Hungry is the Night - Page One
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Prologue
The witch entered the room and surveyed the people before her. None of them interested her, except for the man seated in the centre of the room. Ignoring them all, she made her way to the dais, and kneeled before him.
"My Lord."
"Rise and report."
The witch stood.
"My Lord, the child is awake, and hungry."
"Feed him."
"My Lord, forgive me, but you only provided us with three meals. He has taken his fill from them, and is demanding more."
The witch suddenly came under full scrutiny, a prospect most would dread. She was no exception, and she trembled under his gaze.
"I will go to him."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Dismissed."
The witch backed away, then turned and hurried away to tidy the nursery.
The baby lay in his cradle, gurgling happily. The witch had bathed him in preparation for his father's visit, and one of the nurses had provided a fourth meal, though it had left her weak, and she was now resting in the other room. The witch smiled at the baby, and he grinned back. If you ignored the teeth, he was a perfectly normal looking 16-month old baby. The father of the baby entered the room unannounced. The witch bowed immediately. He was known for having a temper, and it wouldn't do to upset him.
"Show me his charts."
"Yes, My Lord."
The witch hurried to the desk, and removed the baby's chart, which detailed size, weight, and growth of the baby, as well as the size and frequency of his meals.
"Hmm. That should be enough for anyone," his father mused, examining the chart.
"My Lord, may I offer a suggestion?"
"Speak."
"It could be that he is going to grow again. His feeds did increase with the previous growth spurt."
"If you recall," replied the baby's father, "I fed him myself several times during that growth spurt. He doesn't look hungry now."
"My Lord, one of the nurses fed him."
He nodded, thoughtfully.
"It could be that he needs more than humans can provide. I will add two vampires to the feeding team. He is to feed from them first, then the humans. Alternate the vampires, obviously."
"Yes, my Lord."
"Good. Also, I wish to try again."
"Again, my Lord?"
"Yes. I want to be certain that Victor was due to the preparations we used, not a fluke."
"Of course, my Lord. Do you wish to use the same girl, or shall I interview some new ones?"
"Find some new ones. The last lot were comely enough, but the one that caught was a whining bitch, and the others are no good to me."
"Yes, my Lord. I will gather fresh ingredients tonight, and we can start the potions again next week."
"Good."
He handed back the charts, and looked down at his son.
"I will see you in my chambers on Monday, then."
He left the room, and the witch immediately started making preparations.
The Beginning
She awoke in darkness, head throbbing, ears ringing, feeling ill.
Overdid it, again, she thought, attempting to establish if she was going to vomit.
Deciding that she probably wouldn't, Catlin cautiously rolled onto her side, groping for her bedside lamp. When her hand didn't come in contact with anything, she over balanced and started to fall. The bedside table wasn't where it was supposed to be either, so her attempts to stop herself were unsuccessful, and she landed on her knees on the hard tiled floor. A half second later, her stomach decided it wasn't up to that kind of vigorous activity, and let its objection be known.
The throbbing in her head intensified, and she spat to clear her mouth, crawled a short distance away and allowed herself to sink onto floor, pressing her temple to the cool tiles.
Wait a minute. Tiles?
Catlin's aching head struggled to make sense of the information being presented to it. She obviously wasn't at home. There was a moment of horror as she contemplated how much she must have had to drink the previous night to not remember going home with someone - and, in fact, to not remember anything about the evening at all. Catlin groped her way back towards the bed - or rather, not a bed, but a... table? It was made of stone, anyway, and solid - it didn't move, even when she rested all her weight on it and attempted to pull herself to her feet. Dizziness swamped her, however, and she sunk back down to the floor before thankfully passing out.
Catlin woke again, feeling the soft firmness of a mattress beneath her, and the comforting weight of a blanket over her. The darkness was perhaps slightly less complete than her last awakening, though it was still impossible to see. The previous night was still a blur, and she carefully moved into a sitting position, prepared for the throbbing to return. It did, but far less severely than the last time she woke. As she carefully prepared to stand, her bare feet met soft, thick carpet, and Catlin frowned.
But then, last time I woke, I was lying on a table, she thought, and the floor was tiled. Perhaps I was hallucinating. That or I passed out in the bathroom.
Catlin slowly and carefully reached for a bedside light, but instead her arm came in contact with a thick wooden post.
Four-poster bed, she identified, absurdly pleased with her returning ability to use her brain. Who do I know with a four-poster bed?
Annoyingly, the answer was nobody. Slowly and carefully, Catlin pulled herself to her feet, clutching at the post, as the world seemed to swim a little.
I really need to not drink so much. Waking up in strange beds is unsettling, even when you can remember whom - WHAT, she sternly corrected herself - you did the night before.
There was a flash of bright light, and Catlin cried out, cringing as the light burst through her skull like a hundred knives. A second later, the light was gone, and it was dark again.
"You shouldn't be up yet, mon chaton. I'm pleased you are awake, but I think you should lie down."
Clinging to the bedpost, Catlin silently kicked herself.
Fell for the foreign accent again. You'd think I'd learn. Wonder if he's really French, or just putting it on?
She heard him moving in the darkness, though he barely made a sound.
"Come, mon chaton, please, lie down."
"I-"
Her voice was rusty, and came out in an unattractive croak.
"I need a glass of water."
It wasn't what she had planned to say, but it was the truth, and she heard him moving again. She listened carefully and heard water being poured. It was only once she felt the glass being pressed into her had that she realised he didn't hesitate as he moved in the dark.
Must be his bed that I'm in; he's too familiar with the room for it not to be. Nothing like having your suspicions confirmed.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome. Come. Sit. Please."
Catlin gingerly allowed herself to sit again as she sipped her water.
"How are you feeling? How is your head?"
"Um." Catlin struggled to process his questions and come up with coherent answers. "I feel dizzy. Hung over."
"Hmm. Headache? Nausea?"
He peered at her as she carefully nodded.
This has to be the strangest experience of my life, she thought. And this has to be the strangest guy I've ever taken home. Or allowed to take me home. Or wherever we are. Maybe he's a doctor!
"Um. And I seem to have a slight case of memory loss. I'm sorry."
The man nodded, straightening.
"Mild concussion. That's good."
Again, a few moments processing time, then, "What?"
"You do not remember anything of the night we met?"
Catlin gingerly shook her head.
"Sorry," she said, again.
"Well, then I shall tell you what I know. It was Thursday the 25th of April. You arrived at that bar in Langlin Street shortly after 8.30. I forget the name."
"Shorty's."
"Yes, that is it. You had just washed your hair, and you were wearing a lovely little black skirt and a black and red top."
Catlin nodded carefully. She knew the outfit he meant. The fact that she was now wearing a shirt that fell to mid-thigh was simply another mystery waiting to be answered.
"You sat at the bar for about half an hour. Two gentlemen offered to buy you a drink, but you declined. At about 9.15 you received a phone call, and stood. I approached you and offered to buy you a drink, and you declined, saying that the person you were to meet was no longer coming, that you'd had 'a rotten day', and were going home."
Catlin nodded, again. She was beginning to remember the rotten day, and the evening was returning slowly.
"So I offered to walk you to your car. You declined. I stayed at the bar about 15 minutes after you left, and then gave up for the evening. On a whim, I decided to walk to the left, rather than to the right towards my car. Do you remember leaving the bar?"
"Something happened... I was on my way home, and there was... someone. Michael? Yes, Michael was there again."
"Who is Michael?"
Catlin pulled a face.
"Michael was my boyfriend. I dumped him a couple of months ago."
"Ah..."
The noise was long and drawn out, and Catlin was reminded of a cat purring. A very large cat. Perhaps a lion. Did lions purr? With effort, Catlin returned her concentration to the conversation.
"We had... a falling out."
"In relation to?" he prompted.
"I objected to him keeping drugs in my apartment. So I threw him out, and cleaned out his stuff."
"Ah. You said again."
"He was part of my rotten day. Actually, he was all of it, really."
"Do you wish to tell me about it?"
"What is there to tell? I came home from work to find that he'd broken into my apartment, looking for his stash."
"And?"
"I told you. I cleaned out all his stuff."
"I had assumed you meant belongings."
"That too."
"And you told him this?"
"Yes. I reminded him that I wouldn't have drugs in my apartment, and told him that I'd put all his belongings in a box on his doorstep 6 weeks ago."
There was a silence, while he waited for the rest of the story.
"He said his drugs were in it, and I told him that wasn't my problem, and that any drugs he'd left behind after I dumped him had been flushed. He said he didn't believe me, and I threw him out again."
"Was he... unwell?"
"He'd taken some things, I think. PCP, maybe. He was a little... angry."
"Angel dust?" he queried. As Catlin nodded, added, "I see."
"So then I called Mary-Kate, bitched to her, and we agreed to meet at Shorty's at 8.30."
"And she didn't come."
"She got a flat. Called me to say her husband was coming to collect her, but that by the time it was all sorted, it'd be too late, and would I kill her if she piked."
"At which point you left the bar."
"Yeah. And met Michael again on my way home."
"And he was still angry."
"He tried to sweet-talk me, saying he knew I hadn't really flushed his stuff, and if I just gave it back to him, he'd leave me alone."
"And you told him you really had flushed it."
"Yup, and that he'd leave me alone regardless."
"And then?"
Catlin shook her head. Remarkably, the headache was clearing.
"Some of his friends were there. His brothers, and a couple of the other guys he hung out with. I don't remember."
"I believe it must have been 10 minutes after that, that I happened across you."
"Oh?"
"One of the males - tall, dark hair, Italian looking, lots of gold and black leather."
"Sounds like Michael," Catlin identified.
"He was threatening one of the other males - blond hair, blue eyes, equal height."
"Angelito. Angel's his best friend though, why would he be threatening him? They called them Angel and Demon," Catlin smiled, but couldn't quite manage a laugh.
"I believe your Michael was rather annoyed at the damage Angelito had done to your face."
Catlin's hands flew to her face, and she gently ran her hands over it.
"My face?"
"Oui. I believe he said something about wanting to - I forget exactly what he said, but the implication was that the little angel had made you less attractive to sleep with."
Catlin's hands continued their exploration of her face, testing again for signs of injury. She was about to ask for a mirror, when she realised that the man hadn't stopped speaking.
"I entered the alley way in time to see your Michael kicking something into the corner, behind a dumpster. You."
Catlin just blinked at him.
"You were very seriously injured, mon chaton. By the time I had scared off your Michael and his friends, you were close to death."
"Are you telling me that Michael beat me up?"
"Oui, mon chaton. Your Michael, this Angelito, and the other males who were there. One can only assume that they were after the location of the drugs."
"That bastard!"
"Please, mon chaton, don't exert yourself."
"I'm going to kill him."
"He very nearly killed you."
Catlin blinked again.
"You saved my life."
"In a manner of speaking," the man said, evasively.
"What does that mean?"
"When I found you, you had severe internal and external bleeding. You had many broken bones, and head trauma. There was blood everywhere."
Catlin felt sick.
"One of your lungs had been punctured. I believe that they were going to leave you in that corner to die. It wouldn't have taken much longer."
"But here I am."
"Yes, there you are. Almost healed, with just a mild concussion."
"That isn't possible."
"You haven't asked me how long you have been here, mon chaton."
Catlin took a deep breath. Christ.
"How long have I been here?"
"You have been here for three nights."
"That isn't possible."
"It is possible. Tonight is the evening of Sunday the 28th of April."
"So, I was beaten half to death three nights ago, and now I'm sitting here with mild concussion, no broken bones, and no memory of the evening."
"Oui, mon chaton."
"And you expect me to believe that? Here's a more likely scenario - you slipped me a roofie in that bar, and came across me after Michael had left, and brought me here. You sick fuck."
Catlin threw the glass at his head, and the room spun a little again. The fact that he managed to catch the glass in the dark amazed her, despite her inability to string a coherent thought together.
"I am sorry, mon chaton, for the things that I have done to you. But to violate you was not one of them. I have never touched Rohypnol, I promise you."
Catlin just glared at him.
"I swear to you, mon chaton, I did not touch you any more than was necessary to get you clean and warm."
"And you expect me to believe that I am healed from near-death to this, within three days? That's impossible."
"Non, mon chaton. Not impossible. Difficult, yes. Not impossible."
"How did you do it then?"
"The only way available to me. Forgive me, mon chaton."
"How!"
"I turned you into a child of the night. A nosferatu. A vampyr. A vampire."
Catlin woke, her eyes adjusting to the dark. A few more days and nights had seemingly passed - not that she had any recollection of the days, her sleep-wake cycle was screwed up seven ways to Sunday, and she had unfailingly slept through the days from sun-up to sun-down, and spent the nights alternating being wide awake and dozing. She had discussed vampirism with the man - Gabriel, his name was - several times, and found out many interesting things - not that she believed him, of course. His story was preposterous; surely nobody over the age of twelve believed in vampires these days. She had checked in the bathroom mirror for any signs of the beating he told her she'd received, and found that she still had a reflection, no damage to her face and aside from a slightly aching side, she felt fine. She had told him that she couldn't be a vampire, because she still had a reflection, and he had replied that the tale was a myth. And while he was on the subject, vampires had no aversion to garlic or crosses - and here he went off on a tangent with a half-hour tirade about how these days people wore the cross and called themselves Christian, but had no faith, so it was no wonder that their crosses afforded them no protection against vampires and other creatures of the night. He also mentioned that crosses only worked if the vampire also believed in their power - so all in all, a cross was a pretty useless defence, unless one came up against a vampire from the crusades, or demon from Christian mythology, but then, out of all the demons one was likely to encounter, how likely was it that you would meet one that was Christian? Christian demons were vastly outnumbered by Hindu, Egyptian, Asian and Middle Eastern demons. He ended with a speculation that perhaps if someone truly had faith, their cross might work against non-Christian vampires - but how likely was that in this day and age? He hadn't had a problem entering churches since the 1400's, and he had been turned in the year 500, and had very strongly believed in the power of God while he was alive.
Holy water, on the other hand, did work. It may not work like it did in the movies, where the vampire is doused with holy water and instantly catches fire and bubbles down to nothing - but it could cause a very nasty scar, which was unusual enough for a vampire to be very cautious around it. And speaking of burning to nothing, she should give up sunbathing, and a solarium was akin to walking into a cremation furnace. Not that they would burst into flames the moment sunlight hit them, but they would start to smoulder if their skin was in direct sunlight for over half an hour, and they would eventually catch fire. She had made some crack about him not seeming the type to go shopping with a parasol, and he had replied that he did any shopping he needed to do at night, just like every other vampire, and she should work out what shops were open late because the moment the sun rose, she would be quite simply completely unable to stay awake, and would stay completely asleep until the sun set. The older they got, the longer they could stay awake - he, being 1500 years old, could watch the run rise and set, as long as he was indoors. His sire could stay awake all day, if he were underground. She would drop off to sleep the moment the sun even thought about rising, and not wake up until it was dark, for at least the next 100 years. She thought that was a little unfair, particularly as it was fast approaching midsummer and the nights were swiftly getting shorter. But then again, she didn't believe him anyway, so it wasn't like it mattered.
Still, as entertaining as the conversations had been, she had decided that she'd had enough of Gabriel's hospitality, and would be returning to her apartment that evening. Not that she'd mentioned that to him, of course.
Catlin got out of the bed and quietly dressed in her own clothes, which had been washed and pressed, and thus didn't collaborate his story. She hadn't left the room in the past six days, and she didn't know the way out, but she figured that she would manage. She opened the door and looked out into the hall. The walls were painted cream, and littered with heavy gold frames, holding Victorian paintings. The solid hardwood floor was almost black, with a deep, rich red rug down the centre of the hall. There were softly glowing lights along the hall, the small modern lights hidden between gold shell shelters looking both strangely out of place and in keeping with the decor at the same time. There was no movement in either direction. Following instinct, Catlin moved down the hall, and turned a corner. She shortly found herself at the top of a wide wooden staircase, with heavy banisters.
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