The Vampires Beacon

Part One

The castle on the hill could be seen from every vantage point throughout the entire village, even at night, when it was little more than a deeper, darker shadow against the night sky. Tonight it looked like nothing more than an absence, a jagged hole set against the air. In some way, this seemed to accentuate its size to the point where its sharp towers seemed to force their way amidst the stars rather than simply squat beneath them.

Of course, it was a lie to say it was total void. That had never been true and, for all the townspeople knew, never would be, for in the very heart of that silhouette a light, as bright and clear as a ruby, glowed quietly in the night air. It was the light coming from a tall arched window set high up in the tower and it was always there at night. It was the only evidence the townspeople ever had that, despite their wishes, despite their deepest, desperate prayers, the castle was still occupied.

Although the light could be seen in all four corners of the town it was never spoken about, never acknowledged, and the people in the valley below simply went about their business. If a stranger to the town ever stopped to enquire about the castle, about the light, then the conversation was quite politely, although very firmly, changed. From time to time of course, and for one reason or another, various curious individuals balked at the superstitions of their peers and climbed the steep hill to the castle. Their disappearances were mourned with due diligence although, in their private hours, most of the population had little sympathy with people who went looking for trouble, and duly found it. There were precautions to be taken of course, but these were done without unnecessary dramatics. The numerous rules passed down to each younger generation were very clear and were, on the whole, obeyed.

Natasha, from her vantage point at the window of her large bedroom, looked out into the night, across the darkening town, towards the light, and shuddered. It was shining clear tonight and it held her attention. It had always been a source of fascination to her, and she frequently found herself staring at it. Particularly when she felt troubled. She was never sure why, although she supposed it placed her own problems in context if she reminded herself there was far worse things out there in the world than her petty difficulties.

Below she could hear the voices of several men and although they were indistinct, she could guess whom they belonged to, and what they were saying. Methodically, and without her being there, her whole life was being mapped out. Suitors were being discussed, dowries negotiated, and she could feel the last few drops of freedom slowly leaking away. She was young, too young in her eyes, although in a few months she would be celebrating - if that was the word - her twentieth birthday. Her father had died over ten years ago, and no one spoke about her mother. This had left her in the care of her uncle and, although he was a long way from being one of the stereotypical evil stepfathers in fiction, it had clearly not been part of his life plan to raise another man's child. He had been kind and generous, although it was clear that he now thought he had done his bit, and that the burden should be passed on to someone else. She had argued against this, expressing a preference for education, for work. Her uncle however was traditional and would have none of it. She was to be married off and her affairs would then become the business of her husband, and not him.

Predictably, enough, many eligible men had approached her uncle to express their interest. She did not fool herself that this was because she was, in herself, considered a catch. Her uncle was wealthy and most young men would overlook her own eccentricities if it meant a lifetime of financial security. She was pretty, she knew that, but it was a morose kind of beauty, more at home in a dusty library than an exotic ballroom. There was a reason for this; she often found solace in books, in solitude. She immersed herself in the lives of long dead men or women, dreaming their dreams, living their lives. As a result, she had cultivated a fierce intelligence, one that she did not attempt to hide despite the obvious discomfort of others who were not used to such frankness in a woman.

However, if asked to describe her appearance most men of the town would have used the term 'bewitching', if a little grudgingly. Her long black hair framed her thin face, making its already pale skin look almost ethereal. Her eyes were dark and thoughtful. She usually wore dark clothes, simple and unshowy.

Many saw her as arrogant. This had certainly been the view of Alexander, the young and pompous son of the mayor. He had approached her, with the blessing of her Uncle, and asked for her hand in marriage. Her refusal had baffled the young man and he had not taken rejection well. She admitted she could have dealt with it better, but there had been something about the man that unsettled her and she was sure that any bride in his house would be little more than an ornament to be brought out at special occasions. This opinion had only been enforced at a later meeting where, finding her alone in her uncle's garden, he had tried to force himself upon her. With a shudder, she forced this memory to the back of her mind. She had fought him off, and from what she had seen that night, the scratch marks on his face showed little sign of loosing their vibrancy. This at least made her smile, for all her bookishness, she had a wild side which she chose to keep hidden most of the time.

Through the window, she saw the last of the visitors leave, her uncle waving them off with a cheery smile. She saw Alexander among them and quickly backed away lest she should be seen. She supposed it had been too much to hope that he would have given up his hunt for money and position. With a sigh, she began to ready herself for bed. She kept the drapes open and, as she closed her eyes, the last thing she saw was the light from the castle tower.

In her dreams, the red light became a fire, fierce and bright, burning on the shores of some wild and huge ocean. A warning perhaps, for ships that came to close and dash themselves against the rocks.

Part 2

It was one o'clock in the morning and Alexander was drunk. He was drunk and angry. So angry in fact that he had taken no pleasure with the whores at the local brothel. He had caused something of a scene, damaged a rather expensive vase, and had left leaving a few choice words about the women's general level of hygiene. As he had staggered down the road, the madam had hurled abuse back at him and announced to the world that his custom was no longer welcome. This did not trouble him; he was too rich and too well known for them to ignore him for long. Maybe, when he was sober, he would visit them again. However, not now. Now, he had to teach that stuck up frigid bitch a lesson. Who did she think she was? She should be grateful, even honoured, to have his attention. He did not kid himself that he was in love with the woman; it was just that he had taken her acceptance for granted. It was her rejection that gnawed at him and he simply could not bear the thought of her laughing at his humiliation. In his drunken state, he had come up with the perfect solution.

The house of Natasha's uncle stood out clearly in the moonlight. Alexander forced himself to wait a full five minutes to make sure the house was asleep. He occupied himself by sitting on a nearby wall and taking long swigs of the bottle of wine he had liberated from the brothel. When he was sure, all was well he placed the bottle on the ground and began to climb the thick vines that clung to the front of the house. The going was slow and he almost fell on more than one occasion but he eventually made it to her balcony, swinging himself over the wooden rail to sit, gasping for breath, in front of her window.

He forced himself to control his breathing and listened carefully for sounds within. There was none. As he sat there, he gazed at the large window and, more importantly, on the numerous metal and silver talismans nailed along the wood. He knew what they were. Every town member had them nailed to window frames and doors. They were wards, protection from the night.

It was now that his plan changed. It had been his intention to administer the punishment in person, but now a more subtle, darker plan occurred to him. He suppressed a giggle, impressed by his own cunning. Why take the risk himself? Why not let another do the dirty work? Smiling, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small knife. Silently, he set to work.

Part 3

The Vampire's eyes opened onto darkness. Something had changed. He could sense it.

At first, he assumed that there was some threat, some intruder, but he quickly discounted this thought. He could sense the borders to his castle and they were all secure. He rose from his resting place of earth and sniffed the air. Even here in the cellar, he could sense a change in the night air and the sense of familiarity was overwhelming. He knew this feeling and yet he could not place it.

He walked quickly to the tower room, climbing the stairs three at a time with his long powerful legs. The lamp was burning as it always was, almost blinding his sensitive eyes. He did not, however, lower the flame, it was a reminder for those who would forget and he would never allow it to be extinguished.

Crossing to the window he looked down onto the sleeping town and it did not take him long to see the source of the disturbance. Where before he could sense nothing in the darkened, deadened, blocks of buildings below, there now was a small chink. A small glimmer of life. One of the wards had failed. His hunger rose in him, a tidal wave he continually kept in check but which now threatened to drown him. He realised it could be a trap. Was almost certainly a trap. And yet he could almost hear the heartbeat of the one within that house and he remembered that he had not fed in nearly a year. There was no choice, trap or no, he would visit the town.

Climbing more stairs even more urgently now, he found his way to the battlements. For the first time in months, he felt the cold night air on his face, the wind blowing his long white hair. He closed his eyes, savouring the sensation, a small smile played on his thin lips. And then, when his eyes opened, they focused on the town below him and, murmuring a few words, he took flight. His body flouting upwards as if caught in a breeze and then down into the waiting town. The feeling of flight, the intoxicating taste of freedom, overwhelmed him and he let loose a high peeling laugh.

He had no trouble finding the house. The life inside called to him like a beacon and he swooped down onto the wooden balcony. What he found puzzled him greatly. The wooden frame surrounding the window had been vandalised. Each ward had been carelessly pulled out. Again, he sensed a trap and sniffed the air suspiciously. And it was then the sense of life flooded his nostrils and he was lost.

Taking deep breaths, he stepped forward and placed the palm of his hand against the glass. It seemed warm to his touch. Looking through the glass into the darkened room, he could see the bed directly opposite him, and the long dark hair of the figure slumbering peacefully. Her face was turned away from him but the covers were pulled down almost to her waist. His breath caught as he took in the contours of her breasts beneath the pale white of her nightdress, gently rising and falling. She was beautiful. From here, the strength of her life was almost overpowering and, starved as he had been for so long, he hesitated. It occurred to him to leave. To leave her in peace to live out her life. And yet, even as he considered it, he lowered his hand to the window frame and, with a slight move of his hand, the handle on the inside of the window turned.

Part 4

The pane opened with a low, sustained creak. The figure in the bed moved and the vampire, inexplicably, froze. He was used to taking his victims quickly; from behind if necessary. End their life fast so he could drain their cooling bodies at his leisure. He was a hunter; he had had to be to survive. And yet, he hesitated from entering the room. A flicker of fear seemed to stitch its way across his bowels. This was not a fear of enemies or of death; he was no stranger to either; this was different.

Natasha had woken at the sound of the creak and she knew instantly its source. She also knew instinctively what had caused it. Alexander! It had to be. She had been a fool to think he would have taken such rejection like a man. She did not want to look towards the window, and so remained still, her face turned away. She considered calling for her uncle but he slept in the far end of the house and she was far from sure he would come to her aid even if he was nearby. Alexander, after all, was a very powerful man.

She lay there, head turned away from the window, her heart beating hard in her chest. The silence seemed unnaturally heavy. And then, she heard the light tread of a footstep and she turned her head to face her intruder.

At first, all she could make out was the shape of a man, silhouetted against the light from the open window. The figure was tall with a mass of white hair, which seemed to catch and absorb the falling moonlight. She could not make out the figure's face, lost as it was in the shadows of her room but she realised, with a sharp thrill of horror, that whoever it was, it was not Alexander. With a startled cry she sat up, bringing the bed sheets up to her chest in a futile protective gesture as her mind raced.

Before she had time to collect her thoughts, the figure began to move for the first time, slowly, and with an almost unnatural stealthiness for one so large. The figure moved away from the window and began to circle the bed. As it did so, the light from the moon outside fell on its face and, with a cry of horror, Natasha realised for the first time who this visitor was.

His skin was pale, and the lines of the centuries lay heavy on his face. There was something of the wolf about his look and, it was not simply the angularity of his features, nor the bright gleam of his eyes. His very nature seemed feral. An impression, which was only enhanced when he sighed. It was a low plaintive sound that seemed more at home in a moonlit forest than here in her bedchamber.

But it was his eyes that held her as they glimmered coldly in the darkness and, with a sense of horrified fascination, she realised that she was unable to look away. She did not move from her position on the bed, and her eyes widened in fear as the demon from her childhood stories slowly placed itself between her and the door.

The silence lay heavy on the room. She expected it to speak, and yet it remained silent, its eyes burning with an intense hunger. She felt the intensity of his desire, the absolute need for her, and the realisation came as something of a jolt. The power of the creature's lust was palpable and, as it began to close the gap between them, she saw that every line on his face was etched with a cruel and savage longing. The rational side of her mind screamed out her danger and yet, the sheer power of the emotions radiating from those eyes held her fixed and silent. She knew instinctively, without any words being spoken, that his was no lust for money, or power, or family position. This was far more primal and honest than that, it was a hunger for her, and the sheer strength of it made her breathless.

As the vampire began to close the distance between them, she found that, for some unknown reason, she did not want to move. This made her even more afraid as she could not understand her own reaction but there was no denying that, amidst the fear, there a was a growing ache, a need of her own to match the need she could feel coming from him. The smell of earth was about him, earth and dust, and it all seemed so familiar.

The vampire held her gaze as he approached, as he had with other victims in the distant past. A past where he had taken pleasure in this moment, savouring the last drop of fear before he took them. And yet, there was something different here, and he could not explain it. Her youth and beauty were more than he could have hoped for. Again, he felt the pang of guilt, the shame that had stayed with him down through the centuries. And yet, he knew his own weakness, and the smell of her blood as overpowering.

He gently sat down next to her on the bed. His face, inches from hers, her eyes were wide and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. He knew he should be quick, for her sake as well as his, and yet, he could not resist bringing his hand up to touch her cheek, brushing her hair away from her face.

His hand was cold, and she gasped at the touch, instinctively bringing her own hand up to touch his. This movement not only surprised her but also appeared to startle the vampire. He attempted to snatch his hand away and his mouth contorted into a snarl. For a second, he seemed more animal than human, his teeth, white and sharp in the gloom of the bedroom. Anger flashed in his eyes as his hand closed around her throat. She stiffened, a small gasp coming from her, but she did not struggle. She felt the strength coursing through the hand at her neck, not squeezing but firm, immovable. She was aware, like never before, of her own fragility; of the fact that she was clearly and completely, at this creature's mercy. And yet the fear she felt was not the fear of death. She was experiencing thoughts and feelings she could not understand; and the fact that she did not understand them scared her more than anything else. But still, she knew what she wanted to happen next.

There a much about this woman that confused him, unsettled him, and again he asked himself why he had not ended this. As if in answer, the woman, her eyes fixed on his, took his hand from around her neck, an act so gentle it never occurred for him to resist, and brought it down to feel the swell of her breast beneath her nightdress.

This was so unexpected that, again, he sensed a trap, but her eyes held him and, unbelievably, he found he could not look away. His hand massaged her through the cotton, feeling the heat from her skin, the curve of her breast, full and firm in his palm, and beneath it all, the fast, insistent drumbeat of her heart. He gazed at her face, unable to hide his surprise. She did not avoid his gaze and for a long while they stayed that way. Both of them unsure; neither of them wanting to make the first move.

Finally it was he that acted first. He could wait no longer and Natasha sensed his growing need, mirroring it with her own. She no longer sought to understand her own actions; she only knew that she did not want to stop him. She held back her terror as he leaned forward, slowly as if to give her every opportunity to resist. She felt his breath, cold as a mountain breeze on her skin and, just before his lips touched her throat, she found the strength to raise her chin, tilting her head to one side, and her eyes fixed on the moon outside.

His lips were as cold as the hand on her breast when they lightly brushed against her neck and, at its first touch; she shuddered with the shock of it. For a moment she recanted, reason at last returned and she opened her mouth to scream. The scream never came as, at that moment, the lips at her throat were drawn back and she felt the hard press of the vampire's teeth as they broke the skin of her taut neck. The scream became a stifled cry of shock as she felt a jolt of pain run from her ear to her shoulder. She clutched onto his shoulders, steadying herself as, even now, it never occurred to her to struggle. After a short while the teeth retracted from her skin and she felt his tongue moving to cover the wound. The pain subsided and for a short while the only feeling in her world was his mouth on her skin and the only noise were the gentle, moist sounds of him drinking.