The story of my people is told often as a legend, a campfire story. A gypsy woman begged the Moon to send her a husband, one whose skin was tanned and taut over sinuous muscle. The Moon replied to her request, assuring her that she would find her perfect man. In return for this miracle she asked for another. She wanted only her firstborn of this perfect man. The woman agreed hastily, as the moon had expected.
From a cinnamon-skinned father a son was born, "white like an ermine's belly," with gray eyes in lieu of brown. Truly the Moon's albino son.
The father damned the babe's appearance. Surely his new wife had dishonored him. He confronted her, demanding she tell him who her side lover was. He did not heed her protestation, nor her pleas. He stabbed her to death.
The babe, he abandoned high in the mountains, for he could not bring himself to harm the child.
It is said that the Moon saved the infant, taking him to her pale breast. When the moon is full, she is feeding her child. When the child cries, the Moon wanes to a crescent so as to make the babe a cradle.
As charming as this little bedtime story is, it is not entirely true. The woman was of the Cattraighe: an early Celtic tribe. The Moon is actually the Cat Goddess Reanddemal. The son was actually a daughter, born to pale-skinned parents... But her skin was completely devoid of pigment... and her eyes bore vertical slits in the center of large, orange irises.
The father believed the woman had lain with an incubus, and killed her in superstitious fright. He deposited both mother and daughter on the alter to Raenddemal, at the summit of a mountain. The child, he was unable to harm. The knife quaked in his hand, and fell uselessly to the ground. He fled, living to tell the tale that would evolve into the popular folk song.
The truth, though, is known only to that infant's descendants.
The baby's first meal was not suckled from a great, lunar mammary. She drank, instead, from the deep laceration in her mortal mother's neck. She was what the common mortal being might mistakenly call a vampire. The first, in fact.
We don't like to be called vampires. Vampires are the invention of overactive human minds. Things that turn into bats and wolves and speak with silly accents. Things with weaknesses to holy objects and silver, and can be killed as simply as having a stick implanted in their hearts.
I actually love garlic. I don't see how they think it's a repellant.
In truth, we have more in common with cats than with bats or canines. Our fangs resemble our feline sister's. We share similar tongues and eyes. We are nocturnal.
That is one of the only similarities I can find between our race and the mythical nosferatu. Our weakness to sunlight. It disorients us, and we are highly photosensitive. We burn easily. We do NOT burst into flames or fall to ashes in prolonged solar exposure. It's more extreme dehydration, skin damage, and accidental death. I've heard of Children falling down wells or over cliffs, walking into traffic due to daylight poisoning. Darwinism, really.
While we need to ingest blood to survive, it's not our only vice. I'll not muss the beginning of my story with crude explicit detail, but suffice to say we're somewhat... flesh-oriented. And while I may refer to humans as mortals, Moon Children do not live indefinitely. We just live... extendedly. We are not "undead." We are living, respiring beings.
To my knowledge, it is impossible to "create" a Moon Child simply by biting a mortal and allowing it to live, or by killing it in a certain way. We are born. That is all.
And, most important, we are not essentially evil. We merely have a different set of morals. One may mourn the death of a mouse under the paw of a cat, but the cat sees only food. The cat may learn to prey upon only specific mice, or perhaps grow a taste for birds... but the fact remains: prey is prey.
Prey is fairly easy to come by. It oft comes willingly. We Children are not without our wiles. Prey is drawn to us. Once bitten, a mortal may become a slave, thereby providing a renewable supply of sustenance. I've known Children who keep pets... I don't subscribe to their methods. I like a little meat with my wine, you see. I could tell you all sorts of lovely recipes... but I'll spare you the boredom.
Nothing can compare to that sensation... feeling one's fangs press into, then punch through resisting skin... it's nigh bliss. Feeling that red wellspring rush forth to flood one's mouth with silky flavor... metallic, savory, sweet, sometimes with a nuance of tartness. All knowledge a mortal possesses flows through their life-fluid. Drinking deep can open one's mind to their prey's. This is another tool of survival we Children keep.
Our patron goddess is still Reanddemal, and she has many names. Bast, Sehkmet, Catha, Palu, Shasti... but I chose to call her by her original name. The two d's are pronounced as the soft "th" in "brethren." Her proper name can also be shortened to Ddemal, or Themal. She manifests every full moon in her Children, and it is during the nights of lunar climax that we usually feast.
It was during one of these feasts that our lives changed dramatically forever.
Chapter 2
Themal was reaching her peak fullness, a night in late October. I had just ended a productive conversation via cam with an associate on the mainland. As it was my last of these calls, I proceeded to remove my guise. Humans notice little things... such as their conversational counterpart being pale as a corpse whilst living in island paradise. That, and the fact that I have the physical appearance of a sixteen-year-old human girl. When I wear contacts, that is. My actual age is not of particular import- long-timers like myself don't bother to chart our time in existence as humans do. Obsessed with time. The passage of the Great Theif Chronos.
I scrubbed at my face, removing the thick base and dark lipstick. Dawn was still a few hours away... I considered briefly visiting one of Maui's little local hot spots. The feast wasn't till the next night... a snack couldn't hurt. Especially if it was one of those spicy-delicious Polynesians...
That was when I heard the door downstairs shut quietly. I smirked, as my decision was made for me. The maid's week was up tonight, that's right.
I slinked down the lavish, velvet-padded staircase in nothing but my sheer satin robe. The "maid" had set aside his things and was stooped over a box of cleaning solutions and accoutrements. I draped myself languidly across a chaise longue, picking up a handy wine glass and watched him. My feline pupils were open to full circles, and I could feel them shrink back to slits when he turned on a light.
