Blood Lust – A sassy vampire tale

 

 

BLOOD LUST

This is a fun story I wrote for a contest. Who doesn’t love a sassy vampire tale? Enjoy!

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Frank Rooney had been the manager of the Shop & Save for thirty-eight years, and he wasn’t retiring anytime soon.  He didn’t need to.  He’d been in the town of Cartage for three hundred years. The store had changed names over the decades, but Frank remained. In fact, the towering mountains surrounding the small hamlet would move before he ever did.

Vampires are creatures of habit.

Besides, the Shop & Save was an excellent front.

Frank worked the night shift, even on weekends. In the darkest depths of three and four am, prime hunting hours, history revealed almost no one came to the 24-hour store. He could flutter out unnoticed and make his deadly rounds. It also comfortably explained his white pallor.

“Hell, I haven’t seen the sun in almost forty years,” he chuckled to Fiona Watts one evening while she was picking up medication for her husband’s haemorrhoids.

“It’s amazing the shape you keep yourself in,” she replied while admiring his lean frame, hair still so dark and thick. She’d once caught glimpse of him, shirtless, and went home with fire in her loins, so hot, her husband, Allan, hadn’t been the same since.

Fiona, like every lady in town, wondered about Frank. They’d all heard the story of his first wife, Lucy, dead at the age of twenty-one from childbirth. He claimed to be too distraught to re-marry. While this was valiant, and wonderfully old fashioned, Fiona knew a man had needs. She’d dropped a few hints, carefully thought out, presented with just enough ambiguity that when Frank didn’t respond, she could still hold her head high. But he was in her thoughts night and day.

This is what drove her to kill Allan.

This is where the story starts.

Cartage was a small town, just under two thousand ramshackle residents. It was far enough away from the big city not to attract weekend warriors, and the inhabitants of the other micro towns scattered around it had no reason to travel elsewhere just to be bored out of their minds, when they could be bored at home, thank you very much.

The isolation was perfect for Frank. The less prying eyes the better. Still, he was wise and smart about his ways. He could travel at light speeds, faster than most vampires, and did his deeds in different cities, sometimes on different continents. Only when he was desperate, did he dip into the local fare. (‘Don’t shit where you eat’ was the common parlance.)

There was enough attrition and regular death in town he rarely had to worry about being fingered. People forgot. Moved on. He’d changed his name over the decades. Changed the name of the store. Rumours of his sexuality and age flew around with regularity and he’d opted to be a gentleman about both and keep mum. But every few years, there was someone.

In ’73 it was Hermann Wilde.  Evelyn Star in ’89.  Bobby Gorman was only ten in ’95 when he snuck into Frank’s house one morning. Poor kid soiled his pants so hard it ran down both legs when he came face to face with Frank in the dark basement. He was one of the few local tragedies.

And now, it was that damn Fiona Watts.

Ever since Allan’s accident, she was relentless. She came into the store, always at night when there were zero customers, and he had no choice but to interact.  All her innuendos were so obvious it killed him to play stupid. More than once he’d dreamt of his fangs deep in her white throat, her succulent blood. It was hard enough to keep her away as a human. If she became one of them, he’d never get rid of her.  So the tricky part was how to bleed her, satisfy his yearnings, and in the middle of the red frenzy, remember to end her life.

He would need to end it soon.

Frank and Fiona: both of them plotting death for very different reasons.

On the day of Allan’s untimely demise, in a sun filled kitchen, he ate a bowl of All Bran, capped himself at one cup of coffee and read the Cartage Post, slim pages of newsprint full of stale town gossip.  A lovely, hard working man, Allan’s limp had faded over the past year, like the volume of copper pulled out of the mine that almost killed him. He and Fiona had moved temporarily to Cartage a year prior as newlyweds. Allan was a mining consultant and the final hire at Cartage Copper. The mine was on its last legs and he was overseeing its wind up. An ancient adit collapsed one morning and he was lucky to be pulled out alive. He’d gotten used to his prosthetic limb but Fiona still shuddered when she saw it propped against the bedroom wall at night.

Otherwise, everything about Allan was pleasant. This wasn’t the worst adjective to be saddled with, and Fiona would concur, under oath if pressed, that there was no real rhyme or reason why she pushed him down the stairs one sticky August evening, other than she just wanted Frank. Badly.

Since his accident, Allan had been worried about Fiona. He didn’t have the stamina for sex like he used to and she had somehow become more insatiable. One night she came home with his pain medication and darn near ripped his bits off she was so voracious.  He liked it of course – he was only a man – but that level of lust was now beyond him.

He had always been friendly with Frank and Fiona spoke of him kindly. Everyone knew Frank was a staunch widower, but Allan wondered if there was someway he could benefit from Fiona’s needs. Allan was pragmatic this way. The trouble is, he just didn’t know how to bring it up.

If he did, he might still be alive.

The fall happened in agonizing slow motion.

He was hobbling on a crutch, giving his sore stump a rest from the prosthetic.  Fiona waited, peeked through the crack in the door of the upstairs spare bedroom. When Allan was about to negotiate the steep steps, she pounced. He was spared the look of determination on her face as he toppled, landing on the floorboards of the foyer with a disturbing crunch.

Breathless in the still evening air, Fiona gaped at his crumpled body. The fall had snapped his neck and death was instantaneous.  She edged down the stairs, one creak at a time, and navigated around his motionless body. With a stocking-ed toe she nudged his shoulder. Nothing. A strange peace fell over her.

Her full range of acting abilities was on display when the ambulance arrived.  Known for boundless enthusiasm and her warm nature, the police questioned her merely as a formality. They knew she had nothing to do with his death.

A hasty cremation and a few perfunctory tears followed. When the tuna casseroles and lasagnes stopped being delivered by the concerned townswomen, she sighed with relief.

Finally, Frank.

He was behind the counter, reading the latest John Grisham novel when she came in at ten pm. Again. In the past two weeks, she’d been outside his home on several evenings, pretending to be on a walk, slowing down to peek at the dark windows.  Then she came to the store. Frank was not amused. He was the one who did the stalking.

The bells on the door jingled as it closed behind her.

Fiona Watts, on a good day, could pass for thirty. Her auburn hair was bright, not brassy, and the curse of the freckled red-head had bypassed her. Skin the colour of fresh milk was plump in the right areas, toned in others.  She had made herself up carefully tonight.  Light makeup.  Low cut blouse with push up bra.  One spritz of drug store musk. It was the musk Frank smelled, even before he saw her.

“Well, hello,” she said with a flirty smile.

Her fevered blue eyes locked on his. That morning she had ploughed Allan’s ashes into the unkempt garden bed in their back yard.  If all went as planned, she didn’t want Frank to feel uncomfortable.

“Fiona,” he replied, immediately on edge. “I’m very sorry about Allan. My deepest condolences.”

She leaned against the counter with a dramatic sigh. “I know,” she said. “It’s been tough.  I didn’t realize how lonely I’d be.”

Good grief, Frank thought, as she batted her eyes at him. This is how it was going to be from now on, he could tell. He needed to end it.  “Let me know if there is anything I can do.” And, dropping his voice one octave lower, a forced twinkle in his black eyes, “You know I’m there for you.”

Fiona’s mouth popped into a shocked ‘o’. His voice sounded like silk. The message was clear. He had opened the door she wanted desperately to walk through. Quickly, she organized her thoughts.  “I could use some company now and then.”

“Why don’t I close early tomorrow night and come over?” Frank smiled, setting down the book. “I could bring some dinner. Steaks.”

His eyes flashed hungrily. Poor Fiona. Hormones raged like World War III inside her.  She could hardly believe it. He was looking at her intently, undressing her. Between her legs it was suddenly very warm. “That would be awfully sweet of you,” she demurred, heart racing.

“9 pm then?”

She had planned to purchase something, anything, just to talk with him.  Neither of them mentioned a lack of cash changing hands.  In a daze, she left the store and it took the entire drive back to her house to realize she had finally succeeded.

Back at the Shop & Save, Frank dimmed the lights. He too had succeeded.

The next morning Fiona flew out of bed. Weeks had passed since Allan’s death and the house needed tending to. With a flurry of bleach and Windex, she scrubbed and mopped. Around town, she bought organic produce from Janice, a bottle of wine from Gary.  She was tempted to buy a new dress but then, blushing, thought why bother if it was only going to be torn off. She shaved, exfoliated, plucked, masque-d and moussed. By 8:30 pm she had switched dresses four times, finally deciding, fittingly, in ways she couldn’t know, on a blood red sheath that miraculously didn’t clash with her hair.

At nine on the nose, the doorbell rang.

Frank stood on the doorstep, like a Princeling. He wore a French-cuffed white shirt that billowed softly in the breeze. His dark eyes sparkled.  There was an unusual scent around him, somewhat dank and foreboding.  She drank him in like he was the last glass of water in a desert.

“Good evening,” he said and held up a grocery bag and bouquet of roses. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Please, come in,” she said, finally finding her voice.

He drifted over the threshold, footsteps light.  “Shoes off?”

“Yes please.”

Inside her house, he seemed taller, larger. Manlier, if that was humanly possibly. Her head swam with the evening’s possibilities.

“Thank you for the flowers. Let me take that,” she said, and with bag and bouquet in hand, waved him into the kitchen.

He surveyed the open space carefully, eyes landing on the knife block. “Your home is very lovely,” he said.  And with a smile, forced his gaze back to her. “Like you.”

Her face flushed. This was going better than planned. “You’re too kind,” she giggled. “But I always knew that about you.”

Fiona actually knew nothing about Frank. He had had many names over the centuries but was born Stavros Francis Ogopolis II.  An ill-fated run in with the infamous Lord Eagan back in 1356 altered the course of his life forever. The Lord was one of the original vampires and for decades he had tutored under him. Together, they ransacked the European continent. Frank became brutally efficient. His only Achilles heel was becoming lost in the moment. Blood turned him on like gauche pornography did to mere mortal men.

He had come close to losing his immortal life on two occasions, when his victims fought back and he was in a bloody stupor. This would not happen with Fiona.  She would be naked and helpless, legs wide on her bed, expecting something very different when he struck. He wanted to get it over with.

She was arranging the flowers in a vase when he came up behind her. His hands were hot, resting lightly on her hips.  Yes, for a few seconds, Fiona forgot to breathe. He nuzzled against her neck.  “I was hoping we could eat later,” he whispered.

Slowly, she turned to face him. He looked down at her with his centuries old eyes. He licked his lips. He could see her throat – that gleaming creamy expanse – move up and down. Helpless, she could only nod.

In the Ikea kitchen of Fiona’s two-level home, where she had cooked the countless bland meals Allan favoured, she finally tasted heaven.

Frank wedged her against the counter, pretended like a professional, while shrinking inside at the feel of her eager tongue in his mouth. What he had to do to get a meal around here. When they parted, Fiona was dizzy, out of breath. Frank suggested they move upstairs and there was no resistance. Fiona held his hand, looking over her shoulder coyly as they mounted the stairs.

In her bedroom, scented candles were glowing on the chest of drawers.

Frank shook his head. How predictable.

With her prize fully in sight, nerves finally hit Fiona. “Do you mind if I freshen up first?” she asked.

“There is nothing better than fresh meat,” he joked, although not really. “Take your time.”

With girlish delight she dashed into the bathroom. Once the door was closed, with preternatural speed, Frank was back in the kitchen. He eased the chef’s knife out of the block, testing its blade. It was dull, but it would do. Back in the bedroom, he tucked it behind a stack of romance books on the bedside table, close enough to reach.  He unbuttoned his shirt and lounged on the bed, hands tucked behind his neck. Damn, he was hungry.

She came out draped in a robe and posed ridiculously in the doorway, one leg arced forward.  But, he admitted, she was beautiful. Annoying, but beautiful. He patted beside him.

“Come here.”

Fiona was close to hyperventilating. Frank’s shirt was splayed open, the rock hard chest she had seen months prior, about to be hers.  She eased beside him and his arm draped around her shoulders.

“Don’t you look lovely,” he said, and hid his smile.  His incisors were growing.

“Oh Frank,” she said, nestling into him. “I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.”

“And what were you thinking?” he asked absently, stroking her hair, focused on the vein that bulged on her bony hand.

That was it. With pent-up bravado, about to explode, Fiona busted a move. She sprang on top of him, jammed her tongue inside his mouth again, and pulled at his shirt with the vigor of a child ripping open Christmas Day gifts. Once he got over the shock of the attack, Frank took matters into his own hands. With his own speed and strength, he flipped her onto her back and ripped the robe away as she gasped.

It was exactly as he had envisioned.

Naked, her legs spread.

“You can do whatever you want,” she said, her voice weak with lust, body trembling.

Patience, Frank thought, and then, Fuck it.

He lunged at her throat and she shrieked, first with pleasure, then pain.  Hot, roaring pain.

“Frank,” she whispered. “Slow down.”

But he was gone.

His fangs ripped into her skin, warm blood gushing over the freshly washed percale sheets.  Unsure if it was the granddaddy of all orgasms, Fiona at first didn’t comprehend her sudden light-headedness. Then it became more difficult to breathe. The noise coming from Frank was guttural, not of this world. She had read all of Anne Rice’s books, Charmaine Harris’ too; the entire “Twilight” series several times over. Her fantasy, which she had told no one, was to be a vampire.

In those glorious seconds, the sting of her blood being sucked, she realized what was happening and couldn’t believe her luck.

Dopey with bliss, her head lolled weightless to the side and that’s when she saw the knife.  Her heavy eyes blinked at the blade. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. She didn’t put the knife there. The burn of deceit spiralled through her like DNA. Frank hadn’t come here to make her his vampire bride. He planned to kill her.

As he dug deeper into her throat, snuffling and gargling like a wild animal, she inched her hand closer to the knife.  She knew what to do, although it broke her heart. Living eternally with Frank would have been the cat’s meow.

Her strength, instead of draining, became bolstered as her body began to change and morph into the demon form she was about to become. She gripped the knife and brought it to her side.

“Frank,” she said, as loud as she could.

His head pulled up last as he sat on top of her, teetering. Dilated eyes were glazed and lidded. His tongue hung lasciviously between his two fangs. She had read about blood lust.  How it was the time vampires were the weakest. Gorged. Sated. It was now or never.

Fiona was petite but strong. Driven by anger, at the thrill of knowing her fantasy was coming true, she plunged the knife deep into his heart, so deep the wooden hilt disappeared. With an unearthly scream, Frank’s hands clutched at his chest. The white-hot blaze of their eyes, his dying, hers becoming un-dead, crossed paths. Then, his mouth, that beautiful mouth she had dreamed of, fell slack and he started to smolder. In less than a minute he dissolved into thin air.

On September third, Frank Rooney officially retired.

The townsfolk were dismayed when it became evident Frank had slinked out of town in the middle of the night with nary a goodbye. No one understood it. The Shop & Save remained shuttered for weeks and there was speculation if it would ever open again. Surprisingly, Fiona Watts took up the task.  None had imagined her as a shop keeper. If it struck anyone as odd that she continued in Frank’s ways, helming the night shift, while local boys manned the day shift, they kept their opinions to themselves.

Fiona never re-married.

Rumours swirled.

There was the odd occurrence of dead livestock and in 2029, Ms. Ainsley, an up and coming reporter who came into town on a hunch, disappeared.

The town of Cartage continued on.

To this day, Fiona still runs the Shop & Save.

She thinks of Frank every now and again, but only in the bloodiest of moments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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