As always, comments are more than welcome!
Pleasure…such a glorious wave of euphoria. It washed over him, warming him from the inside out. Quintin’s body was numb and pliable in the firm grip; the sound of his own heart thrummed in his temples. The pain was almost unbearable, but as Adron sucked the life from him, it ceased to matter. He forgot all else save the entrancing seduction of his soul. He wished it could last for eternity. But through the mist and fog of his subconscious, awareness ignited. A wrong was being committed and he could not allow it to continue. Quintin knew that he was being taken against his will. He had been in this position before, locked in the grip of a feasting vampire. He had been bitten far more than his share over the past twelve years. And now, as the blood fled his veins, his inner voice screamed with memories of past attacks, breaking through the hold his enemy held over him at last.
Threading his fingers through Adron’s shoulder-length, cream-colored strands, he pulled, hard, attempting to force the vampire’s lips from his throat. In the same instant, his other hand gripped the wooden object in his pocket. With a quick jerk, he drew the crucifix from its hiding place and thrust it into the horrified faces of his enemies.
Without hesitation, Adron withdrew, teeth ripping from the puncture wounds in Quintin’s neck. His lips were red with the man’s blood, and it trickled down his chin in a repulsive stream. Hissing, he shielded his eyes and stumbled backward in a desperate attempt to find solace behind his cohorts. But to his obvious chagrin, the clan cowered away, shrieking their disdain.
Now free of the piercing bite, Quintin felt his mind begin to clear. Adron’s strong, constant presence faded to but a memory. Ignoring the pain that pulsed like fire through the veins in his throat, he applied pressure to the injury and spun around, holding the crucifix out before him. Those who were gathered near retreated to a safe distance. Pale arms flew up to shield their terrorized faces. Voices rose in rage, shouting obscenities and curses that lingered on the breeze.
Maintaining his guard, Quintin refused to lower the ancient icon. Every second was precious; one ill-timed mistake could cost him his life. Chest heaving with fear and adrenaline, he kept close watch on his enemies, knowing them to be great tricksters.
He rotated within the circle, turning to face the men who surrounded him, one by one. He was unfazed to discover their lack of warm clothing, despite the weather. Harsh elements had no real affect on their immortal bodies, aside from the blistering heat of fire. He found himself wishing for that very thing—a torch or a candle, or the glorious light of the sun. But alas, many hours remained until daybreak, and there was nothing of use nearby. He would have to rely on his wit to save him.
His boots crunched in the snow as he stepped, the long folds of his cloak twirling about his ankles. He exhaled, and a puff of cloud hung suspended before him, the tangible indication of life granting him new courage. As Quintin continued his swift, careful journey around the center of the ring, a lone figure disengaged from the crowd and aimed at his prey. Quintin turned to face him, and was struck without warning by a strong gust of wind. Thrown off his feet, he gasped from the power of the blow. A sharp stab of pain shot through his chest as he tumbled into the snow. The crucifix slipped from his grip. It slid across a patch of ice, skidding to a halt just out of his reach.
“Well done, Morias,” Adron grinned. He kicked at a clump of snow, burying the holy cross beneath a blanket of white. The group of vampires, now freed from their terror, descended upon Quintin once more.
Quintin’s lungs burned and he coughed in pain. Incapable of movement, he lay still as the first tentative touch of their hands fell upon him.
“Give up,” he croaked, voice shaking with the effort of drawing in breath. “It is the only way you will leave this place.”
Laughter rose in an effusive chorus. Their faces drew nearer, taunting him with glowing red eyes and pointy-toothed grins.
“You have courage, I will give you that,” said the man who knelt beside him. His hair was a long flowing curtain of midnight that cascaded down the length of his back. He gazed into Quintin’s pain-wracked features, noting the determination that still burned there, even now. “But unfortunately for you, your bravery doesn’t make up for what you lack in power.”
Quintin shook his head with nonchalance; his scalp sank deeper into the freezing white powder below. Tendrils of cold weaved their way over his cranium like the chilly fingers of death. “You know nothing of my power,” he wheezed. “You have seen me fight, yes…watched as I tore down your own kind one by one. But you have no idea of the tenacity that burns within my heart. It is the motivation that drives me, and I will not relent until every last one of you has been vanquished. You, my dear Jerad, have been granted only but a taste.”
The vampire smirked; in a flash, he was on his feet again. The evening breeze flowed through Jerad’s hair, reminding Quintin of the weaving bodies of serpents stalking their prey. That assessment, he concluded, wasn’t far from the truth. He knew these men—much better than he would have liked. They were hell-bent on revenge; they would stop at nothing until he and every member of his family had been sucked dry.
With effort, he braced himself on quaking arms, wavering a bit. The cold of the ice and snow bit into his palms, but he ignored it, knowing that he must rise and fight if there was any hope of saving Clara and Vincent.
***
The silence was deafening as he crept down the hallway. Senses at full alert, Vincent scanned his surroundings. Thin shoulders rose and fell with every breath, the hairs on his arms standing at attention. It was a struggle to calm his quaking nerves, but he managed to remain silent while he edged toward the front of the house, determined to help his mother whatever the cost.
When he entered the living room, he was relieved to discover that Clara was safe and sound. She knelt on the sofa, clutching the edges of the curtains and peering out the window. Vincent relaxed at the sight, but no sooner did he feel his terror slip than it was back again, stronger than before.
One hand slid from the drapes and came to rest over Clara’s heart. Her eyes grew wide with horror and then fell shut. She turned away from the window, her throat working as if trying to swallow a wave of great emotion. The look of sorrow that washed over her beautiful features caused Vincent’s chest to ache.
“Mother…” he whispered. “Mother, what is it?”
Clara blinked and stared, horrified, at her young son. The features of his face and hair melted together through the blur of her tears, rendering them unrecognizable. But she could read the conviction in the way he carried himself; the set of his shoulders spoke of dedication and purpose.
“Vincent…you shouldn’t be here. Any moment now, they’ll be in the house. You have to get away. You’re far too important—“
“No.”
She gazed at him in wonder. Vincent had never directly disobeyed her before, and most certainly not in a situation as dire as this.
“No, mother,” he repeated, moving to kneel beside her at the window.
She studied him as he gazed out at the mass of bodies that crawled almost spider-like over Quintin’s form. His eyes darted back and forth as he took in the menacing figures, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.
Without warning, he jumped up from the couch, chest heaving. “I cannot allow him to die, mother. Please forgive me.”
Without another word, Vincent pulled the door open and rushed out into the wintry night. Clara hurried to the doorway, calling after her son, but it was too late. Vincent had been seen, and now, all eyes were fixed upon the small boy who trampled toward them. Fearing for his life, she gave no thought to her own safety and ran out after him. A blast of freezing air assaulted her; her face and hands tingled with cold. With each step, her bare feet were swallowed deeper within the earth’s icy belly. The penetrating chill numbed her flesh and slowed her progress. A gust of wind caught the fabric of her skirt, whipping it violently. Shivers wracked her dainty frame, but she hurried onward, intent on saving him.
Vincent came face to face with a contemptuous foe. The arrogance that bathed the man’s features gave him pause. But he stood his ground, staring back into the eyes of a man who had been four times his age when turned. Vincent figured him to be several decades—even centuries—old.
Jerad raised an eyebrow as he met and held his gaze. Vincent had been told many times that his eyes held a startling timelessness and wisdom that bellied his eight years. The fascination in Jerad’s expression seemed to concur with that assessment. As the vampire stared down at him, a smirk tugged at his ruddy lips. Crossing his arms, Jerad circled him, inspecting him from all angles.
“Hmmm…and what do we have here? An evening snack, perhaps…?”
The boy glared up at him with courage, holding the scrutinizing gaze. “I am Vincent Augustine. Let my father go or you will pay dearly.”
Laughter rose and carried on the breeze for the second time that night. Jerad, teeth bared, knelt down beside him, bringing them eye to eye.
“You’re a very brave boy. But like your dad, you simply don’t understand how powerful we are. You would be much better off to go back in the house now and leave us to deal with your father. That is…if you place any value on your own life.”
“I say we kill him regardless!” Someone shouted from the crowd.
“He’s an Augustine,” added another. “He deserves to die.”
Vincent shut his eyes, lost in concentration. He took in a deep, slow breath, attempting to calm his quaking nerves. More of them were approaching from behind, and he counted their steps—1…2…3… When they were within reach, he spun around to face them, hands raised and fingers spread wide.
“Mordeo!” Power tingled from his elbows to his fingertips, and he stumbled with the force. Tendrils of light shot from his hands, branching out in all directions, flashing and twinkling like lightning against the night sky. The brightness blocked out the stars and shadowed the moon. The unfortunate victim’s pale skin ignited in blue flame, taking on a strange, iridescent glow. Those who had escaped the attack scattered like flies, horror and surprise etched in their faces. As Vincent retained his magical hold, a wave of convulsions overtook the vampire’s thin frame, and he dropped to his knees, gasping.
“A mage…” Jerad’s eyes lit up with intrigue. “Interesting…”
Features twisted with pain and shock, Vincent’s immortal quarry reached out a trembling hand. Finding nothing to break his fall, he toppled over into the snow. The frozen earth did nothing to quench the flames. The burning body decomposed and swiftly crumbled to ash.
