This story is the continuation of a previously posted piece. Before you read this instalment, check out A Pain in the Neck if you haven’t already. CW: both stories contain much blood, murder, and other gloriously gory things.
Is there any point in being quiet? As I kick in the door of another addict shack, I tell myself no. Those who should be running know I’m coming. They’d have caught my scent the second I entered the city. And yet, every single one of the five dealers in the place has remained. I smell them. I hear the way their thick, dead blood crawls sluggishly through their veins.
Are they arrogant or stupid? That’s the question I’m asking myself as I step over the husk of what had once been a trendy young man. Judging by the designer logo on his shirt, the lips still plump from fillers, and the expensive shoes on his feet, he’d come from money. Will he be missed? Might his death be the death that finally begins the conversation every fucking person in power is afraid to have?
Skirting around another empty shell – this one a young, affluent male, too – I can’t help but think, nah. Their folks’ money won’t mean a damned thing, they’ll become statistics just like all the rest. I’ll still have to call it in, though. But all in good time.
Why aren’t these five fuckers running from me? The button-nosed Botticelli I didn’t kill two nights ago told me that they’re all of an age where they’ll be able to feel my anger. Killing four of them will take less than half a minute, and then making the fifth talk will take five, max. Less than six minutes, all in. And doesn’t that just grit my shit? I mean, they know they’re gonna die but I expected a chase. I wanted a chase, I need the hunt to make me feel alive. They’re just gonna die harder for this.
Sounds of agonised moaning reach me and all at once, I know why they stayed. They’re actively feeding. There’s my answer. Arrogant little pricks. All that stands between them and a pissed off elder is a two-inch-thick eggbox door and they’re chowing down on…I stop seconds from putting my fist through the door. What are they chowing down on? I only heard five pulses in there, albeit lethargic ones.
I listen a bit closer and hear the pathetic throb of an almost exhausted heart.
And I know it.
The door splinters into a thousand shards against the facing wall. Its shattered surround falls onto the blood browned carpet, taking chunks of brick and mortar with it. Hisses in five different tones fill the dusty room, five backs press up against a rotting wall.
But I don’t see them yet. I can’t see them. He may be small, but the shrivelled old man lying on a shredded chaise, covered in crusted blood and puncture marks, is the biggest thing in the room. I don’t know if it’s his injuries that cause it, or if it’s the shock of seeing me again after more than fifty years, but he gasps, just once, then slips silently into a coma.
One pale form tries to flit past me, but he doesn’t even make it to my side. I meet his eyes, feel my dick harden at the utter shock I see in their depths. He looks down, right at the spot where my wrist protrudes from his chest, then back up again. I tighten my fingers around his heart and hold his gaze as I pump softly.
Thump…thump…thump…
I keep going, watching wonder break on his face, watching his fangy smile get wider and wider. How long has it been since he’s felt his heartbeat this way? I know how he feels. Know what he remembers. I remember it too. He feels alive.
When that realisation dawns on him he starts to laugh. Then he blinks in confusion, shakes his head, looks at the still beating muscle I hold up to his face. If it wasn’t so black I’d let him see me eat it. But I don’t bother, I just drop it on the floor beside his slowly crumpling body and step over him.
Fear is thickening the air. I can taste it on my tongue, swallow it, let it feed me in ways these infantile creatures will never understand. Astonishingly, another tries to zip past me. He makes it two feet behind me then lands on his companion. Can’t survive without a spine.
The last three are as predictable as I expected. Grovelling, begging, moaning, pleading with me to spare them and make them mine. Even though they’re despicable, and even though they’ve insulted me personally, I’m almost tempted by one of them. He’s younger than the others by many decades and his skin is still to turn completely pallid. His dark beauty is alluring, the way his mouth shapes itself around the words ‘please, Master’ makes my cock throb in my pants.
One of the trio spots my badge and starts laughing hysterically, telling me I can’t kill him, I have to take him in under the Supernatural Criminals Act. I’m laughing humourlessly as I eviscerate him. The black blood and organs that spill down my trousers aren’t warm, but they are wet. I breathe it all in, wishing I could slip my hand into my pocket. My cock needs a reassuring squeeze to placate it until I’m done here.
When the fourth one notices the twitching behind my zip he lunges forward, panting, trying to get my cock out of my pants and in his mouth before I finish him. The sound of his neck breaking makes my balls ache.
That leaves one.
I point at the old soul on the chaise. “You’re dying for that,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“Good. There’s nothing stopping you from telling me where I can find Joshua Katz then, is there?”
Just who the fuck is this Joshua Katz to be making this punk look more afraid of what might be behind him than he is of what’s right in front of him? He shakes his head so fast drops of blood – of Eamon’s blood – splatter my shirt.
I know I should wait for an answer, but I don’t. The scent of Eamon on me turns my vision red and I lash out, tearing, roaring, only realising that someone’s entered in the room when I see her laid out on the floor beside my old flame.
I don’t know why I did it. My eyes are fixed on Eamon, watching the dirty bite marks that cover his torso and thighs heal, watching his skin swell as the inside of his body grows to fit the outside. For a moment he turns a healthy shade of pink and then the pallor sets in.
I hold my breath as his eyes start to flick around behind their lids. Puncture my lip with a fang when his fingers shoot up to the only bite mark that remains. The one on his neck. The one I just put there. He licks my blood off his lips, turns to the woman beside him and hisses.
I don’t expect her to scream, and she doesn’t. She just smiles, pulling her hair to one side to expose the column of her neck. Faded bite marks give it an almost pretty, lace-like pattern, but Eamon doesn’t give a fuck about that. He lunges at her, holds her surprisingly gently, and strikes.
I want to stroke my cock. His laboured breathing, throaty moaning, soft, continuous slurping makes me want to get it out and stick it in him, in her, in them both one after the other. But I won’t touch her, because I won’t turn her, and the dead can’t give their consent. Eamon, though. Him I’ll fuck. If he’ll let me.
When he finishes feeding he lays his first victim gently on the floor. Seeing that she died with an orgasmic smile on her lips doesn’t make me feel better, but I tell myself that it does. I’m adept at lying to myself.
As happens with every first feed, Eamon throws up. Every fledgeling drains an entire body their first time and no-one can keep upward of three litres of blood in their belly. This stuff is warm. It’s still alive. I feel it soaking into my trousers, my socks, spreading over my skin until every inch that it touches feels almost real.
Eamon tries to speak to me but fails. He’s too stunned, too disoriented. And he’s aroused. Just like it had me, the sensation of his victim’s blood running down his body has turned him on. I need permission. Just a word, a gesture, a nod, anything that tells me there’s a yes behind all that confusion.
“Vincent,” he says, and half laughs in awe.
That’s all I need. My cock is in my hand and my mouth is sinking down the length of his. It’s been so long but I remember the taste of his skin. My tongue explores all of its old haunts. The extra wrinkly foreskin, the little slit in the tip of the shiny head that makes him tighten his ass cheeks and shake. The hair that covers his balls is wirier than it used to be, and the skin of his thighs looser, but he’s still my beloved Eamon.
I’m humping the floor. Slipping around in cooling blood, rubbing it on Eamon’s dick then sucking it off, growling like a wild thing that doesn’t ever want to share its food. This is insane, it’s the last thing I expected I would do when I journeyed here. In fact, it’s something I never thought I’d get to do again, I’d thought Eamon to be long dead.
But here he is. Slouched against the side of a ruined chaise, pulling my hair, forcing my head down until my lips are tight around the base of his cock. He’s moaning my name, grinding against my face, coming with an unearthly howl, right down my throat.
The taste of his come triggers me and my dick starts to spurt. Over and over, almost never-ending, until a splodge of mucousy white floats on top of a puddle of red.
Eamon tilts my head and laughs in bemusement. “What the hell, Vincent?!”
Dammit, he’s always been able to make me feel so fucking awkward, it’s like it’s a talent of his. I look away, rummaging around in my head for something profound to say.
“I’m looking for Joshua Katz,” I stammer awkwardly. “Do you, uh, do you know him?”
Eamon rolls his eyes and licks a streak of blood from his finger. “Yes, I do, actually, and I’ll tell you in good time.” He glances at the carnage behind me and raises an eyebrow. “But first, I believe you have some explaining to do, old friend.”
**To continue this series, click here**
