Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST (21 page)

The manicure was worth every cent. Rose felt like a brand new
woman. She drove to Falcon Field to meet up with Kevin. She hoped that this was
the start of a whole new life. Kevin was waiting for her at the gates of the
airport, a dozen roses in his hand, a smile on his face. His Armani suit fit
him perfectly. He stood tall and oozed masculinity from every pore. She smiled
as she got out of the Fiat. A man came to her assistance and grabbed her
luggage. She could get used to this. Yes, she could. Time was on her side. She
was young and happy.

Kevin took her to the limo he had waiting. They shared champagne
and enjoyed dinner at a quaint inn that Kevin said was his little secret. She
was falling in love. He grabbed her hands in one of his, and took off the
glasses he always wore. She looked into the most spectacular, silver-flecked
blue eyes, and felt herself falling. She saw Kevin’s lips moving, but heard
nothing as her vision failed and she lost consciousness.

The light was blinding when she woke, the ketamine losing hold of
her system. She tried to sit up, only to be pushed forcibly down. Her happiness
was fading fast. Was this the price she would have to pay?

“Morning sunshine, lovely to see you again,” Kevin drawled.
“Welcome to my palace—I hope you like it. I followed your guidance to the
letter.” The last thing she remembered was the look of pure delight in those
brutal blue eyes.

Dedicated to the memory of Dominic Scalise—You allowed me to watch horror movies when I was very young and it was fundamental in shaping my twisted little imagination. Thanks Dad!

Special thanks to: Jon, Joe, Catlyn, Jayne, Barb, Dominic, Jannah
and Nia. The advice I received from each of you helped morph the story into one
I’m proud of.

Nicki Scalise is co-founder of A Thousand Lives Book Blog. She
currently resides in Colorado with her husband and menagerie of pets. When not
sitting at her desk staring blankly into space she is hard at work on her first
novel.

You can read her book reviews and general ramblings at:

Blog:
www.thousandlivesbookblog.blogspot.com

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/Pageturnersbookaddicts

Cheyenne Mountain (Apocalypse Anthology):

www.amzn.com/B00A72GGF4

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how all great vampire
tales should begin? Well this one shall be no different. It was just that, a
dark and stormy night in the city. It was after midnight and I had been hanging
out at one of the larger Goth clubs—my preferred hunting grounds. The
girls who frequent these establishments read far too much vampire fiction and
are easily swayed into, what they believe, is a little bit of role playing.
They romanticize the notion of vampires, each secretly hoping to find their
Eric Northman or Damon Salvatore, tame him, receive the immortal kiss, and live
happily ever after. Not a single one of them understands the true nature of a
vampire. We’re predators—we hunt and we kill. We don’t profess our
undying love to silly little girls who like to wear all black.

She was a tiny little thing wearing a tight, purple corset, which
shoved her breasts nearly to her throat. Her dark black hair was pulled up into
high pigtails, exposing the pulsing life in her neck. Her black skirt flowed
around her legs as we moved rhythmically to the beats of Nick Cave and the Bad
Seed’s
Red Right Hand.
She was my
chosen victim for the evening and she was going to be all too easy. It only
took a few drinks, a little bit of charm, and a tiny bit of attention to snare
her in my web. It’s not difficult to do when you look the part and
tonight—I was on top of my game. My black patent-leather pants hugged me
in all the right places, while the tight, black fishnet shirt highlighted my
pectorals and showcased my nipple rings… which, for some odd reason, made all
the little Siouxsie Sioux wanna-bes swoon.

As the song ended I took her by the hand and led her off the dance
floor. I had been “romancing’ this girl for over two hours and I was getting
hungry and impatient. I led her to a dark corner where we found a seat, but
there was another couple sitting nearby. The woman was wearing a long, black,
flowing dress and straddling the man’s lap. It was too dark to really make out
either of their features but not too dark to see they were having a good time,
too good to be appropriate in public. My girl giggled at their wicked behavior
and I snuggled into her, laying a few gentle kisses along her jaw. She grabbed
my face and brought my mouth to hers. I played along, letting her believe she
was the one in control. She then asked with a gentle whisper into my ear the
one thing I had been waiting to hear, “Want to get out of here and go back to
my place?” I only nodded in response.

She took me by the hand and led me towards the door marked with a
blinking red exit sign, making a brief stop at the coat check to get her black
velvet and burgundy satin cloak. As I watched her tie it around her neck and
pull the hood up over her head, I couldn’t help but wonder if this particular
way of hunting was getting stagnate. Maybe there wasn’t enough challenge in it
anymore. I was still going to drain her dry, make no mistake, a good vampire
will never pass up a free meal, but it had me thinking that maybe I needed to
shake things up a bit next time.

The other couple brushed passed us in a hurry on the way out the door
and the woman winked at me, not with embarrassment, but with what appeared to
be pride. As she breezed out the door, her long black dress flowing behind her,
I could hear
Witchy Woman
playing in
my mind. Although I was intrigued by her and had a slight regret that I hadn’t
found her for my victim first, something in my gut told me I was better off,
even if the region a little further south was firmly disagreeing.

The rain had let up significantly but there was a light, yet
ominous, mist hanging in the air. The chill was making my girl shiver as we
walked to her apartment, yet didn’t bother me in the slightest. She didn’t live
far from the club and we made it to her door quickly. She reached down the
front of her corset with her skinny fingers and produced a shiny silver key
that had been hanging on a black satin cord around her neck. I watched as her
crimson fingertips took the key to the lock. She smiled seductively before
opening the door. I followed her in and closed the door behind me. Her living quarters
were small, little more than a studio apartment really. I watched as she untied
the cloak, folded it in half, and tossed it on the sofa.

“Do you have any roommates?” I asked and she shook her head.
Good, that means I can take my time with you
.
I glanced around the space. It felt all too familiar, similar to the countless
others I had been in lately. All black furniture, yards of red lace fabric
draped over lamps, H.R. Giger prints on the walls. Jesus Christ on a cupcake
with sprinkles, if you’ve seen one goth girl’s apartment, you’ve seen them all.

She took a few tiny strides towards me—her black Mary Janes
clicking on the wood floors—until we were toe to toe. She was so petite
in stature that I could have rested my chin on the top of her head when she
came to a stop. “So what’s your name?” she asked in a sultry voice.

I shook my head. “No, no real names”

“What shall I call you then?”

“What name would you like to call me?”

She pondered the question for a few moments. “Shall I call you
Lestat?”

I had to use all of my power not to roll my eyes at her. “As you
wish,” I replied, disguising my lack of enthusiasm. Does originality count for
anything these days? I was going to enjoy killing her all the more—if
only for her lack of imagination. Just once, it would be nice to hear one of
these girls not want to call me Dracula, Lestat, or god forbid, Spike. It’s
amazing how many rabid
Buffy
fans are
still roaming around wanting me to pretend to be Blondie
Bear. At least she didn’t want to call me Edward. Had that been
the case, I would have happily foregone my meal to just snap her neck.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lestat. Follow me.” She interlaced
her fingers with mine and led me to the bedroom, where the décor was more of
the same—black linens on her queen-sized bed, more lace thrown over
lamps, and a journal on her bedside table that no doubt contained poetry that
versed about how life was pain. She dropped my hand at the entryway to the room
as I brushed past her and stood near the bed. She eyed me lustfully before
strutting towards me and shoving me forcefully back. She wasn’t very strong
given her demure size but I had to keep up the facade that she was still in
control, so I fell dramatically onto the bed.

I bounced on my back once before she quickly climbed on top of me
and shoved her tongue in my mouth. She tasted of clove cigarettes. She was an
aggressive little one but I figured I’d let her have a little fun of her own
before I had mine, especially since my fun ended with her dead. Some nights, I
would have a roll between the sheets with my chosen meal, but it was not to be
tonight. I had waited too long between feedings and my lust for blood, not
flesh, was driving me on.

While she was kissing me and pawing urgently at my fly, I could
hear her rhythmic heartbeat in my ears. It was singing to me and I could focus
on nothing else. Deciding I had waited long enough, I grabbed her skinny waist
and, with a swift, forceful motion, flipped her on her back so I was on top.
She giggled, probably just taking me for an aggressive lover.

I kissed her neck lightly as she tipped her head back, enjoying
the feel of my lips on her silky, milk-white skin. Little did she know she was
just further exposing the juicy vein I was after. I allowed my full weight to
settle on her, pinning her down. She let a slight moan escape her lips and I
felt my fangs distend. I laid one last, gentle kiss on her carotid artery,
pausing for a brief moment before sinking my teeth in.

I bit down hard into the meat of her neck and felt her flesh pop
beneath my teeth. At first she let out just a little squeal of pain, most
likely assuming I was still role-playing, but I clenched my teeth harder and
felt the blood start to flow into my mouth. That was when she began to
struggle. She tried bucking me off but it was no use. She was far too tiny and
frail—and I had vampire strength on my side. She began to scream and I
clamped my hand down hard over her mouth.

Even though she struggled more than I would have liked, I was
pleased that I had chosen her. Her blood was divine, like sweet honey sliding
down my throat. She was punching me hard in the back but her hits were
weakening and her screams were becoming mere murmurs. Her final punch landed in
the middle of my back before her arm went limp and fell to her side. I
continued to drink until her blood stopped flowing. When I was done, I licked
my lips and my eyes rolled back as I enjoyed the ecstasy of the moment. I
relaxed on top of her, laying my head on her chest, breathing a deep sigh,
while taking in her perfumed aroma—the gentle scent of burning leaves on
a cool fall day. I remained there for a while just savoring my meal and her
scent before it was time to get up.

I propped myself up on my hands and peered down into her vacant
eyes. Even in death I had to admit she was a very beautiful woman. She reminded
me of a grownup version of Wynona Ryder’s character, Lydia Deets from
Beetlejuice
. The comparison made her a
little endearing to me since it was one of my favorite movies. I shrugged my
shoulders,
oh
well.
I rolled off her, leaned on one elbow, and stroked her cheek.
I brought my face down to hers, placing a small kiss on her now blue and
bruised lips. “The name’s not Lestat; It is Marcus Keary and the pleasure has
been all mine.”

I flicked on the light in “Lydia’s” tiny bathroom and caught a
glimpse of myself in the mirror. Yes, vampires have reflections and mine was
ghastly. I had been a slob during my meal, causing the blood to crust on my
mouth and chin.

I dug through a small linen closet until I found a washcloth.
Running the faucet until the water was warm; I scrubbed my face with her facial
cleanser that smelled pleasantly of roses and rain. I pulled off my fishnet
shirt and wiped down my chest. I’m usually not a sloppy eater but this time I
should have worn a bib. When I was done cleaning up, I wrung out the washcloth
and hung it on the towel bar to drip dry.