A Vampire Tale with a Twist

Interview with a vampire, new age style

Angela McClaren sat across the table from an attractive young man with a distant look in his eye. She took her time examining him visually, rather than launching into the interview straight away. He really was quite handsome, if one discounted the strange ear piercings that stretched his lobes wide open, or the metal protruding through his eyebrows and nose. His jaw was finely sculpted, his forehead tall, his eyebrows the perfect thickness and shape. His lips were full and almost feminine, practically begging to be kissed. Then there was his body, a strong, athletic body that bespoke of a man who generally looked after himself well. Angela resisted the urge to sigh out loud. It was such a shame that he was insane. She looked him in the eye again. The young man regarded her with total indifference, his blue eyes icy, his attitude aloof. Of course, Angela reminded herself, he would look at her in that way - to him she was just a weak human, after all.

She reviewed the file one more time. The young man's name was Trent D'Arcy. He was twenty years old. In the early hours of that morning, he had viciously attacked a woman in her own home, biting her neck hard enough to draw blood. Fortunately, the victim managed to escape, and the police were called. Upon arriving, they found a man preparing to leap off the apartment's second storey window, growling like a beast. They were too late to stop him, but miraculously, he was not seriously hurt in the fall. He was arrested and brought to the station, where he gave a short statement pertaining to his peculiar behaviour. Angela skimmed over it, confirming a few details for herself. Satisfied, at last, that she had committed the essential facts to memory, she closed the yellow folder and smoothed it briefly with her hand, before commencing.

"So, Trent," she said, "you are a vampire."

She made it a statement, rather than a question. It was how the game was played, and Angela was very good at playing the game, by now. Trent D'Arcy was by no means the first mentally ill person she had ever interviewed, though he was definitely one of the most unusual ones.

D'Arcy nodded at her, by way of a reply. A single, curt nod, no more.

"And you are five hundred and fifty years old, is that correct?" She continued, as though double-checking the information she had.

Another nod, otherwise, his face remained expressionless.

"I understand you asked the police to restrain you, so you wouldn't kill any more humans. Well, I'm pleased to inform you that the woman you attacked has lived. She's recovering in hospital and she'll be able to identify you later on."

Angela let this information sink in. So far, there was no noticeable reaction. Whatever the young man was thinking or feeling in that moment, he was not showing it. She went on.

"So I guess that's pretty straightforward. You will be charged with intentionally causing serious injury, for which the maximum penalty is ten years' imprisonment. You have the right to remain silent and anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to legal representation and if you don't obtain it, a legal representative will be assigned to you. Do you understand this?"

There was no answer, not even a nod, this time.

"Do you have anything to say?" she prompted, but this too was met with silence. "Ok, then, we can conclude the interview..." She began to gather up the paperwork.

"You have beautiful eyes." His voice was deep and melodious, causing her to look up, in surprise. The young man's dark blue eyes regarded her calmly, yet carefully, his gaze locked firmly with her own. There was something different about that gaze, compared to before, a depth of intelligence she had not noticed, until now - so that, for a short, but significant moment, Angela felt trapped, drawn in by the sheer intensity of the stare. With an effort, she tore her gaze away, blushing as she did so.

"Er, thank you," she stammered, shyly. Inwardly, she swore at herself. It was not like her to lose control, not even for a moment. She was a professional, for goodness' sake - she had to stay in charge. She took a deep breath, to steady her, before addressing the man again.

"Does your speaking to me mean you've decided to answer some questions, after all?" she queried, without looking up from the table.

"That depends," he replied, vaguely.

"On what?" she glanced at him furtively, through her lashes.

"On the kind of questions you ask," he said, before adding, in the same melodious tone as before, "And whether you can look me in the eyes."

Angela raised her eyes to his with exaggerated slowness, feigning indifference.

"No problem," she lied. She launched the first question straight away - an official doing her job, nothing less and nothing more. "Can you tell me how many other humans you have attacked before today? I mean, you say you need to

feed

to survive, and you are

five hundred and fifty years old

..."

The young man shrugged carelessly.

"I don't know," he said, without emotion. "I've lost count of how many people I've killed."

"I see." Angela looked at her paperwork again, pretending to be shocked by the answer. In truth, though, she was fairly certain D'Arcy had never killed anyone - he had zero convictions and no prior criminal record.

"I don't suppose you could tell us where the bodies are?" She looked up at him hopefully.

"No," he replied flatly.

"No," Angela repeated, nodding, "of course not. I guess you don't remember most of them, do you?"

The young man looked sad, almost regretful.

"I'm sorry," he said, with great sincerity. "I don't like having to kill to survive."

"Mmm.." Angela agreed. "It can't be easy... But tell me something, Trent, as a matter of curiosity - how do you plan to survive in prison?"

He did not flinch at the question, but merely arched a finely shaped eyebrow at her, in a perfect expression of smug superiority.

"I'm not going to prison." He said it with utmost conviction.

"No?" Her eyebrows shot up inquisitively. "What makes you think that?"

"You don't put crazy people in jail - it's against the Mental Health Act." The way he said it suggested he possessed an intimate knowledge of the legislation.

Angela smiled, despite herself. This was going to be easy, after all.

"So, you think you're crazy?" she prompted, pen poised to write down the confession.

"No, I don't - but

you

do," D'Arcy pointed out patiently, smiling slightly at the look of disappointment on her face.

"Oh, come on." Angela knew she should not rise to the bait, but she could not help herself. "We both know you don't really believe you're a vampire, so just drop the act."

"I

am

a vampire," he stated, calmly and with maddening persistence, emphasizing every word. "I have been a vampire for five hundred and fifty years and in all that time, I have never met a human who believed in us." He paused, as though remembering the encounters that he spoke of. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "That is, until I took their blood, of course."

Angela felt like screaming with frustration. In order to restrain herself, she brought the pen to her mouth and started chewing on it distractedly. She was about to ask another question, when the young man spoke again.

"I can't help who I am, Angela." His eyes bore into her, disturbingly still and unblinking. "But speaking of dropping the act... may I suggest that you stop pretending you are not attracted to me?"

The pen nearly snapped in half, as Angela bit down on it, hard. Desperately, she went to put it down, but her fingers were clumsy all of a sudden and instead of depositing the pen neatly on the desk before her, she ended up flicking it onto the floor. Worse, she inadvertently flicked it forward, so that it landed right next to Trent D'Arcy's feet. Angela could see the wretched thing from where she sat, glinting innocently against the linoleum. She cleared her throat nervously.

"Um, would you mind passing me my pen, please?" The blush was creeping up toward her face once more, she realised. "Please?" She repeated, more plaintively.

She could feel the young man's amusement, even though he kept a straight face. Without a word, and without taking his eyes off her, he bent down and retrieved the small, plastic object. As he extended his arm across the table and held it out to her, Angela noticed his large hands, his long, strong fingers and neatly manicured nails.

"Thank you," she mumbled, reaching for the errant pen quickly, intent on avoiding any physical contact. He seemed to have anticipated this, because he acted preternaturally fast - even with her catlike reflexes, Angela failed to withdraw her hand quickly enough to avoid her wrist getting caught in his grip. She cried out in protest, while struggling to pull free.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her voice rising in alarm. "Let go of me this instant!"

The young man smiled at her but did not release his hold.

"Relax," he said. "I won't hurt you."

Trembling slightly, Angela did as he said and ceased her struggles, surrendering her arm for the moment. In the back of her mind was the knowledge that help was not far away, should anything go seriously wrong. Indeed, it was highly likely that someone was watching them now and wondering whether they should interrupt the interview. If she kicked up a fuss at this point, she might never get another chance to talk to this unusual man. The fact that he was handsome, as well, had nothing to do with it, she told herself, firmly - she was merely interested in him from a professional viewpoint.

"Ok," she breathed. "If you're not going to hurt me, what

are

you going to do?"

He smiled at her, flashing his perfect, white teeth for the first time. Angela found herself checking his incisors, ridiculous as it seemed. In the next moment, her heart skipped a beat, as the young man's thumb began to move over her wrist, caressing it ever so gently.

"I'm already doing it," he stated, quietly. Then, in a husky, incredibly sexy voice that made her temperature rise by several degrees, he ordered, "Close your eyes."

Angela felt compelled to obey, if for no other reason than to escape the look in those mesmerizing, blue eyes. With the visual stimulus removed, however, her sense of touch intensified, so that every stroke he made across her skin registered tenfold in her brain. Within seconds, Angela's pulse had quickened, commensurately with her rising excitement, both of which became apparent more or less instantly to the man before her.

"Your heart is beating very fast," he said, pressing his thumb over her wrist and holding still for a moment. "What do you suppose is the reason for that?" he inquired casually, while resuming the stroking.

Angela found she could not reply. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. In vain, she sought to regain her composure, to take back the advantage he had wrought.

"As I was saying," he went on smoothly, "I think you are attracted to me. For your own sake, I think you should admit it."

"Why?" she managed to ask. She opened her eyes once more, to enable her to gauge his expression as he answered.

"Because I can't kiss you, unless you do," he replied quietly, with undisguised hunger in his gaze.

There was no mistaking the sexual tension that ensued, following this simple statement. The young man who thought he was a vampire and the woman meant to be interviewing him stared at each other in silence, for a while. Then, slowly, as though in a dream, Angela pushed her chair back and stood up. She stepped toward D'Arcy, who pulled her toward him by her shackled wrist, guiding her lightly across the short distance, before dragging her down onto his lap. With his free hand, he cradled the back of her head and leaned forward slowly. Angela sighed softly, overwhelmed by his closeness, by the feel and the smell of him. He waited until her eyes were closed, to kiss her - gently at first, then more and more boldly. She returned the kiss with fervor, wrapping her arms around his neck as she did so.

The kiss went on for a long time. Angela did not want it to ever stop. Though she was not inexperienced in matters of intimacy, she had never before felt anything like it - the white-hot passion that had entered both her body and her mind was intoxicating. She was so excited, so hopelessly aroused, that it was some time before she realised that they were not alone.

"Ahm." The polite cough came as a rude intrusion into her consciousness. "Excuse me, Ma'am, but is everything all right here?"

Startled, she wanted to leap up and face the officer standing in the doorway, but D'Arcy held her back, his strong arms wrapping around her possessively.

"Stay," he whispered, his breath hot in her ear.

Angela turned her head toward the man in uniform, trying to appear relaxed.

"Um, yes, of course," she said, a little breathlessly. "Could you please leave us alone for a while?"

The man shot her a disapproving look, but since he was not her commanding officer, he lacked the jurisdiction to interfere. Ultimately, it was not his problem if the crazy woman chose to interact with her client - her job was the one on the line. With a nod and a tap on his cap, he retreated, shutting the door behind him.

"Ok, now will you let me go?" Angela asked the young man, seriously. Aware that she had just been caught in an act of gross impropriety that will probably cost her dearly, she was feeling somewhat less amorous than before - and more than a little annoyed with herself. She made as if to get up.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," the young man said, his voice suddenly cold.

Angela had a premonition that something was wrong, but before she could act on it, he had grasped her wrists and brought them together, behind her back. He trapped them there easily in one large hand, while with the other he grasped her hair tightly, pulling her head back. She squirmed futilely against his hard body, succeeding only in being held more firmly, her breasts pressed painfully against his chest.

"Let me go," she said, "or I'll scream."

"It's a bit late for that." Came the soft reply. Angela felt the man's lips on her neck, kissing and sucking lightly. The sensation was incredibly pleasurable, and she swooned for a moment, allowing her eyes to close.

D'Arcy's dark, blue eyes glazed over in the moment before he bit her. He did so quickly and with great force, opening a large gash in the slender throat. Blood spurted from the wound, covering him in a crimson curtain, all the way to his waist. Unperturbed, he drank greedily from its source, oblivious to the thrashing of his victim, or to the pain that he caused. His handsome face was contorted with primitive rage, unrecognizable as the person that had sat there, mere moments ago.

Angela knew she was dying. The sharp, searing agony in her neck heralded as much. Already, her strength was fading, pouring out of her with every beat of her heart. Her only hope was that someone would come in and save her, but she had effectively eliminated that possibility by sending the guard away. Tears sprung in her eyes and traced a path down her face, as she thought of her life, of all the people she loved and would never see again, of all the things she had meant to do, but now, never would. How foolish she had been, to allow some sick man to take it all away! Fervently she wished she could take her actions back, appreciating for the first time the true meaning of regret. But then, even this sad and lonely thought faded from her mind, as vast amounts of her precious blood spilled to the ground. She sighed weakly only once, before slumping against her attacker, no longer able to support her own weight.

The young man paused, perplexed. He seemed surprised at the change in the woman's posture, at the speed with which she had collapsed. Gently, he released her, lowering her to the floor. Kneeling beside her, he swept the hair from her forehead with a slow, shaking hand. Presently, her eyelids fluttered, and her eyes opened, gazing up at him helplessly. She seemed to be imploring him to help her, but it was too late. He knew this beyond a doubt, judging by the paleness of her skin, the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest.

"Why?" she whispered, with her dying breath. "Why did you have to kill me?"

He shook his head ruefully, as though admonishing her for asking. Slowly, he bent down and kissed her lightly on the forehead, marking her with her blood. His full, feminine lips brushed her ear as he leaned close and whispered,

"I'm a

vampire

, honey... I can't help who I am."

**********

The room swam in and out of view and Angela knew it was her mind playing tricks on her. Winking out, so to speak. She struggled to keep her eyes open, to enable her to see what came next, because she could hear voices right outside the door. Some of them were quite loud, yet she could not make out any words. No, that was not quite true, she realized. The words were clear enough. It was just that she did not understand them, because they were in a foreign language. Presently, she heard Trent hissing and cursing, while pacing the room with loud steps. He sounded scared for the first time, and she was glad of it. He deserved the death penalty, after what he did to her.

"Help. Me." She whispered, or believed she did. Her hearing seemed to be going along with her vision, because everything went dead silent all of a sudden. Silent and dark, like someone had switched all the lights off.

In the next instant, Angela was shocked to feel herself lifting off the ground and floating upward, without anyone touching her. Convinced that she was detaching from her body, she expected to see her own corpse on the floor beneath her, and she steeled herself for the sight. But then, inexplicably, she felt her head falling back, pulled that way by gravity. Next, she felt her arms and legs dangling, too, while some unseen force kept her torso floating in mid-air, like some strange marionette.

Oh God, what is happening to me?

Angela thought, as her back arched and her body began to shake all over.

And then, she saw him - or rather, she felt him, a force so dark and terrifying it made her want to scream. By now, of course, she was too far gone for this. Silently, she registered his presence as a shadow among shadows, gliding toward her. His feet never seemed to touch the floor and his hand, when he brushed it against her face, was ice cold. Was this the hand of death? She wondered, as another tremor went through her, causing her muscles to spasm.

There came a sharp, guttural sound, that she recognized as a command issued in that same, foreign language. It was followed by footsteps moving past her then fading away, rapidly. By this, she deduced that Trent had left and that she was alone now, except for the dark shadow circling around her.

Someone, help me. Please.

Angela prayed, certain she was in the presence of death, himself.

"I am not death," he said, then, as though reading her mind. He had a strange accent, drawing out each word a bit longer than necessary. But it was his voice that grabbed her, at once harsh and beautiful, and deeper than any she had heard before. His voice resonated with her and made her heart race, even as yet more tremors shook her, obliterating all thought for a while.

Help me. Please.

It was all she could think, over and over, while she convulsed before him, with her head thrown back helplessly.

"I cannot help you," he intoned, apparently without emotion. "You are in the throes of death and there is no force on this Earth that can save you from it."