The small town had become abuzz with news of black demons running amok; sparking off mass lynching’s of any colored folks whose only crime was that they resembled what white folks considered ‘demonic.’ He knew that the Klansman were still out looking for more black demons.
He spotted a group of them; he pretended to be just an innocent traveler passing through. One of them stopped to warn him of the creatures.
“Say fella, you best be careful. There be some black demons running around in these parts; we just killed one last night.”
Darben's blood began to boil. “Who was it?” he asked coolly.
The man, sporting a rifle, had that 'shit-kicker' grin on his face. Just another dumb-shit minus the sheet and hood. “Some nigger gal. She was a black demon.”
Darben smiled wildly underneath his mask, mimicking a southern accent. “So I guess yawl strung her up, huh?”
The man laughed. “You bet your ass we did.”
Darben joined in with a slow, demented laugh which continued well after the man had stopped. He watched as Darben continued laughing; his face contorting, the blood draining from his face at the sight of Darben’s fangs. The man swallowed hard, looking horrified. Like the walls of an overwhelmed dam, suddenly, Darben’s rage broke free. His attack was vicious; first taking on ten, then twenty of them, now finding himself surrounded by at least some sixty-five of those responsible for the murder of Natalia. He toyed with them as they shrieked and screamed in agony. With his sword, he disemboweled the oversized bellies while shrieking victoriously at the top of his lungs.
Brutally dismembering some of their bodies with his bare hands, he was deep in a blood lust; they were outmatched by him and his sword. He dodged their feeble bullets. His jet black hair flung about wildly as his sword sliced through bone and marrow. He relished it as blood splattered upon his face.
When he was finished, he was colored from head to toe with the shade of crimson, with his sword bathed in their blood. He stood tall over a small mountain of severed limbs and heads; taunting and cursing at them as he picked them up, flinging them as far and as high as he could. Their blood had left puddles in the grass. Later, he made it as far as sixty miles from town that night; finding a place to day slumber before journeying forward.
Forty years had passed. Existing for so long was meaningless, he often thought. There was need for work, need for pleasure, and need to feed; but there was no purpose to it all. Although they had little time together, the hurt from losing Natalia was just as raw now as it had been at the time of her death. Often he had reasoned that maybe he should have died with her. She had brought him the greatest joy and pleasure he had ever known. Before her, he might as well have been dead. She taught him how to laugh, and the story of her people broke his heart. There was a saying among the mortals: that time heals all things. However, a broken heart never heals. Now, he often indulged heavily in drink while attempting to satisfy every erotic desire he'd ever wished or imagined. But nothing seemed to work. How much longer could he bear to live under the weight of his mourning for her? He vowed to never love again; spending most of his nights feeling a sense of loneliness. Finding himself in the vicious grip of depression.
Being the oldest vampire he knew of, he still found himself isolated from the others because of the name he was made under. The vast amount of riches he was able to amass did little to compensate for being without his family and the love of his life.
However, he couldn’t see it then, but a telegram from England would lead him to stumble upon something that was sure to re-awaken a forgotten dream. He was now making a rare, short visit to London, conducting business for his trading and goods business. He went out one night in search for an old friend, entering into a pub. But he didn’t find him. Yet before leaving the place, his attention was drawn to a book that had been left by someone on a table. The title raised his curiosity.
