"The forests of Romania can be a dangerous place, my dear" I whispered as i clutched the oesophagus of a young blond female. I liked the blond ones, they were not stupid as some would think, but the fear they could produce was a drug. I licked my lips.
"But you don't care" I stared into her eyes, they were a hypnotic shade of blue. "You want to be mine for this moment of pleasure" I tighten my grip, but her horrified look melts away into one of pure ecstasy. I lean in toward her as i release my grip.
" ... yes ..." She mumbles, she's now just a jittering idiot with the mind equal to the avergae PE teacher. I run my toungue along a vein in her neck, tracing around her pulse. It would be at this point that the valliant human saviour would charge in, axe first, and give me the best end of an silver axe. Sadly, for her, we're not in a movie. This is, more or less, reality.
"enjoy the ride down" I open my mouth wide, it always feels as if it is to unhinge, but that is unimportant. My teeth are revealed to the vegetable of a human, a set of fangs grew from my canines. I bit into the flesh deeply, she simply drooled. Her eyes had most likely widened with the sudden terror, but it's hard to resist my 'charm'. I attempted not to chew on the meat as the narcotic plasma trickled down my throat. I clenched my jaw, my hands on her arms, I crushed the bone in my moment of pleasure and tore the muscle. Her warm tanned skin turned pale, the veins turning blue.
" ... lovely ..." The final word of the blond bombshell. I bit down one last time, getting what i could, and dropped the corpse. She was barely the same human i found wandering off the forest path. It was a mess. A torn out throat, and her arms clinging to her torso by the few strands of muscle, a lovley sight to behold after lunch. I walked away, stepping on the cadavre, crushing her ribs in a step.
"Disgusting, you're the fourth this week" i walk toward a large wooden door. I snapped my fingers and watched it dissolve in the air. Behind this door was the famed Castle Dracula. A sterotypical place for someone of my ethnicity to haunt, but the previous owner had bitten the dust, amongst other things, a long time ago.
I walked through the doors into the stone halls, candles lit around me, and there was a general sense of death in the air. I walked toward the far wall of this entrance hall. There awaited a large throne, yes, again, a stereotype. Atop this fancy chair was skull of some sort, maybe a fox. I sat upon the rotted cushion and placed my arms on the worn rests.
I myself am not the famed Dracula. I am not an heir. I am nothing to do with him aside his replacment. He gained his throne as the father of my kind by a gift from the big red man downstairs. Once gone, his contract fell to another. I am not a count, or even a duke.
I am Septimus Lionel, neglecting step daddy of the vamires.
