Chapter One: That day was seemingly just like any other. A thick, dreary mist surrounded the castle and dampened the rocky landscape of the mountain with a light drizzle that beaded its pure water upon the sharp cliffs. Walking towards the castle was seen a figure dressed in a heavy black robe that covered the head from the sun’s ghastly rays. He smiled once he could see through the dense fog and mist the structure which was his home, a striking tinge of red glinting from his smiling lips. With his tongue, he licked the last little trickle of sweet blood from them, savoring every lasting taste of it as it burned down his throat, filling him with great satisfaction.
~ The Child of Darkness ~
Suddenly, he heard a faint, disgruntle sound behind him. That made the black figure stop in his tracks. The impervious grin that always was on his tender lips strengthened slightly as he slowly turned to behold what he had heard. It was an old and very frightened peasant who was shakily grasping a rake in the direction of the figure, threatening him as if it were a fine sword that would find its taste of death that day. The figure was amused at this and he recognized the peasant. Just that morning, he had been at his farm and had satisfied his appetite with his young daughter. She was sweet to his taste and he had left her cold, lying in a deathly state in her straw bedding while this father cried for his precious daughter. Now, he was seeking revenge for nearly loosing the one that was dearest to him. Still, it was amusing.
The peasant, though petrified with what he was getting himself into, felt the instinctive call of paternal protection for his child boil stronger than fear within him. The figure just stared, grinning, almost in a mocking way, and waited what move he might make next. Grasping the rake, the peasant ran forward with a cry, raising the sharp tool over his head and preparing to thrust it downward upon the figure once he was close enough. With his eyes like deep blood, he watched him come closer. Then, right as the peasant was about to strike, the figure’s muscles tensed and two, terrifying but beautiful demon wings merged from his back and tore out of the black cloak like knives. The rubbery skin that stretched a translucent black on his wings was torn and shredded in several places near their edge, proof of a long life with a struggle against the mortals that forever wished his destruction. The toes of the wings, for they were very much like those of a bat, ended with sharp black claws that were like daggers, waiting to strike if ever given the chance. With these magnificent wings, the figure sprang into the air in a high flight. His wings flowed through the mist behind him in eternal thrusts that sent the moist air gushing down onto the peasant.
With a gasp, the peasant looked above him in the air and saw the black figure. Barely under the protection of his heavy hood, the lowly man could see that ever lasting maniacal grin and the glimmer of crimson that were his shining eyes. Then he froze. The rake dropped from his frozen hands and landed with a thud onto the thin grass that was sleek looking from the drizzle that had turned into a very light rain. He knew then the terrible mistake he had made of following this creature of darkness, he could feel the icy grip of death merging over his soul.
A muffled laughter came from the figure in the air, his wings flapping through the sprinkling rain. With his eyes that he narrowed on to the peasant, he began to work his spell of hypnosis that would render the peasant into a trance wherein there was no escape. Immediately, the peasant felt the figure trying to overtake his consciousness, and cowered to his knees in humility. The figure was pleased this man could be so easily controlled. When he smiled, all of hell seemed to celebrate in shrieking discords.
In a grace that did not seem fit for such a being, the figure swooped back down onto the grassy cliff. The man was shaking on his knees and holding onto the final threads he felt of his dear life. Slowly, the figure moved towards the man and knelt onto the damp blades of green beside him. He reached his slender white, icy hand over with its black nails like claws and placed it onto his trembling back. The man was breathing sporadically and helpless tears flowed from his old eyes. Then the figure felt within him another burning thirst when he set his eyes onto the peasant’s barren neck. He could almost feel it, inside that neck was the vein of life with its sweet blood, gushing quickly from the man’s fear. He ran his tongue across his fangs and pale lips as he imagined that red liquid burning down his throat. The figure came closer and set his mouth right by the peasant’s ear. He removed the black hood from around his head and revealed his shaggy, but very soft gray hair that shined like fine silver in the rain. Still, the peasant shook in frozen fright. The figure continued to grin and whispered in a low tone that seemed to sing a rich melody into the peasant’s ear, “Bonne nuit... pour jamais...” and then revealed his white fangs above his neck.
“Lazsaivre!” A voice of deep reasoning and power echoed by the castle. The figure immediately recognized it. He sighed, but there was no hint of breath that hit the peasant’s neck that barely escaped the piercing of unforgiving fangs.
When the figure turned, he saw through the dreary gray of rain a tall, white-haired figure clad within his own white robe. He rose to his feet as if in slight shame and covered the hood back over his head, in protection from the rain. When this figure spoke, he knew that his tone was that of a scolding for something done wrong. Even still, the figure bowed his head to this white-haired one who was standing a far off by the castle. “Père...” his voice was deep and calming as he addressed the white-haired one as his father. He used the term father in place of sire, for he had been something of a father to him as he had been a vampire under his creation.
The white-haired one nodded and his low, raspy voice sounded deep within his throat. This one was indeed the sire of the crimson-eyed figure. His hair was long and white, pulled back and cascading down his back in old, wiry strings. His eyes, sunken deep into his ancient skull, still held the wisdom of years past and years yet to come. They shone through the mist as two black coals that danced with some sort of fiery knowledge of existence. Although he did not appear to be terribly old, he did look more aged than the one he had created. It was in a way that was handsome and sophisticated. His dry lips finally curved as he looked upon his vivacious ‘son’. “What is this thou doth bring to our home?” He spoke in old French, known only throughout the time of the Medieval land. He set his eyes upon the cowering peasant.
The figure answered, “I did not bring him. The foolish mortal followed me here and I intended to strike him for his brainless deeds.”
The white-haired one’s eyes narrowed in a bitter way, “Thou shalt do nothing of the sort. Leave him be, do not do unnecessary violent acts any longer, my son.” He looked up into the dreary sky, a worried glaze over his wise face. “I fear the worst for our survival. Lazsaivre, now I tell it to thee. Leave this mortal alone.”
The figure, now known to be the one called Lazsaivre, looked back to the peasant with a sickening red glare in his furious eyes. Quickly, it melted away and he reached his arm out toward the peasant, fainted with shock. As if he were a marionette in the hands of the young vampire, the peasant rose to his feet under the powers of Lazsaivre. The man was sent back into consciousness and soon set his feet under his floating form and slowly feel back onto the Earth, his feet touching the ground. Lazsaivre glared to the peasant one last time and spoke before he fled away, “Do no tell a soul about us or thy soul shall be damned for eternity.” The peasant didn’t hesitate to run away, all the way down the mountain, leaving his rake behind with the two powerful and deadly vampires.
With satisfaction and acceptance, the two looked to each other just as a loud drum of thunder was heard rumbling in the wild sky. Both descended back into their home, the old drafty castle that stood atop the mountain. Inside of it was very beautiful, beauty like that of royalty and nobility. No mortal had ever lived to tell about the castle, though many had entered in, charmed by one of Lazsaivre’s sisters and then killed by their seductive, deadly bite. The main room was lit by single candles set in various locations and decorated in several deep red tapestries that hung on the thick stone walls. Everything in the castle was characteristic of everything Medieval, its decor, its architecture, its quiet beckoning spirit that lulled over the structure and empowered it in a hellish, gothic way. Lazsaivre’s eyes flashed under the dimmed light of the candles and glanced directly forward to the tall stairway that led up to rooms and dank chambers, some that lie darkened and forgotten.
Lazsaivre’s sire did not go up the stairs, he watched as he turned and entered a corridor to the right, lit with the same candles that made disturbances in the caressing blackness of the castle. He disappeared within the corridor, leaving the young vampire alone. The violent storm shook the structure under its wrath as torrents of rain fell atop the slick stone. Over the rumbling cacophony, Lazsaivre was able to hear faint voices. He knew they were coming from the second floor and made his way up the stone stairway in the direction of their source.
“Do play that one again, Raquel, it is my favorite!”
Her thin, skilled fingers struck the keys of the harpsichord, filling the room with its powerful notes and melody. Draped with rings of ruby and emerald, her fingers were endowed with expensive, luxurious beauty and ended with long dark nails. The fair young vampire looked onto the keys with humble pride of her own skills at making such alluring music. She had the face of a porcelain doll, fair and smooth, a dainty nose, full lips colored a deep hue of crimson, and large hazel eyes that sheltered an inner depth of beauty. Her hair was deep like the night and ran along her back in thin streaming curls on down past the feet of the bench she was sitting on. It rested around her face and accentuated the fragile, almost frail quality of her countenance. As she played the keys more dramatically, the deep green velvet of her dress ruffled and seemed to shine under the light of the several candles. The sleeves themselves fit tightly to her thin arms, but where her shoulders were they puffed out. Around the modest neckline were ruffles of fine white lace that reached down to just above the bust line. The front of the green velvet dress tied together along the front with two thin green cords and at the waist, the dress would flare out and reach the floor, completely covering her small feet. Since she was sitting on the wooden bench playing the harpsichord, the dress flowed around her and off of the bench.
Beside her on an oak chair sat another girl. Her features, though still dainty, were more pronounced and failed in giving the illusion of complete frailness. She had thinner lips, a soft pink tint that shone under the candlelight, and bright excitable green eyes. Her hair was very straight, framing her face, and ran along her back like a maroon river. The top of it was tied upon her head in a bun. Her dress was of a very similar variety, only it was deep burgundy and the sleeves were not tight and puffy at the shoulder; they were made of a sheer fabric that cascaded down both arms and met on a ring on each of her slender middle fingers, where they ended. She smiled to reveal small fangs that still had the evidence of a recent victim she had taken for her own satisfaction.
The room was very beautiful and filled with all sorts of regal and elegant things. The walls were decorated with paintings that seemed to come alive amid the music and the luminescence of the orange candlelight. There were also statues, books, (and more stuff once I figure out how this room will actually look like)
The deep colored door, masterfully carved with images of nature, opened with a soft creep. Lazsaivre stepped inside the room and stood in front of the door, his ears perked by the inspiring music. When Raquel had reached her final note, the girl clapped enthusiastically with a beaming smile on her face. “Beautiful as always, dear sister.”
Raquel smiled shyly, “I thank thee, Violetta.”
“Thou certainly hast a gift.” All eyes moved to Lazsaivre standing before the door. He had said that and truly meant it. The small smile on his face directed totally to Raquel, one of his sisters, actually being a completely unrelated girl he had come to known during his time as a vampire. She glanced to him, the shy uncertain smile on her lips, and quickly turned back to the black harpsichord.
“Lazsaivre! I do beckon thee, where hast thou been?” Violetta arose and stepped forward to her brother, the soft velvet of her dress dragging along the red carpet. She was smiling and there was a hint of playfulness on her face.
He removed the hood from his head and looked down to his sister with distant eyes and a small familiar grin on his lips. Even though Violetta was older, Lazsaivre stood much taller. “Feeding on the virgin blood of a young maiden.”
“Again? Always thou doth drink from young female virgins. Why must it always be so? Why not a strong young man with energetic blood, much more so than any girl.” The exasperated voice came from beside him. Lazsaivre turned his deep red eyes and rested them upon a figure that sat and had every feature of a perfectly crafted porcelain doll. She was the most lovely of all three sisters. Her beauty could not be surpassed in all of France, neither in all the royal courts of Europe. To look at her was to gaze upon true feminine beauty in its purest and richest form.
Lazsaivre smiled earnestly and took his sister’s delicate hand, ornate with silver rings and red rubies and set his tender lips upon it in a fashion that he did not want to damage her perfect fragile body. “Dear sister Musette,” he rose his eyes to meet with her clear blue ones, “the young men I shall leave to thee.”
She smiled, the blue of her lips shimmered. Her dress was very lovely, white lace and blue velvet that cascaded in ruffles down past her feet. The sleeves flowed down her arms in numerous lacey ruffles down to her fingers. Her hair was short in front to form bangs framing her exquisite face. Above the flow of bangs was a tiara made of rare blue roses that intertwined their thorny stems together and decorated her further. Her hair ran along her back in several large golden spiral ringlets, some of which fell over her shoulder. Lazsaivre always loved looking at Musette, she was also the sister he loved the most ever since he could remember. Musette warily batted her long black eyelashes to let her brother catch a glimpse of the make up that accentuated her divine features even more.
“Thou doth look lovely this day.” Remarked Lazsaivre honestly.
“We should be able to say the same about thee, Lazsaivre. The clothing that doth adorn thee is so very drab, is it not mother?”
At the attention of Musette’s voice, another lovely figure appeared from behind Musette’s ringlets. She had been sitting behind her and helping to prepare her hair. She wore a simple but lovely black gown and let her straight white hair set around her face. She took one look to Lazsaivre and nodded. “Prince, thou art worthy of finer clothing.” His mother sire (which was not his personal sire but that of his sisters) said in the most humble of ways.
“Yes mother,” he bowed. The beautiful women all smiled and the door was opened again, this time letting enter their father. He had a stern, chilling look on his face, but they all knew it was not too uncommon for him to appear as such.
Showing her utmost respect, Violetta curtsied and smiled to him, “Hello father. How may I please thee?”
Slowly, the old vampire shook his head and closed his aged eyes. Opening them again, he focused onto his son. “Lazsaivre,” he called his name. Lazsaivre immediately lowered to his knees and bowed respectfully before his father. “Arise, my son.” He did so and stood before his father.
“Thou looketh tired and melancholy, father.” Observed Lazsaivre.
The old vampire’s wrinkles folded on his brow in a worried way, transforming his whole demeanor into that of concern and disquiet. “I have sensed something troubling, my children. Something soon approaches us that wishes to consume our existence.”
Musette arose from her padded silk stool, “What meaneth thou, father?”
He took his daughter’s delicate hand and brought her closer to Lazsaivre. There, he had his oldest and youngest child standing next to each other for him to be able to gaze upon in what he felt his final moments of being. The mother then arose and came next to the father. She had on her face a look of trepidation and weak anxiety. The two other girls stood from behind and awaited whatever announcement they sensed their father had to give. “Although we are granted sustained mortality, it is possible for us to be destroyed. I know that there are many who wish to do so and erase our kind completely from the world. In this land, it is safe to say we are the final survivors of our kind, methinks. From this grim truth it can be concluded that we cannot uphold our survival once we are gone.”
Musette looked to her brother with fret abounding on her comely face. “What say ye then? How can we continue living on?” asked Lazsaivre.
Their parents glanced to each other and agreed secretly. The mother turned her eyes onto Lazsaivre and Musette, “Thus we have decided on a plan that shall help our situation. Musette, my lovely pearl,” she took her daughter’s hand and looked into her eyes with equanimity, “The time hath come for thee to have a mate and carry on a posterity of our kind on your own. However, we know of no others like ourselves here.”
“Then how am I expected to do so?” queried Musette.
The father then took a hold of Lazsaivre’s hand and set it on top of his sister’s. “We have thought of this deeply and decided that the two of you shall carry on our legacy.” He said with confidence.
Baffled, the siblings felt their hands joined and looked to each other’s eyes. Both felt the same immediate reaction as their faces transformed with looks of both disgust and incredulity. Musette removed her hand and bowed her head to her parents, “Mother, father, forgive me, but I cannot take a part of this incest ye speak of.”
“We fear it is the only way for our pure kind to continue on. Please understand and adhere to what is right for our future.” Their mother’s words were meant to sooth the two and to try to get them to agree with the immoral act they wanted them to perform. Lazsaivre was silent and wished to have no part of this whatsoever. But then again, he did realize that they were the only vampires perhaps in all of France and that his parents could no longer create new lives on their own. If something terribly unfortunate happened, their kind would probably completely vanish forever. This too, he knew. There were so many voices screaming in his mind, the young vampire didn't know what to do.
The father turned back to the door and would give no more heed to opposition. “Come. The ceremony must soon go underway.” With the sharp creek of the door that seemed to fill the entire castle, he left without another word.
The girls looked to their mother and she gave them a nod. Raquel, Violetta, and Musette silently left the room like three radiant dolls pulled along unseen strings, their heads bowed, and their delicate feet making hardly a sound on the stone floor. The mother then went out the door and turned to look back at her son who was still standing, overcome by everything, in the room. “Prince,” he rose his head to look at her, “as our heir, thine duty must be fulfilled.” Then the woman followed after the three girls down the dark hallway.
Her words struck him deeply and he soon followed to join in the ceremony that would change his life forever.To chapter two...