a.) Whattheunholyfuck? Demonsarereal?!?! – and, b.) Eggs? Blood or flesh of beasts? ...Royalty?!
"Don't trouble your little mind, vampire..."
It says "vampire" like it's saying "simpleton" or "halfwit," "imbecile" or "shit-for-brains."
"What you don't understand could fill the charred-black void of my mother's infernal womb."
...Is that a lot?
I don't bother with the questions after that. Something tells me he (I assume it's a he due to him having no breasts and a masculine intonation) wouldn't waste his time explaining the nature of the universe to a "retardate," a "dullard," a "mud-brained, blood-sucking, undead dipsy-doodle-dumb-shit" or whatever. Instead, my concern – considering he isn't currently threatening to swallow my vampire soul – is for her... She still hasn't moved; eyes still cataract and empty, no heartbeat that I can hear, no aroma of the blood pumping through her veins.
"What..." I swallow hard, unsure if I should be asking. "What...did you do to her?"
Banging around my kitchen counter, he avows, "I did nothing." His voice is calm, unconcerned while picking at my cupboards and spice rack. (I was, at one time, experimenting with flavors in blood. As it turns out, any addition to it subtracts from its own, naturally desirable tang. Other than salt or sugar.) Removing a glass and sprinkling in a few choice ingredients, he clanks around ungracefully, his horns periodically scrapping off bits of my ceiling to add to the dust and soot already on his unkempt, black trench coat. "It is the nature of our arrangement," he explains unhelpfully.
"Did she not convey to you we'd be meeting, vampire?"
"She said— But, I didn't think—"
This guy is a bit of a dick...
I try to wrap my brain around all of this, looking over her delicate, supple...hollow features...
"We are entangled – but neither can exist together in one place at one instance."
"Entranced. Estranged. Presently not of this world."
"Exactly what I said, rodent."
"You...don't like people very much, do you."
"When you spend a near-eternity as their warden in Hell, their sniveling, pleading, and cursing tends to wear thin."
His guttural, cavernous voice force-feeds my mind images of sweaty, shrieking souls groveling at his feet in agony of the molten Hell they're trapped in, but it washes away in a blink when he steps from the tiny kitchen and into the visible dark.
With the electricity still off, the plethora of shades of red I see through my vampire eyes cut crisp details into everything. I can see jagged scars in his rocklike hide that weren't visible under the light of his fire-tipped tail; I can see vessels of what I could only guess is his blood teasing between the cracks in his skin, and the residue of recently consumed meat speckling his three-inch incisors... I can even see the different size particles and shades of three separate spices dancing in the glass of water he holds – its surface inhumanly steady with his movements, as if he could be standing on the roof of a crumbling building and never be threatened to spill a drop.
YOU ARE READING
The Journals of a Vampire ScribeVampire
In a world where preternatural creatures have recently surfaced as members of society, a young, not-so-good-with-girls vampire finds himself in the company of one he's not entirely sure what to do with, and stumbles through the reality-bending cons...