Shall be putting last my novel Vampyre Hunting The Moon on this blog, one chapter at a time, about once a week.
VAMPYRE: HUNTING THE MOON.
Vampyre Eyes.
Stare defiantly at the day,
Look wistfully at the night,
And curse The Hand of God,
Which shows Itself in light,
Sit comfortably on the tomb,
Dreaming of long gone days,
Of endless, endless nights
Spent in hellish ways,
See beauty in a slender neck,
And lust for joy in blood,
Taste the grave in every bite,
Which would steal you if it could.
CHAPTER 1
“Dear Alice.
Much of what you have heard about us is a lie, the rest is an exaggeration.
We cannot fly, nor can we turn into bats. Very few of us sleep in coffins or on our native soil- although we are fiercely territorial and care for the land where we were born.
We do not live forever, and we do age, slowly. We remember our past lives far better than your type. It seems like we live forever.
We do not have huge, retractable fangs. Our canine teeth are but a little longer and sharper than your own. Does a wolf need supernatural fangs to rip out the throat of its prey?
Nor do we all live entirely from blood. We like the taste of human blood, we lust for it, but we do not need it. There is a tribe in Africa somewhere, forget their name now, who live entirely from cow’s blood. Any predator can live off blood if it is used to it.
Sunlight does not kill us, nor set us on fire, and we certainly do not sparkle in the light. It pains us. We avoid it. We are comfortable in the night, as you are comfortable in the day.
Crosses, holy water, silver and consecrated ground damage all evil beings. We are not all evil. A stake through the heart will kill most things.
Our hearts still beat.
Yours sincerely,
John.”
John Harvey finished the email, sent it, then turned off his computer.
He prepared his evening meal- his breakfast- which consisted of a rare steak and a glass of red wine. Then he put on a black leather jacket over his black shirt and set off to work.
He stepped out of his house onto the quiet row of Georgian houses which was his street. It was late evening in autumn; the sun had begun to set and glowing street lights illuminated the crisp leaves on the pavement.. As he walked he reflected on the strange message which he had sent, and the strange events which had led to it.
It had begun two weeks ago. He had been reading the Singles Columns in the newspaper, because it amused him sometimes, when he had seen an advert reading; “Curious student seeks vampire.” It is sometimes said that vampyres are obsessively curious creatures, and in John’s case it was true. He had instantly replied, writing, “Are you quite serious?” a week later the reply had said, “Deadly serious. Contact me. Alice.” An email address had been included.
John had emailed her immediately, writing;
“Dear Alice,
Who are you and what do you want?
Yours sincerely,
A Vampyre.”
The next day she had written back;
“Dear Vampire,
Thank you for contacting me.
I am a psychology student. I am studying people who think they are vampires as part of my dissertation. It is a surprisingly common condition, and one which I have found interesting ever since I read Dracula as a teenager.
Do you really believe that you are a vampire and that vampires exist? Could you please tell me a little about yourself? May I ask your name?
Yours sincerely,
Alice.”
That had been two days ago, and he had just replied. It was all very odd.
Soon he was at the Black Boar; the pub which he owned. He stepped off the street into the cobbled ally way which led to a heavy oak door. He opened it and entered a long, rectangular room with a bar at one end and a stage at the other. The bar, like the walls of the pub, was made of stone. The floors were dark wood, as were the benches and tables. The lighting was low, and heavy black velvet curtains hung in the arched windows. It was one of the oldest buildings in the town and John considered it to be the finest. It brought back memories.
A short, slightly buxom girl with waist length red hair waited behind the bar.
“Alright John,” she greeted him cheerfully.
“Evening Molly,” he replied.
He joined her behind the bar and embraced her, lifting her off the ground. They had known each other for a very long time.
“How you doing?” she asked him as he put her down.
“Quite well, thank you. How are you?”
“Ok. It’s Friday night, just tonight and another night of Hell, then I’m out of here for a few days.”
“Do you think it will be busy here tonight?”
“Hippy Death Squad are playing. It’ll be mad.”
“Hippy Death Squad? … Are they any good?”
“They’re very loud… The ale needs changing, do you mind?”
“No problem.”
John hung his jacket in the back room then went down the worn stone steps to the cellar. He liked the cellar; it was cool and dark and quiet. Like the tomb, he thought, and hated himself for it. He unplugged the empty barrel and lifted it to a corner of the cellar then struggled to carefully lift and position a new barrel.
No super human strength, Alice would be disappointed, he said to himself.
Then he went back upstairs and started filling and throwing away glasses of foamy ale to clear the lines whilst Molly served the first costumer.
Lloyd woke at midnight.
He washed, shaved, paid particular attention to brushing his teeth, dressed in a grey three piece suit, tied back his long dark hair and set off to the Black Boar.
He whistled to himself as he walked down the street, pausing only to look at the sky. The stars were bright and the moon was full.
There will be madness tonight, he thought.
Then he took a long, slim cigar from a silver case and lit it. He took a long drag from it, inhaling deeply, taking a little pleasure in the thought that ever drag brought him a little closer to death.
By half past twelve he had reached the pub. It was packed full of people and the band played Def Metal loudly. Lloyd would have preferred to listen to Wagner.
“Good evening Harvey,” Lloyd greeted his friend. “Glass of tomato juice if you please.”
Moments after ordering his drink, he was drawn to a girl who stood alone at the end of the bar. Other men might have stared at her long legs or her impressive cleavage, but Lloyd was interested only in her neck, which was long and slender.
“Good evening lady,” he greeted her.
“Evening,” she replied.
“How are you on this fine night?”
“Not bad. The band is a bit loud.”
“Quite. May I say what a wonderful necklace you have on, it compliments your eyes wonderfully.”
“Thanks.”
Before he could continue, Lloyd was interrupted by a sharp pat on the back. He turned to see a large biker facing him. The big man was furious, his eyes narrow and his lips snarling under his beard.
“That’s my woman,” the biker growled.
“Really, what a terrible waste.”
“Right, you fucking dickhead- outside!”
“If you insist… see you soon lady, this shall not take long.”
They set off towards the door, but John barred the way.
“Can’t let you do that, sir,” John said.
“Why the fuck not?” the biker grunted.
“I can’t let you fight. If you go out there my friend will kill you.”
The biker looked at Lloyd, who was several inches shorter than him as well as being very thin and pale. He looked at the barman, who seemed entirely serious.
“Fuck off,” he grunted.
“You are being very stupid, go back to your table whilst you still can.”
“Its true,” Lloyd said with a dry smile. “If we go out there I shall beat you to the ground, rip apart your throat and drink your blood. Then you will die.”
The biker clenched both fists, then looked again at the two men who faced him.
“Fuck this… Come on luv, we’re going home,” he shouted to the girl.
Looking irate, she downed her drink and the two of them left.
“See you later lady,” Lloyd said as she passed.
At two in the morning John called last orders. The pub slowly emptied. Lloyd walked out into the night alone. It was John’s turn to work late, so he put the benches on top of the tables and began to sweep the floor whilst Molly got her coat.
“See you tomorrow night, John,” she called to him as she left.
“Good night Molly. Take care.”
“Take care.”
She stepped out into the ally and lit a cigarette.
Molly did not go home. She walked through the dark streets to the other end of town. The street lights only obscured her vision; in the darkness everything could be seen, clear as crystal, in a thousand shades of grey. She walked to Dave’s house.
She reached a magnificent building, which had once been an Abbey and was now separated into many small flats.
She rang the door bell for flat number three, lit another cigarette and waited.
A few moments later, the door was opened by a short, squat man with a shaved head.
“Evening Molly,” he said, clearly pleased to see her.
“Alright Dave,” she replied.
He hugged her, then led her up the stairs to his flat. He lived in what had once been a large room, but had been divided into three small rooms; a living room, and bedroom and a tiny bathroom. The small, shabby rooms clashed with their high ceilings and tall, arched windows.
“How are you doing?” Dave asked her.
“Tired and thirsty,” she replied. “How are you?”
“Glad to see you,” he replied, his hard face turned puppy soft. “How was work?”
“Mental. The band nearly broke my ears and John and that psycho Lloyd nearly got in a fight… Can we please get on with it? I’m tired. We can talk on Sunday morning.”
Dave nodded.
She took a pin out of her purse and stabbed him twice in the neck. Two little punctures, away from any arteries, but enough to make him bleed.
She began drinking his blood, first sucking at the punctures to make it flow, then lapping it up like a cat. All the while he sat still like one in a trance; lost in an act of utter submission, aware of nothing but the heat of her body beside him and the touch of her mouth at his neck.
Ten minutes later she had finished feeding and the punctures had healed.
“Good night, Dave,” she said as she put her coat back on.
“Good night Molly,” he replied dreamily.
She walked home.
He sat back on his sofa, drained yet filled with the quiet bliss of hopeless love. He lit a joint which he had left half smoked when Molly had arrived. The cannabis worked its way through his system, easing the small pain in his neck, banishing the awkward doubts in his mind and sending him to sleep.
It was four o’clock in the morning when John had finished the black pudding and eggs which were his lunch and his door bell rang. Being, by nature, paranoid, he checked that his knife was in his pocket and that nothing incriminating was visible before answering his door.
He pulled the door open a few inches and looked out to see Lloyd standing in his porch.
“Yes?” he greeted his friend.
“Good evening, old chap,” Lloyd replied.
“It’s four in the morning.”
“Yes, but for us it is always evening.”
“Indeed it is, Lloyd, come in.”
“Thank you,” said Lloyd as he stepped over the threshold. “How do you do?”
“Not that happy, my friend. You nearly killed someone in my pub, I don’t like that… Please take a seat.”
“Thank you… really though, I didn’t touch the rotter.”
“No, but you would have done. You would have killed him right there in the alley, I know it.”
“He insulted me.”
“And you insult me, nearly spilling blood on my land… Would you like a drink?”
“Do you have any tomato juice? Cranberry juice?”
“No, sorry, would you like some tea?”
“That would, at least, be hot. Thank you.”
John made a cup of tea and poured himself a glass of red wine, then returned to the lounge and sat beside Lloyd.
“This is sad state of affairs, Harvey,” Lloyd said dryly. “You sit here drinking something red, I drink something hot. We ought to be out there drinking the blood of our enemies, seducing their women, and drinking their blood too…. And you are unhappy because I almost got in a fight.”
John thought about this for a few moments.
“Lloyd,” he said. “You are the most terrible arsehole… I do not know why we are still friends.”
“You know exactly why we are still friends,” Lloyd replied coldly.
“Because we are vampyres,” John repeated a conversation which had happened dozens of times before. “And vampyres ought to stick together.”
“And?”
“And because we have been friends for a very long time.”
“Quite. Listen, old boy, this is why I’m here. I’m off on holiday next week and I wondered if you would care to join me.”
“What would this holiday entail?”
“Off to France to drink some girls.”
“Not in the mood, at all.”
“Come on, when was the last time you had a proper drink?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Blood Hell, Harvey, if you carry on like this you shall end up old and weak.”
“Maybe, but if I carried on like you I would end up being scared of crosses and burnt by silver.”
Lloyd downed the last of his tea and stood up.
“You are cruel, Harvey. Damn you, you are cruel. I wish you a good night.”
“Good night, Lloyd.”
“It is our nature to be cruel… I shall see myself out.”
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