The sixth date
He is sitting in front of me, legs stretched under the table, smiling. Drunk and serene, the way only a young, cocky boy who has not yet been disillusioned by life can smile. He is handsome: dark, straight hair, half-long, an expressive face, shoulders bare with abrasions from a recent scuffle… And the smell…
The delicious, narcotic scent of hot, young blood mingled with the tang of slightly shuddering skin from deep breaths. I inhale it stealthily, letting it flow through my veins, savoring the tickling pricks of desire. He’s eighteen, and his soul is aflame. A long-awaited find. I don’t take others, they don’t interest me.
The table between us is stained with spilt wine, a couple of almost-empty glasses, and an unopened bottle. This evening is the sixth, and it should be the last. Not that it matters here, more a matter of habit, a time-honored whim, a remembrance of what was.
He talks about something. Sometimes he falls silent in embarrassment. I watch him attentively, and I know he sees sparks flashing in the semi-darkness of my eyes, the dark, inhuman light that fascinates him. My sly, attracting fire. I know how he feels, and so I don’t have to listen or speak. I just stare and smile, with a moist, sensual mouth and the slightly contemptuous, teasing curve of my upper lip. He turns away in fright, as if a respite might give him the strength to leave.
We both pick up our glasses and finish the rest of our drinks in one fell swoop. He hurriedly opens another bottle. I watch, my lying, depraved eyes fixed on him, wondering at his reckless ignorance of danger. He doesn’t sense how close he is to the abyss he so arrogantly seeks, from which none have returned. Is his soul not afraid? Does his heart not beat in anticipation of danger?
It does. I hear it flutter desperately, like a captured animal. But he doesn’t want to be afraid. He’s thinking of me, my supple, refined, androgynous body, my mocking face, my way of smoking. Everything attracts him, everything beckons him. I shift my leg in a relaxed way, and I see him unconsciously trying to replicate the movement, barely noticeable, yet with a heat that sharpens his gaze.
I grin. He doesn’t know how many times I’ve repeated that subtle, vicious movement before, so often it has become second nature, the kind of gesture that belongs only to my breed. I’m not just a vampire. No. I will not suck the quivering vein at his throat, though it thrills me to feel its pulse. I already love the taste of his blood. But I’m not a vampire.
I’m a Fallen.
And I want his soul.
He moves to me and rests his head on his arms, eyes glittering with embarrassment from beneath his long forelock. I gently touch his knee and change my expression. Now there is a gleam of desire in my smile, desire mixed with the promise of danger that excites him. He believes me. He wants to know me. And I will give him that opportunity, but after, I’ll take him to hell. To San Ferno, where he will become one of us. And I’ll be the first to enjoy him. I am aware of my power, and I like it. I am the Fallen. A creature of heaven who made the wrong choice. I will tell you the truth about myself, soft and vicious, languid and harsh in all the right places, so that with caution, you will nonetheless eagerly follow me.
I will tell you about Alistair and the fall from a great height. About the thrill when you realize there is no firmament to crash against. This story is about us, the tribe you once called incubus, sexual vampires from whom you try to protect yourself and your children. Don’t try. I am immeasurably stronger than your morality, and my unveiling will become a poison that slowly intoxicates your souls. You will forget who you were before. As I did…
