A 'Rayne Wylde' Tale
by Josh & Sadie Rose © 1999/2006
"This is a story that I wrote a long time ago before the events of the Underwear series. It was meant as a stand-alone but although I hated the story I liked Kev and Dave so much that I thought they deserved something better. I've been tweeking it forever but now it's time for it to see the light of day.
"WARNING: This is entered in the Erotic Horror category for a reason. It is a Vampire story and there is naturally a gory element. If that makes you wince, turn away here. To everyone else, enjoy."
THE WEEK BEFORE XMAS:
The Vampire moved softly through the shadows at the top end of Canal Street, in Manchester's thriving Gay Village. Wrapped in the cold veil of fog and darkness, it seemed as though the fates conspired to make his task easier. On a night such as this, with so many factors unexpectedly in his favour, he could almost convince himself that the Gods wanted him to succeed. This was his true purpose, the reason for his Turning. His quest was ineffably, irreproachably Right.
As he watched, a boy staggered from the heat and warmth of one of the vibrant, red-brick bars near the top of the street. The sounds of music and laughter briefly followed him into the shadows then were snatched away by a closing door as he blundered across the cobbles with the touching lack of orientation only possessed by the truly and deeply inebriated. Using the saplings on the other side of the road as markers, he steered himself precariously up the canal bank towards the bridge and stumbled across the tramlines which glistened with frost in the brick-paved road.
His shadow waited a moment to be sure that no one followed him out of the club. Silently, he crossed to Auburn Street, beyond the dark, imposing Court buildings that loomed over them in brooding judgement and intercepted his quarry at the bridge.
There was ice over this slow-moving stretch of the Rochdale Canal but it was thinner beneath the bridges where the air frost was not so dense. And there was a walkway down to the canal-side here, not overlooked by bars and restaurants as it was on the other side of the road. Perfectly discreet for the kind of liaison he planned.
Anyone seeing them in the darkness, down by the water, would think them lovers, meeting in a brief, fierce, festive clinch. The boy was already past caring who administered his lovebites. His skin was cold to the touch beneath the sleeveless top and fine, gauzy jacket. Through the snug, stretch fabric of his trouser crotch, his saviour felt him stiffen as he was embraced and a stranger's lips and teeth found the softness of his throat. Rapidly extended canines pierced his flesh, biting deep into the arteries of his young neck.
His assailant drank deeply, savouring the hot, coppery spill of mortal blood onto his tongue; the taste of an exotic and perverse young life, pouring out into his mouth; the buzz of illicit chemicals and intoxicating liquor which flushed the boy's system. Under his hands and the jaws, which clamped down harder on his neck, the youth squirmed and cried out just once in confusion and incredulity. Then his slight body was rammed back violently against the roughened stone under the shadows of the bridge, where his attacker broke his slender neck quite easily.
The thumping pulse of house music from the surrounding clubs hid the crack and splash as the boy's limp body tumbled down from the walkway and crashed through the ice. By the time the canal thawed it would be far too late for him. And his killer would already be notorious.
3 DAYS BEFORE XMAS:
It was late afternoon and already winter-dark outside when Rayne Wylde, Vampire and ex-lead-singer with the androgynous rock band Whipsnade, walked into the Rembrandt public house. The warm, golden glow of the house lighting and the randomly twinkling fairy lights overhead greeted him, as did the eyes of about thirty men sitting around the venue, in ones and twos, at tables by the windows or stools around the long, crowded bar area. In the background, Abba's Chiquitita played on the sound system as if the seventies had never ended and conversation dipped briefly as the regulars inspected him. They went back to their conversation almost immediately but several pairs of eyes followed his progress to the bar. Wylde ignored it, quite accustomed to stopping traffic. Jabez, his Sire, had long since given up trying to tell him not to be conspicuous.
It was a physical impossibility for a start... and today he had dressed down deliberately in a plain, dark, cotton shirt and black vest, over snug charcoal denims and an ebony-suede, thigh-length jacket. The short, Cuban heels of his hand-made black boots clicked softly on the panelled flooring as he unselfconsciously crossed the room. Taking a seat at the bar he ran a long-boned hand through wind-tangled, sable hair that hung to his shoulders, framing pale, delicate features.
The attention was unavoidable. No one naturally blessed with Rayne's lean, icy good looks could fail to draw the eye, especially not in a pub like the Rembrandt. Men came to this street especially to check out such examples of masculine beauty.
It was a good lure and Rayne Wylde knew it. He had been reeling admirers in for most of his life and now it was second nature. Once he reached the bar, the muted talk began again. He was aware of the occasional sidelong look but ignored them with a skill perfected after years in the public eye.
"Ello... not seen you in 'ere before," the shaven-headed bartender greeted him genially.
Rayne shrugged one bony shoulder.
"Is that a crime?"
"Depends how you're lookin' at it, doesn't it?" replied the guy behind the bar leaning forward. "What can I get you, mate?"
The Vampire half-closed eyes the colour of crushed ice drenched in green chartreuse, and stared up through the dense lashes. He was perfectly well aware of the mesmerizing effect of his heavy-lidded, narcoleptic stare... that was why he did it. Several guys propping up the bar leaned closer for a better look.
"I'd like Stolichnaya, please," he said levelly, in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried effortlessly over the background noise. He still had a slight, Estuarine accent, even after nearly ten years of living in the North of England. "A double. No ice."
At least five guys around the bar reached for their wallets. The bartender sighed, and turned to the chill-box. He had clearly seen this charade played out many times.
"What's your name, darlin'?" A tall, burly red-haired man with broad shoulders and work-stained denims had been sitting by the door, alone, when Rayne came in. The Vampire did not miss the speed with which he crossed the pub to the bar. His glass was not yet half-empty, but he was here, staking his interest in the newcomer. A definite predator, but a mortal one. If he was Undead or some kind of sub-human he shielded it better than anyone that Wylde had ever met.
The Vampire fished in his jacket for a cigarette and responded with a half-hearted smile.
"None of your business. 'Darlin'!"
"I was only being friendly..." His would-be suitor leaned across the polished counter and waved down the bartender magnanimously. "Oi... Dave! Get us a Becks, and whatever this little fox is havin'!"
Rayne met Dave, the barkeep's disbelieving gaze across the pumps and rolled his eyes silently. In one fluid movement he turned and slid down from his stool to stand before the interloper. Or rather, beneath him; at five foot seven and a half, he stood a good hand-span shorter than the red-head.
Fortunately, Rayne Wylde was not in the mood to be inconvenienced by his lack of height.
"I'm not looking for a Sugar Daddy, sweetheart! I can buy my own drinks, thank you very much."
The big fellow touched a roughened finger to his chin, lifting his head by an inch or so, firmly but not quite roughly. There was however something in the expression on his florid face, in the unblinking flintiness of his pale blue eyes, which spoke a silent warning.
'I can take you,' that look said. 'You're nothing, pretty boy. Nothing at all. I can do as I like with you.'
