Chapter One...
It had only begun. Her fangs sunk into the man's skin, making a sound similar to that of an opening seal on a Snapple bottle. His blood flooded her dry mouth, reviving her ragged and worn body to the point she resembled something of her human self once more. Her ashen skin lightened with a sort of glow, the glow of life. Her matted and broken hair burned into a golden shimmer falling down the length of her back. Her eyes, dull and dark, began to glimmer their dark green. But she was not human. No matter how much blood she drank, she would never return to what she once was - an innocent.
Stepping onto the streets of New York with a hunger raging inside her, took all her might, but she managed to make it home. With her first kill, tremendous guilt ensued, and the water pouring down over her shoulders hid the tears that crept down her cheeks. She tried to wash everything away- the pain, the guilt, the blood... herself. Eventually, she knew she would adapt. She had to adapt or die out.
***
His head swam with anger at his own rage, and demoralized by her cruel comments. His wounds outside were no near to the depth of those inside his mind. People dodged his anger, quickly jumping to the other side of the crosswalk. He sighed, the walk relieving his anger, but not his wounded pride. He had tried his best back there. Briskly, he shoved open the bar door, stepping inside and pushing his way to the bar. "Whiskey, double shot," he demanded the bartender.
He didn't sense her. She had been a member of the damned for months now, and still the kill did not come easily. She smiled demurely. Michael Stone, she thought, the famous vampire hunter. It's my chance. Her intentions were suicidal.
The woman walked up along side him. She was beautiful. Her hair was long and blonde, curling up on the ends that kissed the top of her perfect ass. Her face was round, her two large green eyes competing for dominance against her full pillow lips. She was much shorter than he, and curvaceous. She smiled coyly at him, her eyes casting a downward glance. "Can I buy you a drink?" she offered.
Michael smiled.
***
They left the loud hubbub of the bar, stepping out onto the cold, concrete streets. Homeless lay about the sidewalks huddling near the steaming sewers. Whores lingered on the corners. Vampires haunted the alleys. This was reality, which most humans chose to ignore. Her shy attitude in the club had dissipated, and now she seemed distracted. Her gaze rested upon a man dressed in rags. Or maybe it was to the young woman on the corner leaning into an open car window. She sighed, sadly.
He looked at her and offered an encouraging smile. She shook her head and asked, "My place?" She smiled gently, like she had before in the bar. He followed her and smiled when she took his hand.
Her one-room apartment was a mess of empty bottles of southern comfort, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, and jars of drying paint. She partially opened the bedroom window, and removed her jacket. She lit a cigarette and pulled a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. She smiled and handed the bottle to Michael.
She disappeared from the bedroom and emerged from the bathroom in baggy paint covered pants and a black tank top. Pulling her hair up into a messy bun, she settled Indian style in the seat across from him, a sketch pad and charcoal pencil in hand. He was looking at the bottle. "So?" she asked, taking a large drawl from her cigarette.
He looked up at her. "What's your name?" he asked calmly.
"Marji," she responded without looking up from the clean sheet of paper in front of her.
The charcoal scratched the paper as she began to draw, she looked up at him seeing sadness in his eyes and drew those first. She had to capture those eyes. She sighed sadly once again, "Who are you and why are you so sad?" She continued to draw and listening to him. The cigarette crackled in her mouth.
"My name is Michael," he answered.
***
Three weeks later they found themselves the same place as they were the week before, and the week before that. Drinking and laughing in her apartment, only to hit the bottom and settle into silence. But this time was different. She had finished her first sketch of him the night before and smiled as she found him standing in her doorway. Quickly, she pulled him inside, a smile bright on her face. She sat him down on the edge of her bed, where the television played softly on channel 8.
She searched her bedside table, pulling out the sketchpad he had seen the first time he had been at her apartment. She was incredibly nervous, and as she lit her cigarette, she trembled. She turned to him, smiling, and handed him the sketch book, and waited anxiously. He looked at her strangely. "Please," she begged.
He opened the sketchbook and flipped through each drawing, each painting. Many of them hit him hard and he turned to look at her curiously. She just shrugged and let him continue on. He flipped the last page and smiled. She had drawn him. But as he looked closer, he noticed the eyes and how she had drawn them. They were the only bit of color on the page, and he recognized them. He had looked into the mirror several mornings and saw those eyes looking back at him, in fact he saw those eyes smiling at him wreathed in cigarette smoke - the eyes of a vampire.
***
She stood at the window, tears running down her face once again. He had not come to see her in two weeks. This was the third. She didn't think he'd ever come back, not after he had learned her secret. She sighed, preparing herself for what she planned to do as a way to slip away from this world. She drank all night, never stopping except to have a smoke. She filled the tub with cold water and ice, and slowly she stepped into the water. Her tank top and bikini underwear clung to her. One last puff of the cigarette in her hand, and she had fallen asleep, and soon drifted into unconsciousness.
***
Michael briskly walked, his mind in complete turmoil. He brushed past people on the street. And he stopped when he saw a man, struggling with the weight of life on his back. The man dressed in tattered clothes wandered down a back alley only to, he supposed, what the man called home.
The cigarette lay stranded on the white tile, marring it with black soot.
He knocked on her door, calmly. He knocked again when no one answered, growing more and more anxious. A neighbor stepped out of his apartment, locking the door behind him. He turned to Michael and nodded. "Is Marji in?" he asked the stranger.
He nodded, "She's a total drunk. This morning I heard nothing but yelling and screaming and glass bottles shattering."
"But is she here?" he asked again concerned.
"Yeah, she was running bath water about a half hour ago," he answered before walking down the steps.
