A Count Immortal
It started like many fall evenings before it in the year 1559 near the Count’s mansion on the hill. Started that was, until he knew.
The crisp night sky caressed dense fog as it hovered and crawled along the ground. Tendrils coalesced and floated through the air blocking the feint light of the crescent moon. An eerie quiet fell into the night. Not even an owl dared hoot for fear of becoming another victim of the Count’s wrath.
They were standing at the edge of the forest, his home not far in the distance atop a nearby hill.
The corners of the Count’s lips twitched upward as he inhaled the scent of sweat beading heavily on the back of her neck.
A drop slowly meandered its way down to her collar.
“Run.”
The woman whimpered and fell to her knees. “Please Count have mercy… I didn’t mean anything by it really. I promise it will never happen again. I beg of you. Mercy.”
“Indeed it will not, happen again,” the Count said as the hazel in his eyes turned to ice.
“It was just a trinket. Nothing… really.” Catherine took the small bronze statuette out of her pocket and held it up to the Count. “Here. Take it.”
The Count’s brow darkened, and he stepped closer shoving her hand aside. “Now you lie to me? You know very well this was not the only trinket Catherine and tonight is not the first my cabinets have been lighter after your presence. What did I tell you the last time?”
Catherine sat back on her heels and her head fell forward. When she finally lifted it, tears had welled up in her eyes. “You told me it was my last warning.”
The Count set his jaw. “And I am a man of my word. I tire of this charade, and have been more than generous with you. I will not tell you again. Run.”
Catherine took one step backward and paused.
“Very well,” the Count said, and lunged.
“No,” she screamed stumbling backward tripping over her feet.
He curled his lips into a snarl and let his head fall back, fangs glinting under the light of the moon.
Catherine having untangled her feet bolted toward the wood.
He let her go. Watching. Waiting. Giving his prey a head start.
She looked over her shoulder and dashed deeper into the forest. The crunching of leaves long since dead the only noise that broke the silence of the otherwise empty darkness.
The Count reached into his frock coat for a pair of gloves. Black, like the stain of his soul on this century. He pulled them over his hands. Slowly. One finger at a time savoring the intoxicating aroma of the meal he could still smell even at this distance.
He took one step into the forest and then another. His pace quickened and in seconds he was close enough to hear her heavy breathing.
She covered her mouth with her hand.
“That will do nothing for you,” he said as he slowed his pace to a walk.
Her breathing stopped.
“Holding your breath will not save you either.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Your heartbeat is what betrays you Catherine.”
She tried to hold back, to stop the scream she felt building in her throat, but she knew it would come anyway. Tears streaked her face. She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.
And when fear betrayed her, he was there before she even realized what had happened.
His long sharp canines sunk deep into the supple flesh of her neck. He drank, and drank more until she was drained.
Her empty body slumped to the ground beside a nearby tree.
Lifeless.
He pulled a white monogrammed kerchief with the letters VV from his pocket and dabbed the corners of his mouth.
Satisfied, he stepped over her corpse and sauntered toward his mansion on the hill.
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