It was the night for a kill. Need burned in me—fever hot. . . .the thirst of desire is never filled nor fully satisfied.¹ Anticipation ran along each nerve like electricity until I felt I must be glowing in the dark. The ideal victim would be a big man, a ruffian who wouldn't go down without a fight.

Neon beer signs flashed in the window of the squat concrete block building. Parked beside a dented pickup, my XKE looked ill-at-ease. A guy with shoulder-length hair was bound to stand out in the crowd at the Dew Drop Inn. I shook my hair to its natural fullness, opened the door and stepped into the beer-scented pit of raucous darkness. Heads lifted. Frowns formed under cowboy hats. Eyes watched as I crossed to the bar. Yes, if my hair didn't attract an immediate fight, my full-sleeved shirt and black jeans would. It was only a matter of time.

Music thundered over my excitement. I took a seat at the bar and everyone went back to doing what they'd been doing before I raised their heads. Beer in hand, I shopped the early evening crowd. I didn't have long to wait before a victim came to me. A girl crawled up on the stool next to mine and wriggled until I looked at her. She was far from the perfect prey. Scrawny little thing. My thumb to little finger would circle her fishnet thigh.

"Hello." She propped her elbows on the bar.

Simple enough. Glad she didn't open conversation with some supposedly clever remark, I returned the favor. "Hello."

"You're not from Charleston." Her head moved the slender column of her neck. "You certainly don't look like it."

"No." I smiled politely, but I really wished she go away. Politeness is an English malady. "England."

"I knew it." She nodded sagely. "The way you said ‘hallo' instead of ‘hello.'" She gulped the last swallow of her drink. "Buy me a drink?"

She was drinking straight vodka in astonishing quantities. The thought of becoming intoxicated didn't appeal to me. Glancing around the room, I hoped yet to satisfy my lust for physical battle. The Dew Drop Inn was a natural habitat for lions, tigers and murderous beasts of prey dressed in denim and leather.

Light as a bird, her hand landed on my knee. "I'm drinking vodka martinis." In her over-the-knee boots, minuscule black skirt and matching leather jacket, she smelled like a clean saddle. It endeared her to me somewhat.

I gave her my most charming smile, but suspected she was well past caring. "Try a gimlet—vodka and Roses' lime."

"Nah. Just plain vodka." She called the bartender by name and ordered her usual. I watched in amazement as she downed the fresh drink. "Want to dance?"

She rose unsteadily, led me into the sweating crowd and wrapped her arms around my neck, applying her body to the length of me. The band wailed sad songs without a tune while we danced on the Dixie Flag painted on the floor. She tilted her little heart-shaped face to offer her mouth for a kiss. Her breath wore the scent of pure alcohol like a whore's cheap perfume. I let my lips rest briefly on her cheek. But the craving was rapidly outdistancing my fastidious tastes.

"Don't you want to kiss me?" Moving provocatively against me, she ran her fingers under my hair to cradle my head. "Beautiful hair. I like guys with long hair. I like blonds best."

Her desperation echoed in me. I knew the hunger glittering in her blue eyes. But this poor child's craving was a thing beyond satisfaction—while mine would soon be appeased. She didn't know she hungered, much less how to feed the beast. The futility of her brief sad life swept over me, clinching my decision. She wanted to die.

My hands drifted down the soft leather skirt, which fit her like a second skin, caressing, pressing her thin hips against mine. She rotated her hips slowly, stroking, teasing. Weary of fighting the lust she coaxed to the point of no return, I was ready to go. I breathed into her clean hair.

"Come home with me."

"Sure thing. Let me finish my drink."

"You did." I kissed her ear, nibbling at the tender lobe. I took her elbow and steadied her as we made our way to the door.

"Hey, Hon." A drunk staggered into me and grabbed my free arm. "Oops. Sorry, fellow. Couldn't tell if you was a boy or a girl." He winked at his muscle-bound buddy.

I looked him up and down. "Why don't you put your hand in my pocket and find out."

"If I wasn't drunk, I'd rearrange your face, pretty boy."

"Pardon me?" Brow arched, I leaned closer. The brute couldn't be much bigger than a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. I gazed up at him and batted my eyes. "I can't hear you for my knees knocking."

He must have sensed danger or seen something in my eyes. With a wave of his hand, he backed away. But the bastard wolf-whistled as I escorted my prize from the dingy little bar. I considered calling him out and ripping his head off, but opted for the young girl with dyed black hair, troubled blue eyes and no reason to live.

She whistled when she staggered into the car door before I could open it. "Some wheels. What do you do for a living? Sell drugs?"

I laughed. How do you tell them you sleep all day, hunt them all night, and that's all you do for a living? "I'm a pianist."

"You must make a lot of money." She stroked the leather seat. "What band?"

"Concert pianist."

"No kidding." Her eyes were blank. "Famous, huh?" She began unbuttoning her blouse. "Do you want to do it to me?"

My smile faded. We sat in the roaring silence of the city and tried to divine from each what the other might want. Her despair worked a sleepy sadness upon me. With one finger, I brushed her cheek. "Is that what you want, Sheila?"

She stroked my hand resting on the gear lever. "Sure, you look like a good lay. Where're you taking me?"

"I live on The Battery." I turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled.

"Sure!" She tossed her head. "Everybody who lives on The Battery comes here. Proper country club! Get over it, Handsome."

Sheila winked a silver-coated eyelid. Her eyes were wide and round. Beautiful eyes that should have been an innocent blue, but no innocence survived behind the silver shades drawn against the world. "Cool car. Can we put the top back? Is it a Corvette?"

"Jaguar." I released the clips, folded down the window and settled the top.

"I like your accent."

"I don't have an accent." I smiled, thinking it a gift. "You do."

She laughed for the first time. Her smile, like her eyes, once possessed innocent beguilement. I had found Sheila's redeeming social value.

"Why did you pick me up?" Fear flitted across her face. "You ain't the one who killed those two girls down by the river?"

"No," I tendered her an angelic grin. "I'm taking you home for dinner." I bent my head and my hair covered the wicked amusement that the truth inspired. "When did you last eat, Sheila?"

She cut me a look between lashes heavy with mascara. "How did you know my name?"

"You told me." I lied.

As I drew up the hand brake in my driveway, rain splattered the window screen. I hurried with the top while Sheila shielded her head with her arms. I had this vision of my emaciated girlfriend melting down the drain plugs in the floorboard.

She tapped me playfully on the arm. "What're you laughing at?"

I shook my head. Her smile blurred as she draped a thin arm around my shoulders. Grabbing my raincoat from behind the seat, I wrapped it around her. I didn't want the neighbors to see the girl who went inside my home one summer evening never to emerge. We hurried through the garden to the side entrance. Minutes later, a grumbling Avery roused himself to prepare food for Sheila. He grilled a chicken breast and stir-fried Chinese vegetables. I sent him back to bed and served my guest myself.

"Thanks, man. Nice joint. How many servants you got? Your butler's awful grumpy," she said with her mouth full.

I sat across the table from her. "Just the one. Just Avery."

She cut chicken strips with her fork. "Not going to eat?"

I stopped flipping the pages of a horse magazine to glance at her. "Not now."

"You're a doll." She leaned across to run her fingertips down my chest. "Guess women tell you that all the time."

Forcing myself not to flinch from her touch, I smiled, caught her hand and kissed the wandering fingertips. Yes, women did tell me that all the time, but the one I wanted never seemed to notice. Love is a cruel game, and I was far more practiced with her sister Lust. But love reared up before my eyes—a vision of gingery hair and eyes the color of old amethyst. Isabeau, where are you tonight? Do you sleep in another man's arms?

When I released Sheila's hand, she began toying with the buttons on my shirt. "That's a real different shirt."

My thoughts rode a roller coaster of desire as I watched her heart pump blood up the right carotid artery, through the brain, to free fall down the jugular.

She sighed. "You don't talk very much. Don't you like me?"

"I'm sorry, Sheila. The shirt came from a boutique on Melrose Avenue in L.A. It's much the same as shirts men wore in the late seventeenth century."

"Really! Were you alive then?" She thought that was terribly funny.

"Care for another drink?" I had resigned myself to intoxication. Sheila deserved her last waltz with her best and only friend. I went to the liquor cabinet, chose a bottle of Absolut and poured the clear liquid into a high ball glass.

She accepted the drink, cocked her head and gazed at me through her lashes. "I'm good. I really am. But since you're so cute, I'll let you have it cheap." She pinched my cheek. The admiration in her eyes was warmer than her touch. "Say, why does a guy who looks like you need a whore? I guess you turn down more than most guys dream about." She swallowed. "Girls don't mind asking nowadays, do they?" Suddenly, she froze, staring at me with frightened eyes. "You don't want me to do anything kinky, do you? I'm not into pain. Got enough of it in this old life anyhow. Don't need it in bed."

"I won't hurt you. I promise. Do you have family?" Every now and then I caught the flash of a child's face in her mind. Poor drunken Sheila might be a mother. Scary thought.

"Momma's in Savannah. I think my old man's still in jail." A winsome smile returned Sheila's youth for a moment. "I got a kid in a foster home. HRS took him away cause I forgot to buy toothpaste one week." The smile vanished. "I don't know why I told you that. Forget it. I try to forget all the time." She tossed off the last of the vodka. "Do you have things to forget, Gorgeous?"

"One or two." My smile felt crooked, my face tight.

Her expression grew very serious, "You weren't at all afraid of that big guy in the bar. They say he killed a man with his bare hands. That's reason enough for me." Her eyes were wide. She shuddered deliciously.

"I can take care of myself." I shrugged.

Frowning, she nodded. "I bet you can." Perhaps, she sensed the truth. "You've got that stormy look in your eyes. My Pa always said never cross a man with stormy eyes."

After I soaked Sheila in bubble bath for half-an-hour, she was more palatable. My evening's entertainment possessed none of the makings of a fine courtesan. Sheila was flat-chested and far too thin from starvation and alcohol abuse. With her clipped black curls, she looked like a young boy as she paused in the doorway. "I wish it was winter so we could have a fire in that fireplace in the bathroom."

The fireplace opened between the master bedroom and bath. I indicated the controller by the door. "Turn down the thermostat and strike a match. The fire is laid."

Her skin gleamed golden in the lamplight. She'd scrubbed the layers of makeup from her face, leaving her cheeks pale. Sheila was a night creature as I was. Her skin never saw the sun.

"I loved the hot tub." She ruffled her hair. "Wanna do it in there?"

Her naivete surprised a laugh from me. "Not in the tub."

In a sudden fit of shyness, she hung by the door and waited for me to invite her into my bed. I held out my hands and the scrawny creature bounded across the room to leap on the bed beside me. Looking at her filled me with sorrow, but the scent of her thrilled the demon hiding behind my eyes. She seemed so helpless suddenly that I regretted choosing her for the sacrifice. "Are you naked under there?" The hand, exploring under the covers, was as small as a child's, but Sheila's grin was positively lascivious. "Ooh, maybe you can have it for free."

I took her face between my hands and kissed her gently. Need trembled in me and the fire of passion licked at my body. Sheila grabbed handsful of my hair and shifted into position.

"Yes," she moaned as I tucked her beneath me. Her legs went round my hips and her body opened, moist and ready. "Hon, you're shaking." She wriggled. "Go ahead. Do it."

I ignored Sheila's small cries of protest at my rough entry as well as her sighs of pleasure. In my effort to satisfy obsession, I was insensible to my partner's desires. I kissed her brutally, crushing her lips, her teeth bruising mine. My open mouth trailed down to her throat. She threw her head back, stretching the blue vein and my self-control. When I traced the vein with my tongue, she seized my shoulders, shuddering under me, rising into me.

It was impossible to pretend that this frail body belonged to another woman, the woman I loved beyond all things. I whispered, "Isabeau," but the woman writing beneath me didn't hear. Physical release, when it came, brought little joy. My brain told my body it wasn't satisfied. Separate and distinct, two insatiable yearnings licked flames through me. The blood would ease one craving. Blood could blot out everything—for a time. Under the pressure of my fangs, the artery rolled. "Oh, Sheila," I whispered as I drove my teeth into her.

She grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. Scarlet stained my mouth, and I knew hunger glittered in my eyes. When she saw the fangs, she went mad beneath me, bucking and kicking. Her fear meant nothing. The blood running down her neck meant everything.

"What are those plastic fangs? You're crazy that's what you are!" Terror twisted her face until she looked like an animated gargoyle. "Your name's Morgan Gabriel D'Arcy and you're an Earl. All you noblemen are crazy. Marrying your cousins! You're not a vampire, you fool, you're just a nut!"

Her outburst surprised a laugh from me. She couldn't read my mind as I'd been doing to her all night. But I loved surprises. They happened so seldom to me. "How did you know my name?"

"It was on that painting in the hall. The one where you're all dressed up in costume."

"Not a costume, Dear. Charles II commissioned that painting in 1665."

She gazed up at me in astonishment. Her struggles, for the moment, forgotten. We lay tangled in a lover's knot. She impaled. I held tight in her small body. She felt repulsion. I felt cheated. She'd called me vampire, but she didn't believe it. No one believed in vampires anymore. In her eyes, I saw my own reflection. In the throes of the craving, I didn't look even remotely human. Yet she clung to the belief that I was a human monster.

"I'm not crazy. I crave the taste of your living blood. And you shall give it to me." Before she could blink, I fastened my mouth to her throat. Uttering pitiful little cries, she pounded my back with her fists. Teasing the craving building in me like passion, I lifted my head. A drop of red fell from my lips to shine like a ruby on her naked breast. "You don't want to live. I do. And to live, I require your blood. I'm going to set you free."

"Who made you God? Who gave you the right to say whether I live or die?"

Her accusation struck me a painful blow. "Necessity gave me the right." My voice was husky with desire. "My kind feeds on your kind." I repeated the excuse I'd used for centuries to keep myself sane. Top of the food chain. Survival of the fittest. The truths I held to be self-evident, my declaration of independence from man's laws, sounded lame.

"You're going to kill me." Sheila's voice was flat with horror.

Her heartbeat sounded louder than the ticking clock. Finally, she whispered so low that only my preternatural ears could hear, "If I'm going to die tonight, I want the last few moments to be good. Damn you, extra special good. Make love to me as if you loved me." Unshed tears colored her voice. "Before you kill me."

The next thing I knew, I was standing by the bed with my eyes closed and my hands clamped over my ears. My whole body was shaking with the craving, but guilt had wrenched me out of her arms. I opened my eyes. Sheila scrambled off the bed, ran and bent over a chair to ruffle through her handbag. She straightened and in her hand was a pistol.

I looked at the gun without fear. A gun shot wound would hurt. I would bleed but I wouldn't die. Sheila was crying. Pewter tears streaked her gnome face.

"You won't have my soul, you Devil. I won't let you turn me into a monster." She pointed the gun and fired.

I caught the bullet square in the gut. Blood gushed down my thighs. The pain was a multi-colored beast with tendrils that shot through every part of me. It rang in my head like a siren. It tasted of the feral blood flooding my stomach. Sheila stood stock still, her eyes swallowing her face, as I reached into the cavity and plucked the bullet from my body. The wound had already started to heal.

"Want to try a cross? Or a stake?" I laughed and tossed the bullet at her.

"Goddamn you," she breathed, "And God forgive me," then she stuck the gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger.

Her head exploded shooting hot blood through the air like crimson fireworks. Her body hung there with its crushed melon head before it sank like a deflated balloon. Sickness pushed the blood I'd drunk against the back of my throat. Shocked by Sheila's peculiar brand of courage, I stared at the crumpled rag doll lying on my bedroom floor. Blood puddled on the pine boards. Incongruously, I wondered if it would seep through the cracks to become a red sun rising on the alabaster ceiling downstairs.

Like an old man, I walked to the body and dropped to my knees. The blood was thick, rich and fragrant. Hypnotic. Gingerly, I touched her hand. I hated dead things. Shaking my head sadly, I watched a tear drop land on her face. "Little girl, my kiss wouldn't have made you like me. The gift of darkness does not pass so haphazardly."

I looked up as Avery appeared at the door. "What happened, Milord?"

"She shot herself." I had killed Sheila but there was no joy in it.

"My way would have been bliss for both the predator and the prey," I told the bloody form crumbled on the floor. "The vampire's kiss, though deadly, is sweet."

The blood called to me. I bent and touched my tongue to it. Already cold. I shivered with disgust, but the demon inside me twisted, glowed red in my eyes.

Obsession—such a fine name for madness. But before I visited the woman who held my heart in her tender, but terrified mortal hands, I must feed, or the craving would surely best me.

There was no other cure for obsession. . .

Except to touch, even a glimpse of my beloved, my lovely Isabeau.

Who, like Annabelle Lea, slept by the sea, two blocks from my own stately old house on the Battery.



* * *

notes: ¹: quote attributed to Cicero.

About the Authoress:

Linda Nighingale is a transplant to South Florida from South Carolina. Her work has won several awards, including the Georgia Romance Writers Magnolia Award in Mainstream (Cardinal Desires—vampire novel); Southeastern Writer's Conference winner of Short Story, Non-fiction and Mass Market (Sinners' Opera—a Morgan novel). She has written articles for national equine magazines. Besides writing, her passions are her Andalusian stallion Alegre, whom she rides in musical freestyle exhibitions, dressage English Civil War reenactments, and fast cars (oh, and Dodge Diesel Ram trucks!) And, of course, the darling of the concert hall, Lord Morgan D'Arcy. Linda is currently seeking a publisher for her novelette: a vampire triology. If you are an interested publisher please contact her directly.