dispatch2

I have roamed for years, seldom staying anywhere for long enough to call it home, although I keep a small house in New Orleans and a remote cottage on the moors of southern England.. I have not returned to Night Island for quite some time. Why, you may wonder? The answer is simple, I would rather not risk running into Armand, or any of the rest of the Coven. Solitude is not a welcome companion, but one I had learned to accept. Only recent happenings have changed that situation, but before I get into the present, let me tell you what my existance has been like up until now.

Many mortals have the desire to become one of us, just as I did. The lure of immortality is enticing. I can remember clearly the first night, after I received the Dark Gift, that I was alone, left to fend for myself. I had woken shortly after the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, rising from the darkness deep in the back of the ancient mausoleum. It had seemed an appropriate place to sleep, appealing to my rather warped humor, and as it was near by when the dawn approached, I had crept into its welcoming blackness, hoping no homeless creature had found it first.. Brushing the years of accumulated dust from my jeans and shirt, I pushed open the door, which hung askew from one rusty hinge and walked out into the night.

Raindrops fell with an eerie gentleness, like sentimental tears and I lifted my face to the sky, silently welcoming their cleansing moisture.. The hunger was not yet urgent, although I knew it would be, before long. On silent feet, I left the cemetary and walked for a while, enjoying the sound of the rain. In the distance, the noise of the streets gradually became louder as my steps drew me closer. Once in the town, I sought the back alleys, my eyes scanning for prey. After three blocks or so, my sharp night vision caught the glow of a cigarette, far back on a side street. Turning, I strolled casually towards the glowing ember. As I neared it, I realized from the sweet smell, recalled from my mortal days, that it was not a cigarette being smoked, but marijuana. The man, for such he was, looked towards me, his hand going to the pocket of his battered leather jacket. I judged him to be about 25, but the years had been hard on him. He had the haunted look of an addict, cheeks gaunt and dark shadows beneath his small, mean eyes. I put a smile on my face as I came closer, near enough to speak without having to raise my voice. ""Hey, man," I said, "Got any more of that to sell?"

His sly eyes appraised me. I knew what he saw. I had always looked younger than my years, even before receiving the gift. So he noted a young man, maybe 20, dressed in soft jeans and a leather jacket, not unlike his own but much newer. I held my hands out to my sides, palms forward, hiding the opalescent sheen of my nails, my gesture unthreatening and I noticed he relaxed. His hand withdrew from his pocket, which probably concealed a gun, or at least a knife and the tension in his shoulders eased. "Depends on how much you want, or if you'd rather have something else," his voice was rough as he continued.."Got some E, or 'Ludes or maybe something a bit more to your liking." Oh, wonderful, I had run into a genuine pharmacoepia. "What else are you talking about?" I asked as I crouched down near him, my moves unthreatening, as I tried to remember the jargon. "I need to catch a good high". I could almost hear the wheels turning in his little mind as he came to a decision.. 'I can get him stoned then roll him for his money. Maybe enough to restock with some good stuff to make a profit and get that whining broad of mine something to shut her up for a while.' His devious thoughts were crystal clear to me, but my expression remained blandly congenial. I could smell his blood as it pulsed through his veins and a pang of hunger shot through my belly. Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out several small bags. "Got some crack or tar heroin. Pick your poison."

Silently thanking the ancient ones, whose blood, no matter how diluted, flowed through us all, I was on my feet, almost faster than he could see. My forearm was across his throat as I slammed him back against the rough stone wall. My other hand went to his arm, which had instinctively reached for whatever weapon his pocket held. I laughed softly as my fingers closed around him, the grip vise-like, pressure increasing until I felt the bone give beneath my long, pale fingers and he let out a sharp scream, quickly cut off by my arm pressing against his throat. Stunned by the unexpected pain, his broken arm hanging limply, he looked dazedly into my eyes. What he saw there could not have been pleasant, but I was not in the mood for niceties. Wrenching his head to one side, I sank my fangs deep into his throat, piercing the jugular vein. The blood spilled into my mouth, warm and salty. I could feel the heat of his skin through the leather and he moaned and pressed against me. 'This is the ultimate high.'.. My thoughts slipped into his head, twisting among the lobes of his brain as I drew on him slowly, enjoying the blood flowing down my throat and through my body, enervating me. The beat of his heart was in rhythm to mine, but as I continued to drink, it began to slow, occasionally missing a beat.

His body weakened, grew lax until all that supported him was my grasp. The heart beat hesitated, beat twice and then paused again as I pulled away from him, letting his empty body slide down the wall, to land in a limp, crumpled heap... a hollow shell of what had once been a living human being. Bending over him, I rifled through his pockets, pulling out the small snub-nosed pistol, which I crushed in one hand, before discarding it among the trash of the alley. The drugs I emptied from their small bags, grinding them under foot on the damp concrete. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I wiped the remaining blood from my lips with the back of my hand. "Not bad, Molloy. Dinner and also ridding the world of one more dealer. Turning into a proper philanthropist.' Chuckling to myself, I left the alley and the empty corpse, briefly wondering what the police would make of a drained body, but not really caring, as I planned to be gone from this place before the following night was over.