The Nightlife: New York - Chapter 2

She couldn’t stay on the street any longer. The detectives were rousing even now, and the noisy gunshot would probably bring more attention to the situation. The unfortunate boy who foolishly tried to intervene was bleeding to death in her hands. A decision had to be made. His death would be her fault. If she’d paid closer attention she’d have easily disarmed the fat, idiot cop.

“Je suis ici pour toi. I am here for you.” She tried to comfort the young man in his pain and delirium. A Parisian, she tended to backslide into her native tongue in moments of stress.

“Je vais le regretter.” Sighing, she knew she’d regret her snap decision to take responsibility for him. She scooped him into her arms, cradling him like a child. He was light, probably one seventy or less, nothing for her preternatural strength. She easily lifted several times her body weight.

She sped down the street, away from the restaurant and the blood-splattered sidewalk. She opted for the dark alleys, keeping out of sight as she ran flat out with the young man in her arms and her Prada heels hanging by the straps in her teeth. Impossible to run in high heels.

She reached her fourth floor apartment via the fire escape catwalk and took stock of the dying man. He’d lost too much blood already––losing more with every second. She had to stop his bleeding, now. He smelled delicious. Wonderful red syrup stained his shirt, and the raw meat scent of his wound tempted her. She could barely stand to be near him without feeding. Her sharp teeth came out in full, ready to sink into all that juicy flesh. She swallowed down her natural urges and forced herself to lean in close and tear open his shirt. Her mouth filled with venom, like a dog salivating over a meal. Might be helpful. The boy needed the healing and pain-killing properties of her venom.

Forcing herself not to bite, she licked away the blood and gore to reveal his lean, well-toned chest. He had long, striated musculature from work––no iron-pumped, steroid weightlifter bulges. Not an ounce of fat on his young, sleek torso. His high cheek bones and angular features lent him the sharp look of a distance runner. He had light skin with dark hair and eyes, reminiscent of a Spaniard or Italian. Il est très bea. Oui, he is very fine. The gaping wound does spoil it.

The boy’s bleeding slowed, but didn’t stop entirely. Somehow he managed to gain consciousness. His lazy eyes looked up at her, glazed and drugged. Her venom had worked its chemical pain-killer-endorphin magic. It wasn’t enough. He needed a more drastic remedy. His aura was changing and she smelled his impending death from shock and trauma. Her first aid only delayed the inevitable, offered a painless demise.

The only way to reverse his fate was to give him her tainted blood. To make him as she was. Might not work … he was so close to death. She hated to do it, had purposely avoided it for years. If he survived the change, it would create an unbreakable bond, bending his will to hers. She would be his master, and he enslaved––not a convenient arrangement for either party.

She knew the horrors of enslavement to a master. She’d hated every minute. The irresistible imprint had forced her to submit to her master’s every command, her body acting out his wishes.

She vowed years ago to never subject another person to the humiliation of enslavement she’d endured. Granted, she wasn’t cruel and sadistic, not like her master. Until now, she’d never been willing to try this with anyone, certainly not without consent. This life had been forced upon her, with no knowledge of what was happening at the time. The young man deserved a choice.

She stroked the side of his face to catch his eyes. “What is your name?” He smiled up at her as she licked his blood from her lips.

“Aaron.” A huge stupid grin slid across his face. Obviously infatuated with her, yet dying in her lap, a sense of serendipity overcame her. Helping this beautiful boy was the righteous thing to do.

“Aaron, you must listen carefully. I cannot stop the bleeding. Your wound is very serious. I can do something else for you. First, you must understand. If I do this, you will be bound to me always. If I save your life … you will serve me. Your life will belong to me. Do you understand?”

The strong narcotic pain-killer of her venom had hit him hard. That goofy grin of his never quit. “Yeah … You must be an angel. Keep talking, I love the sound of your voice.” High and delirious, his speech was slurred.

“I do this, it cannot be reversed. Is very important you understand.”

He licked his dry lips. “I need a drink. I’m so thirsty.”

“Oui, in a moment, but do you comprehend?”

“Yes, it’s okay. Do what you have to, but I’d like a drink now.” His eyes rolled shut. He was slipping away.

A quick flick of her nails across her wrist opened a lifeline for him. With his permission, she gave him a drink. His face scrunched up at his first taste as she rubbed her bloody wrist over his lips.

“It’s salty.” He protested, but she pumped her fist, letting her blood dribble down into his mouth. Thirsty, he licked at the fluid despite his complaint.

She dribbled more, letting him have as much as he could drink without gagging. She stopped after a while, unsure if he’d had enough. She couldn’t afford for him to weaken her too much.

No going back now. It was done and could not be undone.

* * * *

Drifting through a hazy swirl of pain and drugged happiness with a strange salty-copper taste on his tongue, his body began to tingle all over. The tickle-tingling sensation gradually changed intensity to an ache. The ache began to throb, coming on in surges, and then became a constant pain. The pain morphed to a burning sensation, an inferno raging through his body. He kicked, thrashed, and cried out in agony as flaming trails of molten fire blazed across his flesh.

He fainted repeatedly from the intense scorching fever, only to awake to more agony in his thrashings. He welcomed the periods of sleep, the pain receding as he sank into oblivion. Exhaustion finally dragged him down into fitful unconciousness.

In the midst of his delirium and pain he dreamt of Delia. She smiled invitingly, slipping her hands over his arms and chest with soft little strokes. A Delia far nicer and sweeter than ever before. Then her features changed to a vicious scowl, taunting him, shoving him away from her. Her cute little half smile shifted to a sneer. At one point she even swung at him, cursing him for leaving her behind as he moved on to somewhere else … somewhere she couldn’t follow. Nightmarish dreams played repeatedly. Over and over, more of the same, Delia invited him in with seductive attentions, and then turned on him viciously.

On occasion his mother appeared asking what are you doing? Are you ever planning to go to college? Strange to see her. She rarely ever called and never stopped by his apartment. Why should she visit his dreams? The one person he needed most never showed up. Aaron stopped dreaming of his father years ago.

Then the dream sequence changed. Aaron became angry, violent. He seized ahold of Delia with great strength and shook her bodily. She laughed as though it was nothing.

Finally, his guardian angel arrived. The blonde angel’s smile radiated a sense of calm. He stilled under her loving touch, all concerns erased by her charisma. She soothed him, taking away the aggression, and removing Delia from his nightmares.

The tenor of his dreams shifted. It turned into a tour, a surreal ride through a dark and dangerous video game. He became a passenger in someone else’s world. An exhilarating experience in a strange city where everyone spoke in foreign languages. He dreamed of racing through the dark streets of the night at unbelievable speeds. Living in someone else’s body, he ran at magnificent velocity, with nothing but his feet to propel him.

His guardian angel came and went repeatedly. She helped cool his burning fever with a wet washcloth, but her eyes and touch brought the most comfort. She fed him wonderful warm broth from a cup. He wanted more to quench his thirst. It seemed he could never get enough of her savory broth. She shushed him and assured that all is well, but she denied him more drink––not too much, mon cher. His angel held him cradled in her arms like a baby. At times the fever and pain was so intense, he knew he’d died and gone to Hell, burning in the lake of fire. She held him even when the incredible heat of his skin would surely scorch her.

Always the visions of Delia returned, laughing, mocking him, until his angel arrived to chase her away. He’d been banished to a special level of Hell, tormented endlessly by demonic versions of Delia.

Sometime later, maybe days, or weeks, the Delia attacks ceased. His life had been claimed by an angel. She fought off his demons and held permanent guard over his soul. Delia no longer held sway. But the dreams became more disturbing, visions of stalking through dark alleys at night with a great thirst. He moved swift and sure, attacking his prey ferociously. He fed from their necks, drinking their warm, delicious blood by the gallons––from hundreds of men and women in all parts of the world, all colors and races. No matter how much blood he drank, it never seemed enough. His horrible thirst couldn’t be sated.