Lie Blood From the Beloved

His eyes scanned the small alley. The cliché and proverbial scene lay sprawled before his translucent brown orbs: steam rising from a manhole to paint the gothic scenario of a torn down, worn out neighborhood where only the strong could possibly hope to survive and thrive. His movements were timed, planned and deliberate: and he was going nowhere in a hurry tonight. The large steel door that stood open behind his small frame would not shut, this he knew. He was safe here until he no longer desired the company of the cats and the trash. Breathing and otherwise.

"We need you," came his best friend's soft, always placating voice from somewhere in the recesses of the security door. "We're ready for-"

He nodded.

"I'll, you know, wait back inside," was the answer from a man that had known him longer than he had breathed the oxygen of this earth. A good man; a loyal friend. Someone that never understand, but always sympathized. Someone who never said a cross word about anyone, and never did wrong but the worst of this world. Only right.

Movement at the far end of the alley brought his senses to acuity. A rat scurried from the oil-slicked gravel, flashing green glowing eyes and fangs that would never see the blood of anything more than its own. The taste of the air, however, foretold that Stuart Not-So-Little was not the sole inhabitant of this realm. He was not alone, and she was just feet away. Waiting.

"Do not hide," he stated, voice unflinching. "Do not hide because I can taste your perfume on my tongue."

The steam cleared and there she was, cigarette between her lips and a lascivious grin across her superficially glossed lips and rouged cheeks. "And can you smell my cigarette?"

His nostrils flared with defiance.

"Can you taste my deodorant?" she taunted, a cat-like glide bringing her closer. "Are you just a cocky pervert who looks really good in-"

"No," he growled, turning quickly and disappearing back behind the safety of the large steel door which slammed behind him.

* * *

The old theatre had character for miles and brought to its haggard depths a diverse crowd of wannabes, some-bodies, and nobodies. Every night. Tonight, it was no different; only instead of club kids and ravers, there was a 1,500 plus capacity crowd of fans that were under the age of legal and totally and entirely naïve. They would not appreciate the architecture, nor would they understand the secrets that were hidden deep inside the creases of each and every pin-up they collected. This much, he knew.

Everything was confirmed as he stared out at the audience and felt the blood lust well in his empty veins. Yes. Tonight, he would have has pick of any of these young women; it would be fatal attraction at its very best and most violent. He grinned. Once this song ended, he would fulfill his needs and move on. Forget. Forgive. But did they ever truly forgive him his sins?

"You just fucked the song up," his band member stated as he brushed close to his left ear.

Ignoring this, he thanked the crowd. He handed his instrument over to a nearby tech and felt his obligations evaporate. His duties were done and now his task was at hand. He would and could finally be free to feed.

"I love you," a young blonde girl giggled as he entered the spacious backstage. She was no more than twelve and held the hand of her mother. "I think you're really dreamy."

"Thank you," he smiled. He forced himself to sign his autograph and take a photograph. But the scent of her blood in her veins was too much. He had to get away. Had to escape further into the labyrinth of their backstage rooms.

"Do you normally blow off little girls like that?" came a taunting feminine voice from behind him. He spun fast and came face to face with beautifully vibrant brown eyes. Skin so white she was nearly translucent, and she smelled like roses. Yes. She would have to be the one. "It's not nice to rush away from your fans," she continued with a devious glint entering her serene eyes.

"I had something important I had to do," his voice was rough, gritty with need.

She leaned against the doorframe and smirked. "Oh?"

"I'll show you," he tried to sound cocky, but all he felt was need and desire coursing through his body. He needed to have her now; had to drink from her blue veins and taste the sweet fluid of her life.

"I want to taste you," she whispered in his ear at that moment. She was straddling him on the dilapidated old brown sofa. He strained to allow the moment to last. Watched her pulse beat in her throat as she spoke softly. "I have to taste you," she repeated.

He nodded. She was beautiful: her auburn hair and her perfectly set cheekbones; her voice was like the ring of the tiniest bell; and her little lips amazingly photographic. He would remember her forever, he thought, as he felt her tiny hand dip inside his camouflage pants.

"I'm Rose," she stated plainly as she moved to her knees and gripped him firmly.

He nodded. She was a rose, indeed. Her tongue massaged all coherency from his mind, but he could not and would never forget the scent of her body. Her blood would taste so sweet on his tongue that he would cry for her soul.

"I want you to make me," she interrupted with a soft kiss atop his dry lips. "Please? I understand who and what you are, and I want to be one of you."

"I cannot," he heard himself whisper in return.

"Please?" her lips voiced her pardon for eternal life as her hand assuaged his concerns. "I want to live forever."

He heard himself speak but never understood what his words had been. He felt her skin so soft under his lips, could smell her entire essence just centimeters from his tongue. She would be the sweetest prey yet, she would just like a, well, a flower. That, he would later laugh to himself, had been a horrible analogy for such a beautiful and sweet lover. Her memory would forever follow him in his darkest days.

"I am Rose," she had said as she kneeled before him like blood from the beloved.