas in mind. I'm not sure what final shape they will take, but it does no good for just the two of us to agree on a course of action. No, our first step is something you have already mentioned, Damias. We need to Call a Gathering of the Children, the sooner, the better."


Chapter Three: Serpent's Kiss

"Now, the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?"
- Genesis 3:1

My name is Damias Miller and I am a vampire. I realize my choosing to say it in that manner makes me sound like I have the world's largest ego, or I might be one of those alcoholics. I suppose there is a grain of truth in either impression. I will try to explain that in greater detail in a little while, but first I should explain precisely why I am writing this story.

This reflection is a true account of the events that occurred in the summer and fall of 2002, events that took place in both mortal and vampiric society. Episodes that I was present for, I have chosen to write in the first person. For episodes that happened outside my awareness, I have chosen to write in the third person, to appear as a dispassionate observer.

Those of you who are unfamiliar with vampires, I will take this opportunity to explain some things about us. Those of you who think you know us; you may also want to read this, since we are not all that you believe we are. That is one of the main reasons I chose to write this, to try to provide some information about what we truly are. Those of you reading this who are vampires, and you know who you are, please bear with us. Education is very important, that is, if we are to survive.

The popular media chooses to portray vampires as heartless undead. Heartless we may be, undead we are not. We do feed off the mortal population, but, contrary to popular folklore, we do not kill all of our victims. A vampire must drain only once a year, on the anniversary of his birth as a vampire. Why this is so is unknown to us. Our senses- vision, smell, tastes, and so on- are heightened. These are merely the realization of true human potential. We cannot change our shape, or vanish. We are limited to the night, but only for the first couple of decades. The real reason that most of us prefer the night is the simple fact that we are predatory animals at heart. When it comes down to it, anything that is attributed to us that is considered supernatural is untrue. Except for the stuff that is related to how we feed, and the descriptions of how we are made.

Vampirism is, to put it bluntly, a sexually transmitted disease. Some of us, the ones who are interested in the science of the illness, feel that it must be a virus. Unfortunately, it has resisted all efforts to isolate it. There are those who hope for a cure, but I am not one of them. To try to explain why I feel this way, it might be best to explain the circumstances of my transformation.

I should say that I have always absorbed languages easily. I don't notice changes, words becoming archaic and such. I think in Twentieth Century American English. There are some expressions that I used, when I was younger, that I can't recall. Then again, there are some that I do remember, and use to this day. So, if I slip and use an anachronism occasionally, please understand. 

I was born in Boston, Massachusetts on July 21, 1769. In a day and age of large families I was an only child. I never asked my parents why. My father was a silversmith. Paul Revere was a rival of his; he was also a fellow patriot and one of his closest friends. He died at Valley Forge in that horrible winter, before the Christmas breakout by George Washington, so I never knew him well. I do have a few clear memories of walking along the wharf, or through the business district, before he left for the Continental Army.

My mother was a quiet, religious woman who, especially after the death of my father, sought solace in her church. Her parents lived about twenty miles outside Williamsburg, Virginia. My grandparents were Royalists and they took every opportunity to denigrate my father for the folly they saw in his dream of an independent America. These attacks only increased once my mother and I went to live with them, after my father's death.

It should be remembered that, even into the 1800's, the Revolution was seen as an aberration by many, especially large landowners. They thought things would soon return to normal, that we would return to the fold of the empire. The heroism of those men, the horrors they had to put up with, would not be known for many years after the fact, so my mother had little ammunition to fire back and little motivation to use it if she had possessed it.

If there is anything of controversy in my mortal life, at least as seen through modern eyes, is the fact that my grandparents were slaveholders. I do not apologize for this fact of my life. As abhorrent as I find the practice today, it was the society that I was raised to believe in with my whole heart.

Owning another person as property is certainly not something that I am proud of having done, but it was not as prevalent as modern mythology would have us believe. Most southern planters did not have the resources to own even one slave. 

This is why my grandfather took particular delight in these solid symbols of his wealth. Wealth that I inherited; land, slaves, and other holdings, when my grandparents, my mother and about half the population of our plantation, died in 1788, after an epidemic of some type of swamp fever swept through the region.

As luck would have it, I was away that summer, ensuring that our crops would have transport across the ocean. We grew mostly tobacco and cotton. My luck would continue to hold, in the person of the plantation foreman, he survived the epidemic and agreed to stay on to help me manage my new responsibilities.

It was the next year that would change my life forever. I had just turned twenty and was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the surrounding country, if not the entire state. Mothers were always looking to set matches up for their daughters. That is, if they were not widows and were interested in me, for their purposes.

I knew that eventually I would settle down and provide the plantation with a new mistress. For the moment, however, tying my options up in one woman for the rest of my life, held no particular interest for me. I was interested in finding the most pleasurable activities that were available to be enjoyed. I had been raised in a very moral household, but like many men before me, who found themselves masters of their own destiny, I had a tendency to make my own morals. I believe, with all my heart, that most of my family has taken up residence in heaven. They must be shocked at my behavior, both then and now.

I also knew, very early in my life, that I was attracted to both men and women. I can even remember the first time that I became fully conscious of this difference. He was a slave that I saw out in the field, guiding a plow with a mule team, with his shirt off. I was instantly enthralled by him. There was something about the way the sun gleamed on his sweat-shined, ebony skin. I knew that I had to have him. I must have been about sixteen and, as the young master of the house, I knew I could not be denied. I took advantage of that fact, and of him.

If my grandfather, or anyone else for that matter, had found out, the man would have been killed and I would have been thrashed within an inch of my life. The man pointed this reality out to me, once my passion felt quenched. I never felt more ashamed, not about what I had done, but the danger I had risked with this man's life in the balance. He was an amazingly understanding man, considering his situation. He was the only slave that I freed after my grandfather's death, yet before the unreal change in my life. After I became what I am no, I freed all of them.

Returning to the events of the summer of 1789, I was riding my horse back to the plantation one evening, after enjoying a business lunch in Williamsburg. I had just turned onto the dirt track that led up to the main house, when I saw a figure crossing one of my fields. I could tell, even with the distances that lay between us, that this was not a slave.

I brought my horse to a halt and the figure started approaching me. I felt uneasy, not because of any specific threat that I felt, more out of the rarity of visitors and the sheer audacity of whoever this could turn out to be. It took another five minutes for him to finally arrive at my side.

"I would guess, from the look of you, that you are young Damias." The man said to me, with a bow and a flourish of his cape.

"That I am, though I must say that you have the advantage, for I do not recall having met you, so do not know your name. I must also say that your presence on my land without permission is troubling me to no end." I cautiously made sure that the knife I carried on my belt was in place.

"You need not fear, young sir. I mean no mischief. My name is Jonas Winterhaven. I was a friend of your father, near the end of his days."

This surprised me greatly. I had very nearly forgotten my father, in the atmosphere of my grandparent's acrimony. I sat there a moment or two, before I remembered the stranger.

"So, you were at the Battle of Boston?" I said, still being cautious.

"It was Valley Forge, Master Miller. I am not in the habit of waylaying people. At least, not those who are the only sons of old friends." I could almost feel the ice in his voice and it thawed my attitude.

"Master Winterhaven, please forgive my beastly manners. I am still becoming used to the burdens of being the owner of these lands. I am shamed to admit that I know little of my father and next to nothing of his actions in the late war. You must come up to the house and share in the evening meal with me. I have been very lonely at the table lately and any stories you may have would be a most welcome addition." I swung down from my mount to walk alongside of him.

"Your suspicion is understandable, even commendable, given your situation." He said, as he followed me along the path. "I would do the same in your shoes, save that I have no fear of what any man may do to me."

"I have known many men, veterans form that war, who say the same thing, Sir. Yet, I wonder how many of them actually feel no fear."

"I believe you are right to wonder, Damias. Such a smart lad! You must call me Jonas, by the way. No, it was not this small skirmish that bought me this attitude. I paid for it in a different currency, in a different land." He laughed.

You may be reading this now and calling me a fool. After my initial suspicion and distrust, I simply take this stranger at his word. There are two reasons for this. First, Jonas is simply trustworthy. You believe what he has to say. An invaluable gift, considering what he is. The second reason is that, despite my worldly ways, I was still innocent in the ways of the world. I won't say it was a more innocent time, however. It has been my experience that every age has its own set of difficulties to overcome. Society either comes up with some way to deal with those difficulties or it sinks into a morass of disillusionment and despair.

I suppose I should take this time to describe both Jonas and myself. Jonas stood a little over six feet tall, which, for that time, was a tall man. His height would not cause much comment today. He has a spare build, as if almost every ounce of energy goes to the fires of his intellect rather than his waist. His hands are artist's hands, with long, slender fingers. His eyes are an arctic blue and can pierce you as painfully as any arrow. His hair is an angelic shade of honey-blonde, a shade I have only seen in paintings, which he keeps long enough to either flow to his shoulders, or keep tied back.

I suppose describing my appearance is a foolish game, as I am my harshest critic. Where Jonas' slender looks are appealing, mine seem weak. I suppose I just don't have the height to carry it off. I'm, on my best days, all of five feet, eight inches. I prefer a close cropped look, since my hair is a rather mundane shade of brown, almost, but not quite, black. I would say that my eye-color is my most remarkable feature. They are an arresting shade of hazel, almost golden, rather than green or blue. 




Bloodstorm Part 1



Eventually, we arrived at the main house. Empty now, I did hope one day to fill it again with the sounds of a family, just not yet. At that time, I was only using five house servants: two in the kitchen, two as maids, one upstairs, the other downstairs, and an older male servant as both butler and personal valet. They were well trained and did not bat an eyelash when they were informed of the guest for dinner. Joseph took my riding coat and Jonas' cape. We then adjourned to the parlor for pre-dinner drinks. I poured myself a good, stiff tumbler of Scotch. Jonas declined an alcoholic beverage, asking only for water.

He started telling me tales of that horrid winter in Pennsylvania. Men's feet bleeding in the snow and other stories that may seem familiar to any schoolboy today, but those stories were not common knowledge at the time. I was enchanted by both the stories of my father and the man who was doing the telling.

Yet, there was no way that I could indulge in the crush I felt forming for this man. This was not a slave who could be threatened with death for not complying or keeping the matter quiet. In truth, he could have me hung at the very mention of the word. Besides, I did not treat guests in that manner.

After dinner, I did go so far as to ask him if he had a place to stay in the area.

"If not," I said, praying fervently that it would be the case. "You are more than welcome to stay here as long as this house suits your needs."

"I must warn you," He said with, what I would come to know later, his most feral grin. "I have been known to keep very odd hours. I would, in all likelihood, provide terrible company for you, I just would not want to impose." 

My heart dropped for, having made the offer of hospitality and it being refused, it would be ungentlemanly to insist. That was the role for the lady of the house. I would also risk exposure. In a split-second decision, with no other lady of the house to complicate matters, I decided to risk it and press the matter anyway.

"Nonsense, you wouldn't be an imposition, far from it, in fact. This house has been nearly empty for the past year and I have grown tired of rattling around in here like a dried-out pea in a pod. I had even considered selling this place to my nearest neighbor, if he would be able to meet my terms." I said, horrified at the way I was rambling, but unable to stop.

"Well," He said, as he rose from the dining table. "We couldn't allow that to happen, now could we? I suppose it wouldn't hurt any to stay for awhile. If I become too much of a bother, you must be sure to let me know and I will no longer trouble you. Now, I must attend to some business tonight. I'll return tomorrow morning with my baggage." With that said, he left, leaving me almost gasping from the shock of his absence. To quench the raging desire that I felt, I did something that I did very rarely. I took one of the maids to my bed.

The house settled into a new routine over the next two weeks. Jonas would arise around the time that I was coming in from the fields. We would have dinner together, discussing the events of the day, news from the surrounding countryside, even our own philosophies about almost any subject. I would then go to bed, while Jonas, to my initial knowledge, would sit in the parlor, reading well into the night. I was unaware of how he made his way in the world, but at the end of the first week, he handed me ten dollars in gold. I protested, of course, but he said he had no need for charity. He also pointed out that he had very little need for money, given my hospitality, so it might as well be put to good use. I felt uneasy, but I pocketed the coins.

At around the same time, I was plagued with two slaves running off and several of my cows dying mysteriously. I was frustrated by this and was more worried about the loss of the field hands than the cattle. Cattle could be replaced easier and other cows didn't start whispering superstitious nonsense when one died. At least, I didn't think they did. I was also personally hurt by the actions of those slaves, since I thought I treated them well.

As I said earlier, it is hard in this modern age to justify slavery. It is an institution that should have died a faster death. Yet, I believe I treated them as humanely and decently as anyone could have, given the times.

I became so concerned by these events that I went so far as to ask surrounding planters about their problems. This just wasn't done then. It not only exposed a potential weakness in my operation; it also was unseemly to air any problems of that sort. That is why I was surprised to find that there were similar events happening on the other plantations, to an even greater degree. One of my fellows had even lost an entire field group doing some night work. The concern with this disappearance was the loss of an overseer as well. There were no witnesses to any of these events. Some of the men even talked of doing some night riding to hunt down the runaways. The deaths of the livestock were almost ignored. We just made no connection to these two problems. This led to my downfall, due to a lack of caution, or maybe a combination of arrogance and ignorance.

It was late one night, well after midnight, and I was having trouble sleeping. I was on the verandah, (yes, I realize the image is just too southern, but that is what it was called) drinking some hot rum, to rid myself of the suspicions that I felt growing within me.

Suddenly, I heard loud noises, screams really, coming from a nearby barn. Not thinking, I ran to the building without so much as a stout club. I threw open the door and charged in. The slaughterhouse sight that assaulted me stopped me in my tracks.

The appearance of Jonas, with blood and gore dripping from, what can only be described as a maw, almost made me vomit. My survival instinct must have deserted me, because I fell to my knees and started sobbing, screaming, rocking back and forth. I have no idea… No, I'm lying. I know exactly why I felt this way. At some point, I had fallen in love with this man and the monster that confronted me, now horrified me. I was crushed.

"Oh, Damias," He said, wiping his mouth clean. That did it for my stomach, I emptied it all over the straw. There was only one thing that made it bearable. The carcass that he was crouched over was a cow. "I would have given anything to spare you this sight." He approached me and stroked my cheek.

I was disgusted with myself, because this touch provoked an instant reaction in me. I looked up at him, into his eyes, with tears streaming down my face. His fingertips wiped my tears away.

"What is all this? What kind of monster are you?" I asked, perhaps stupidly, but I was calming down.

"I'm no monster, Damias. Some, in truth most, of humanity, may say so, but they do not have the capability top understand exactly what I am. If you want, and only if you want, I can show you."

"What will you do? What do you want me to do?" At that point, I was willing to jump off a cliff if it meant that I could be with him.

"Just do what you have done with other men, for now. When the time comes, I will show you the way."

Remember, at this time, the word vampire was not as well known as it is now. This was before the publication of Mr. Stoker's novel and well before the current explosion of fascination in all things related to our kind. I honestly had no idea of the size of the abyss that I was about to throw myself into.

I stroked the inside of his thighs and went quickly to what was of greatest interest to me, massaging him through the velvet of his pants. I was eager, I always have been, and continue to be so today. I unbuttoned him and gasped in wonder at what greeted me. Not only was he bigger than I expected, but he was the first one I had seen that was circumcised. 

I touched it, experimentally. It felt the same and I found out quickly that it even tasted the same. He placed his hands on the back of my head, controlling my motion. He grew even larger in my mouth, but he pulled away before I had the opportunity to find out if his seed tasted the same.

"On your hands and knees, if you wish to join me." He said, with an animal gruffness in his voice.

I quickly complied and he pushed into me, allowing me time to expand around him. I groaned feeling his girth and groaned again when I felt how deep he could go into me.

He started slowly, with one hand on my shaft, pulling my foreskin back, teasing me. I forced myself back against him, taking him as deep inside me as I could.

"Harder. Go harder and faster, Jonas." I cried out to him. He took my instruction and really started thrusting into me. I did not see what he did to his body, but when he started having his orgasm, he held his wrist to my lips. At first, I merely licked at what I found there, but something in my mind told me to suck at him.

It tasted like the hot rum I had enjoyed earlier and I found that both of his pulses, that of his seed and of his blood, were synchronized. Then, I realized that it was his blood that I was drinking and I fainted.

I came to minutes later; Jonas collapsed on top of me. In my own delirium, I guess that I had ejaculated as well, because I felt the cooling slick of sperm on my belly, mixing with the straw. My throat burned, as if on fire.

"We should go into the house, Damias. I'll explain what you are when we can be assured of more privacy." Jonas said, pulling himself from me. I was struck by the irony of the statement and started giggling.

I stumbled to the house with his aid. I can't fully put into words the confusing mix of pleasure and pain, the intense burn of sexual fulfillment and a different burning that I later identified as hunger. I was crying a little as I collapsed in the parlor, my mind spinning like a top. A sharp, painful slap to my face, brought me fully awake.

"Don't go crazy on me, youngling. I chose you for this, because I thought you had the intelligence to be a good friend and the stamina to endure the changes you face. Don't disappoint me."

I gathered myself. His words shamed me, because I felt the truth of them, though I did not know exactly what changes he was talking about at the time. Therefore, that was my first question.

"The best way to tell you what you will become, is to tell you what I am. The Wandering People, the Romany, call our breed vampyr, or vampire. Some call us soul-eaters, or the damned of eternity. Those last two are descriptions born out of ignorance and hatred. We suffer from a disease, almost like swamp fever. This disease gives us both gifts to enjoy and burdens to bear." He then went on to explain most of what I have already told you, though he had to explain his most recent behavior.

"Sometimes, a vampire gets caught up in the ecstasy. The risk of that gets larger as a vampire gets older. I call this frenzied nature a Bloodstorm. One forgets his more civilized nature."

"Why, then, was it your blood I drank, rather than you doing the drinking?"

"Because I was creating, not feeding, Damias. This disease is carried in the blood. For some reason, however, it is only active at the moment of the vampire's orgasm. Any other time, our blood is like any mortal's. As you are very aware, we do bleed. Our hearts pump; our lungs fill with air. The nonsense that some ignorant fools spout about the undead is simply untrue. We can be killed, though it is difficult to do so, since the disease heals most damage instantly. At least, it works that way at night. Why this is true is a mystery. You may hear that daylight will kill one of us and at your current age and in your current state, it would. For one of my age, it is only unpleasant, at most painful, to be abroad in the sun."

"How old are you?" My curiosity began to overcome my fear.

"I became as I am in 478." My mind spun again at that, trying to grasp the idea of the age of him. He chuckled at the expression on my face. "If you are careful and wise, Damias, you will one day have the same number of years behind you. I know, because I remember that I was exactly like you, naïve and scared. You, however, have an advantage I did not. A teacher who has this amount of experience and a second father who cares for you very much. You will learn quickly, but for now you have only begun."

I did learn quickly and I have enjoyed much of what I have experienced. There have been times when Jonas and I have gone our separate paths. Times when we have not seen one another for a decade at a time. We have always returned to each other.

We may return to my past, if it is helpful to throw light on something, but for now we will return to the events of that odd and awful year.

Chapter Four: Dark Seeds

"And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be meat."
- Genesis 1:29

I

South Shore Apartments, Chicago, Illinois, August 2, 2002, 9:30 P.M.

He awoke alone and in great pain. The pain was difficult to locate or even describe. The best he could come up with was a comparison to having chunks of ice lodged in his joints. The patches of blood on the sheets, damp to the touch, bothered him. It relieved his mind only a little, when he could find no injuries on his body to account for them.

There were major portions of the night before, which were simply not in his memory. He remembered the bar he had gone to, to try to blot out the memories and the desires. He remembered drinking a great deal, more than he did usually. He remembered the woman who had sat in the stool next to him; and the feeling of muddled surprise when he struck up a conversation with her. 

She had seemed nice; not exactly what he was usually attracted to though. She was a little too voluptuous, slightly older than he was used to dealing with. She had seemed to be very interested though and had persisted in reaching some form of common ground. He wondered exactly how much he had ended up telling her. Surely not every thing or they would not have come back here.

Where 'here' was, exactly, was one of the memories that lay in a black hole of consciousness. He assumed it was her apartment, but he wondered where she had gone. He certainly would not have left a strange woman alone in his apartment, so, he thought, she must be close by. 

He rose, slowly. Standing on two feet did not make the pain go away. In fact, his gut started heaving and he felt like he was about to vomit. He ran to the door that he felt must be where the bathroom was hiding. The cool porcelain that lay behind the door was a welcome haven. Just kneeling over the bowl of the toilet made his stomach feel better and the nausea subsided. With the retreat of the nausea, the memories began to return.

He remembered the beginnings of intercourse. The idea that this had happened astonished him at first. Then, curiosity replaced that feeling. He knew that fear had been his first reaction to her body. It seemed out of proportion to his idea of what was ideal. The fear had left though. At least, it probably had. He recalled entering her, but everything after that faded into the darkness.

Suddenly, his stomach really rebelled and he did vomit. What he saw in the bowl made him retch even more. Bright scarlet threads, cables really, ran through the off-colored contents of his stomach. What must surely be the remnants of his last meal.

His heart started pounding and sweat slicked the surfaces of his palms. Images, not quite defined, flickered on the interior surfaces of his eyelids, as he ran cold water in the sink. The water on his face and the back of his neck didn't really make him feel better, but he was doing something. He had done nothing for so long, apathy had become almost second nature to him.

He went back into the bedroom, the images still present, still disturbing, but more background music to his present concerns. It began to bother him where he was and where she had vanished. He went through the rest of the apartment and found it deserted. At least, it felt like an apartment, and not a hotel room. It never crossed his mind to leave the rooms and check the door leading outside; his mind just wasn't functioning on that level.

It was on this tour of the place that little details started bothering him, the absence of windows, the lack of any mirrors, the perfectly outfitted kitchen, with no food in either pantry or refrigerator. The sum of the weirdness seemed to outweigh the weirdness of her absence.

It was in the kitchen that he found the note.

"My child," It began. "What I tell you now may seem either unbelievable or fantastical. All I can say is that, when you search your heart, you will know I speak the truth. I am a vampire and I have made you to be as I am. All that you know, or probably believe, about the legends are true, so act accordingly. I am not a nurturing parent and I will not explain to you why you were chosen to bear this fruit of darkness. I believe that the best way to rear our children is to allow you to learn your own lessons. You will either sink or swim, but you will do so on your own. My only word to you is that the blood is now your food. If you search your memories of last night, you will know how to feed. Go forth." 

The note was signed with a single, brutal initial, the letter 'C'. It was more the cold, unfeeling tone of the note, than its contents, that caused him to sit heavily on the floor. He did not have to search his heart too far for the truth. It just felt true, from start to finish. It filled things in, like the final few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

What bothered him had been the sense of hope that this woman had been different. Well, he thought, she was. Just a little more different than I thought. He had dared to hope that she might care for him personally, but she had turned out like all the other women, not wanting anything to do with him after she had got what she wanted.

The familiar sense of despair descended on him. He would have to return, after all, to what he was used to having. The thought both displeased him and strangely thrilled him. An unfamiliar feeling came upon him at the same time, however. It took some time for him to identify it and when he did, he was slightly sickened. He began to wonder if his memories were reliable enough to follow. Then, he decided that it didn't really matter. He would follow his instincts and the feeling that was growing in him.


He identified the feeling as hunger.

II

Chicago Homicide Unit, Chicago, Illinois, August 4, 2002, 9:15 A.M.

John Parker searched his desk for a lighter. He would kill right now for a cigarette. He realized the irony of the thought and gave a sharp bark of laughter. Mike was always telling him to invest in a Zippo, but he knew that he would lose that as easily as the dime store variety that he usually used. It seemed more economical, somehow, to continue the way he always had. Of course, the type of lighter that he used was often considered, if found on a suspect, to be drug paraphernalia. They even called them 'crack lighters'. Another irony that made John laugh.

The sense of frustration that he felt was not just from being unable to find a lighter. The case was going nowhere. The remains of Vincent Chambers had, indeed, been as blank a slate as the others and the heat from Chief O'Brien to move on to other cases was becoming unbearable. That fact had been made clear when he had arrived this morning to find his desk covered with files. Routine homicides, if he could bear calling them that, that were mostly drive-by shootings and gang fights.

"Hey, Parker." Mike said, as he came in the door. "Grab your jacket, it looks like we've got a big one brewing. I just ran into the Chief in the hall."




Bloodstorm Part 1



"It can't be our guy, Mike, could it?"

"Nope, don't think so. He said the body was down by the Little Calumet River. There are other things that don't quite fit our perp's profile."

"Then I guess it ain't him. In a way, I'm a little disappointed. If that nut started deteriorating, he just might slip up, give us more to go on. Oh, well, let's blow this joint. A little fresh air might do me good."

The ride out on the Calumet Expressway reminded John of why he had become a cop. You could see every type riding along with you, from limousines to old heaps on their last legs. You could also drive through some of the worst neighborhoods of this city and not really worry about the crime. It was this diversity and the universal need of those people for protection, that had attracted John to police work and Chicago specifically. 

John had grown up in the suburbs, in a little town called Dolton. In fact, where they were headed was one exit north of the Dolton Avenue exit, though John always thought of it as 142nd Street. He had moved into the city for college and a career; he had rarely returned, only on those occasions when he visited his brother. He felt a pang of guilt when he realized it had been over a year since he had spoken with either him or his mother. It had been even longer since he had seen his sister. Nobody in the family even knew where she was living or what she was doing with her life. His family had just grown apart. Their differing personalities, different interests, seemed to have a greater pull than their blood relationship.

He remembered his father, vaguely. The man had left when John was five years old, the oldest of the children. His mother had been left on her own, with three very young children and the rent due. The two clear memories that John had of his father were decidedly mixed. One was dealing with a walk they had taken through Dolton Park. John remembered the leaves on the trees were changing colors and falling. According to his mother, he had said something cute about the leaves falling and breaking their necks.

His other memory was a little darker. He remembered an argument between his parents that had escalated. He could see it in his mind's eye still; his father grabbing his mother and slamming her into a wall so hard that a light switch had broken from the wall by the back of her head. 

It had only been after John had grown up that he had both come to terms with these conflicting memories and understood why his father might have left. His mother was difficult to love and almost impossible to like. John had a suspicion that she suffered from schizophrenia, but she never sought help for the madness that every one around her saw. She had also lost her father at an early age, through death rather than abandonment. John's father always suffered by the comparisons that his mother made between the two men. John always resented the implication that his mother would rather have married her father, rather than the man who had been his dad.

John was awakened from his reverie by the car slowing to exit the expressway. He was not surprised to see the exit blocked by police cars. The number of officers and equipment that were already on the scene did surprise him.

"This doesn't look good, Mike. It looks more like a circus than a crime scene. Hell, the news media even beat us here." John said as he noticed two television vans parked on the side of the exit, just before the barricade.

"Yeah, the chief was saying that they had already blown that."

"Who blew it?"

"Believe it or not, the Corps." The Army Corps of Engineers maintained the Ship and Sanitary Canal. This began not far from their location.

"Well, I'm glad it was those guys and not any one from the department. What are we looking at anyway?"

"Female student from Saint Francis High School. She didn't come home last night after she was at the library. Parents called in the missing report about half an hour ago, after the Corps guys called us about the body."

"Where the hell did you get all this information. Fuck, Mike, I was in the squad room and didn't hear about it." John said as Mike stopped the car and they got out and looked around. There was a forest preserve nearby and this road they were on was rarely used by any traffic, other than trucks heading to the landfill.

"The Chief thought he'd let you stew for awhile. You know, try to get that whole mess about the case out of your system."

"Okay, I can see that I might be a little focused on this guy. I'm still a cop though; I can do the job he asks me to." He said as they approached the riverbank. The concentration of police manpower was thickest here.

A sudden clatter of noise accompanied a uniform officer up the embankment. John was about to ask what was wrong with the man, when the clown vomited on John's shoes.

III

Greyhound Bus Terminal, Chicago, Illinois, August 4, 2002, 1:15 P.M.

The vampire hunter deserted the calm, quiet environment of the bus for the noisy bustle of the terminal. All of his earthly belongings were slung over his shoulder in the form of an old army rucksack. Authorities frowned on his professional equipment being on any form of any transportation. They might not have objected to the crucifix, or even the holy water. Sharpened stakes, however, were questionable, even if they were just Louisville Sluggers in a former life.

He looked around for the nearest bank of public phones and headed over there to do some quick research. He had to find out where the offices were for the Archdiocese of Chicago. This was his first trip to the city in a thirty-year career and a fifty-year life. 

He was almost certain the Cardinal would help him out. Kevin had heard that the leader of the largest group of Catholics in the country was a firm supporter of the Pope, almost a blind follower. This suited his purposes nicely; the fewer questions the better. This type of devotion was rare in this day and anything else was dangerous to his mission.

It was almost impossible being a vampire slayer in the 21st Century. It hadn't been much better in the eighties or nineties when he had been in his prime. He blamed mass media and a general decline in morals for the difficulty. He had to put the blame somewhere and it didn't lie with him.

The media was to blame because they had made vampires non-threatening. Hell, he thought, they even made them appear sexy. He had to admit that there was something attractive about them. You held the same deadly fascination for a poisonous snake; that didn't mean you wanted to be one.

From the time of Mr. Stoker's work to the present explosion in interest, people had always considered them fictional, even mythological. Mankind needed myths from his earliest days. He used them to explain situations that he could not readily explain by other means. Vampires were a way to explain away sudden deaths; to consider them real, for most people, was ludicrous. Kevin knew better.

His other problem stemmed from a decline in religious interest. Polls showed that people did consider themselves good members of their various faiths. The definition of what 'good' meant had changed over the years. 

The most evident change in attitude was within the Catholic Church. Its parishioners were once well known for their belief in papal infallibility. Now, however, there was a great deal of disagreement on many fronts. They even disagreed what it meant to be Catholic. From the use of birth control to a woman's ability to serve the church, it seemed that everyone had a different opinion on each of these issues and they weren't afraid of voicing those opinions any more.

Excommunication was just not the threat that it once had been and it was still the only weapon in the Vatican's arsenal. Kevin knew that this pope had to bend to more pressure for change than his predecessor had faced; he also knew how it distressed the man who was heir to the Keys of Peter. He was faced with the Herculean task of keeping the interest of his flock and keeping the traditions of his Church intact. Kevin usually ignored such trivial matters, except when they impacted directly on his calling.

One of the ways that it did impact him was in the form of clerical disbelief. Although he was armed with an open papal communication that called for any clergy to help him, sometimes that was just not enough. They wouldn't outright refuse to assist him; they would just mumble excuses about how difficult it would be to render such aid, if their 'people' found out what he was doing. The sad part for Kevin was that he understood such reluctance; he even sympathized with it. He wished he had the luxury of denial.

Kevin had been born June 6th, 1952 in Oxnard, California. His father had been a pilot in the Navy; his mother taught elementary school. The only thing that had saved him from being a Navy brat had been his father's death shortly after he was born. He had grown up in Oxnard and had come of age during that strange time that was lumped under the word 'Sixties'.

He did a lot of things in high school that his classmates did. He protested the war in Vietnam and burned his draft card as soon as he received it. His mother told him that his father would be spinning in his grave over that one; Kevin didn't care. He had been looking for that reaction. 

He let his hair grow long and he tried drugs. He was somewhat surprised to find that he didn't enjoy them. The loss of control scared him a lot. This was the same reason he didn't want to go to Vietnam, so it seemed foolish to look for it at home.

He was lucky to get an athletic scholarship to UCLA for his freshman year in 1969-70, for baseball. He was hoping to enter their prestigious student film program. The tragedy at Kent State that spring affected him deeply and when he returned home for the summer break both his mother and girlfriend mentioned the change that had come over him.

He had dated Mary for almost three years and it was a foregone conclusion that they would get married. He tried hard not to take her for granted and it had been very difficult being faithful to her over the demands of the baseball groupies when he had been at college. They were both devout Catholics, however, and he considered his fidelity as much an accomplishment as any he had made on the diamond.

It was also their faith that accounted for their chastity, at least so far. The furthest it had gone had been a little petting under their clothes but with them still in place. Her reasoning seemed to be that it wasn't sex if they still had their clothes on.

His life changed forever that summer. One evening he was headed home, after seeing Mary, enjoying serenity that seemed to envelop him. He opened the door of the two-story home that he and his mother shared. It may have been a premonition that caused him to turn to the basement door instead of heading straight upstairs, he was never sure why he had done that. He remembered the way the door creaked when he opened it.

Kevin shook himself away from his memories and he once more became aware of his surroundings. He noticed a cop looking at him suspiciously; he still wore his hair shoulder length, despite the baldness that was beginning to show on top of his head. He tore the page with the cathedral's address on it out of the phone book and headed out the door to try to find shelter for the night.


Chapter Five: Bitter Harvests

"And there shall arise after them seven years of famine; and all the plenty shall be forgotten in the land of Egypt; and the famine shall consume the land;"
- Genesis 41:30

I

South Shore Apartments, Chicago, Illinois, August 6, 2002, 4 A.M.

He came in from the hunt confused and weary. This whole vampire thing was not going as he had thought it would. His second victim had behaved a little better than the first, but she had still not gone as quietly as he had hoped. The frenzy that had descended on him, both times, embarrassed him slightly.

He had expected to have more control, now. He had always thought of vampires, when he did think of them, as cold, aloof, detached from human emotions. It had always been his emotions that got him in the worst kind of trouble. He didn't have any idea what type of trouble he could find in his current form, but he felt he was sure to find it.

The Sean Cunningham that the world knew had been born March 2, 1965. His parents were abusive, both mentally and physically and he had grown up in an atmosphere of fear and guilt. Fear that something he did would bring punishment down on his head. Guilt that something that he had done deserved that punishment. Sean felt there had been no one to turn to for protection, except his older sister.

Brianna was seven years older than Sean and had taken most of the burden of his daily needs from the time Sean was an infant; She diapered him, bathed him, fed him, and so on. He didn't know that your sister wasn't supposed to bathe you when you were eight years old, he thought that was perfectly normal. He also thought it was normal that she started fondling him to try to get a reaction from him at around that same age. She would have been fifteen when she started this.

The relationship grew even more intense the very day that he had his first orgasm under her bathing touch one morning when he was nine. Sean guessed this was the sign his older sister had waited for. Although, he wasn't sure why she had waited so long.

They both went to parochial schools; Sean attended St. Mary's Elementary and Brianna went to St. Francis High School. The entire day, Sean thought about what had happened that morning, going over in his mind exactly how he had felt. He felt slightly concerned about the fluid that had leaked from the tip of his penis or what his sister called 'his special thing'. He knew that he couldn't ask any of the nuns about this, or his parents. 

His sister answered some of his questions that afternoon when they had returned home from school, but more with her actions than her words. She brought him into her bedroom, a room that he was strictly forbidden by his parents from entering. When Brianna started undressing him, he began to protest that he had already had had his bath for the day, a typical nine year old, in that respect. He remembered the conversation as if it had happened yesterday.

"Don't worry, there something else I want to show you." She said, as she pulled his underwear down over his hips and off his legs. She began stroking him. When he was standing up, she did something she had never done before; she put her mouth over it and began sucking.

The feeling that shot through him was intense. The adult Sean could now identify it as pleasure, but the younger Sean was shocked by the very intensity of it. He watched her, curious once the fear subsided. He could see her bra straps through her white blouse, then he noticed that the top buttons of the blouse were unbuttoned and he could see down her blouse. He was fascinated by the sight of her cleavage, bound by the material of her bra.

He could also see the way her plaid skirt had come up her legs. He looked at her legs, the barest glimpse of white visible. He was somewhat surprised that, when her hands were not on him, she would stroke the inside of her thighs. She even seemed to be sticking her fingers somewhere just out of view now.

The noises that Brianna was making were slightly confusing. They sounded like a mix between pain and frustration. He asked her if anything was wrong. She shook her head, but must have taken this as a sign as well, because she stood up and started undressing herself.

Until that time, Sean had never seen his sister naked, or any female for that matter. The additional flesh on her chest did not surprise him; he was surprised by the lack of it between her thighs and the sparse hair growing there. She lay on her bed and spread her legs, then spread open what lay between them. She gave him a quick anatomical tour; she explained what was expected from him and asked him to lie on top of her. Her hand guided him into her and he was again surprised at the heat and dampness he felt enclosing him. She told him what to do then and it was not long before he felt his second orgasm of the day and his life.

She told him afterwards that this must be kept a secret and, as long as it did, they could continue doing this, every afternoon if he wanted. That was how it happened and it continued that way, every afternoon, for over a year. Then, he could remember a huge argument that his parents had gotten into with her and the next morning she was gone. The only answer that his parents gave him at the time was that she had gone to visit relatives.

It wasn't until he had turned twenty that he found out the truth and it cast a new light on her and the feelings that he was beginning to worry about. She had become pregnant and had been sent to a special boarding school. Sean did not know if the child was his because Brianna had committed suicide before she delivered the baby.

The feelings that were beginning to worry him at this time, however, were his continuing attraction to young, Catholic schoolgirls. It had felt normal when he was growing up, but he had never shifted to older girls. He seemed to be stuck on girls that reminded him of his sister, physically and emotionally on that borderline of adulthood.

When he was twenty-five, he got into his first trouble because of this attraction, or obsession, and he pled guilty to statutory rape. He spent three years in prison and he was now a registered sex offender. His obsession continued after prison but self-preservation had kept him from fulfilling his increasingly darker fantasies.

These fantasies were what he had been trying to drown out at the bar. It was why he was surprised by his encounter with the woman. It was also why he was so pleased with his new status. Now, he thought, he had the power and permission to live out those fantasies.

II

Chicago Homicide Unit, August 6, 2002, 10 A.M.

John Parker threw his ashtray across the room. Thankfully, it was empty when the fit struck him. Unfortunately, in John's mind, it was made of metal instead of glass. It would have been so much nicer to hear a satisfying smash instead of the dull thump that it made when it struck the wall.

What caused his anger was the news that he had received when he had arrived that morning. Another body had been found; another Catholic girl and people were upset now, for various reasons. This guy was on a fast turn-around time, and it was being made top priority. A task force was going to be assembled and it was only complicated that the second victim, the second one they knew about at least, was the youngest daughter of a member of the U.S. House of Representatives. That would bring the Feds in. John knew they wouldn't wait around for a local police request for their "assistance".

All of this pissed John off for various reasons. The biggest one was that he wouldn't be one of the lead detectives on this case. That would go to some political flunky, better at kissing ass than getting to the bottom of things. It also meant that his case would be ignored until they caught the killer of these young girls.

Perversely, John was glad that the Feds would get involved quickly on this case. It meant that the usual jurisdictional uproar would be kept to a minimum. It also might keep them out of his hair and he might even be able to sneak a VICAP profile on the other killer. Two big mights, John thought, but as long as I'm wishing, I've got to wish big.

John went and picked the ashtray up from the floor and lit a cigarette. Mike came in as John was sitting down at his desk.

"I guess you heard, huh?" He asked

"Yeah, I heard. You hear anything about what our role is going to be on the task force?"




Bloodstorm Part 1



"Nope, I guess they're saving that until after the press conference."

"First I've heard about a press conference. They usually wait until the task force is set up and running before they announce it, why are they jumping the gun?"

"I guess you haven't seen today's Sun-Times." Mike threw the paper on John's desk.

Beast Slaying, the headline screamed. Charlie Johansen wrote the article and this caused John to groan inwardly. He quickly scanned the article and found, to his surprise, an accurate description of the circumstances in the first killing. The details were lurid, but they were accurately lurid. John knew that it would only get worse with news of a second death. He had not been to the second crime scene, some night shift detectives had fielded the call, but he hoped the second girl had suffered less than the first.

The girl had been found laying on the riverbank with most of her clothing laying scattered around her, as if torn from her body. The exception was the skirt, which was folded carefully and placed under the child's head. 

The extremity of the wounds to the body, particularly the pubic area, was what had caused the young, uniformed officer to lose his breakfast all over John's shoes. She looked like she might have been eaten alive by some animal, but that certainly couldn't have happened. The damage to her vaginal area was so bad that the coroner had said he doubted that he would be able to tell whether the girl had even been raped, let alone recover any semen if she had been. The look on her face was certainly not one of peaceful surrender either.

All of these differences led John to a firm conclusion. This wasn't the same killer they were looking for in the other cases. This wasn't just a change in scenery; it was a change in the entire psychology of the crime. Where the other killer seemed to be very organized, this one was extremely disorganized.

Another difference was actually being able to recover some forensic evidence. There were skin scrapings under the girl's fingernails and a tuft of hair clenched in her right fist. This was something to go on and something they could use to eliminate suspects.

John asked Mike if he had heard anything about the condition of the other body.

"Same thing with the skirt, I know that. I've heard the mutilation was a little less severe and they might be able to get some semen from this body. My guess is that the first victim was truly his virgin killing and he got carried away with what he was doing. Now, he realizes the mistakes he made and is trying to correct them."

"You're assuming he's an organized killer then?" 

"Yeah, I think so. I don't know why; that's just how this strikes me."

Chief O'Brien, who was a typical paddy Irish cop, suddenly interrupted their conversation.

"I want you two to be in my office for a briefing in ten minutes. You're heading up the task force." The man left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The two detectives looked at each other in stunned amazement.

"Well, will wonders never cease." Mike said.

"Wonderful," John said, standing up. "We get to be the shit stickers on this one. Goddamn, I didn't know my nose was that brown."

III

Holy Name Cathedral, Chicago, Illinois, August 6, 2002, 12:00 Noon

Kevin knelt in a pew in Holy Name Cathedral, praying his rosary. He had presented his letter of introduction to a monsignor, who had sniffed condescendingly when he had first asked to speak with Cardinal Richard Riordan. The man's attitude had changed visibly when he saw the Papal Seal on the letter and the cleric had bustled off with encouraging words, begging his pardon.

Kevin was having doubts about whether he was doing the right thing with his life. It seemed to be a waste of the best years of his life; fighting a menace that no one believed in on the best of days. On the worst of days, even Kevin had a hard time believing it. Yet, he was always assailed by these feelings of inadequacy and waste before beginning any major hunt, so he fought them the best way he could, with prayer.

His mind drifted back again to the summer of 1970. He didn't know why he had been thinking so often lately about the origin of his quest. He usually put it completely out of his mind. This time, however, he took this as a sign from God that there was something back there that should be considered again. So, he allowed his mind to drift back to that basement door.

When he had opened it that day, he had heard noises that sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place them. He descended the stairs quietly; not sure what he was afraid of, but afraid nonetheless.

The basement was outfitted as a second family room. He had used it to entertain Mary on a couple of occasions, when she wanted more privacy than usual. The sight that greeted him now shocked him into immobility.

He recognized the top of his mother's head, but that was about it, since he had never seen his mother naked. He had never seen his mother in the arms of another woman either, but the figure on top, with the largest breasts he had seen outside of some magazines, was definitely female.

They lay face to face, stomach to stomach. Kevin flushed with shame when he saw what his mother was doing with her pelvis, yet he still could not move.

The sight that finally did break his trance was when the strange woman lifted her face, looked directly into his eyes and smiled. The mouth that grinned at him seemed to be filled with the sharpest teeth he had ever seen and when that mouth sank its teeth into the neck of his mother and he heard his mother's scream of pleasure, Kevin fled up the stairs.

He ran until he reached the safety of his room and slammed the door. His mind buzzed with what he should do about what he had just witnessed. Should he call the police? Should he go back down there and confront them? He was panicking and he understood, finally, what hysteria felt like.

The knock on his door and his mother's voice calmed him slightly, although that allowed some anger to creep into his awareness. He threw the door open roughly, expecting a contrite and ashamed woman to greet him and apologize for her behavior.

Instead, she looked glowing with happiness, almost jumping with joy. She came into the room as if she were floating. At least she had bothered to stop and put on a robe.

"Kevin, I'm sorry if we shocked you. Maybe we should have gone to a motel. I was going to introduce you to Cecelia eventually anyway. She has wanted to meet you for a long time."

Kevin refused to believe what he was hearing. His mother sat on his bed and motioned him to join her.

"I don't want you to think that I didn't love your father. I've always enjoyed both men and women though, something your father didn't understand.

I'll always love him, but I've been lonely for a long time and Cecelia came along at a very vulnerable time. To be honest, it could very well have been you I gave into." She allowed her robe to fall open and she reached for him.

Kevin, not knowing what to say or do, allowed himself to be pulled into her embrace. The feel of his mother's flesh pressing to him felt different than any other time she had hugged him. He began to respond to her, as she licked at his ear.

Kevin never knew what caused him to look up at this point. Maybe it was to get a final reassurance from her; maybe it was the shudder that passed through her body. Kevin did look up and saw the same feral grin on his mother's face that he had seen on the woman downstairs.

He broke away from her and his survival instinct took over. He grabbed his baseball bat from the floor and tried to strike at her. She grabbed it and the force snapped it off halfway down the barrel. He thrust blindly out with the remainder of the bat and felt it pierce her. The howl of pain and rage deafened him and he opened his eyes to seethe light in his mother's eyes fade out. He sobbed once and then, perhaps realizing that the other woman might still be around, he ran from the house. He had never looked back.

The force of the memory shook him from it and he looked up blearily at his surrounding. A man who could only have been the cardinal was standing there.

"I didn't want to interrupt you in prayer. I believe you wanted to see me on urgent business?"