Eve

The blood of Jesus is the wine of the dead
And the drunken angels bleed with incest.

Eve Ph�dre Kenketsu

``the first blood of night``

We embrace like two lovers at death, a mon
ument to the trapping of breath, as restrict-
ion is bled from the veins of my neck to drop
roses on my marbled breast. I lust for the
wind and the flurry of leaves, and the per-
fume of flesh on the murderous breeze, to
learn from the dark and the voices between.

I kill without scruple or silent regret, in
haunts of the sinister lunar aspect. For
I am the pleasure that comes from your
pain -tiny red miracles falling like rain.

Some would call her masochist; it was an inept phrasing that would never equal her respect for pain and its various plausible minstrations. Like an art form to be weilded, and she did it well enough - although it kept many at bay for fear of the warped complexities that ran their rabid paths within a seething sanguine

labyrinthe of a psyche. Jacinthe's pet torturer, she longed for his company like a lost heart longs for its soul mate, and it was not infrequent that she be driven to extremes for want of the only one that had ever come to fully understand her in all her raving fragments and facets. Pain was a for of exquisite art, to be spun like a tapestry is woven, of myriad threads of sensation and perception coaxed from the depths of one's body by her hand - much the way musicians coaxed such soulful notes from plucking the individual, varied strings of their instruments. It was her unyielding belief that all that was pure and beautiful reached its pinnacle moments before death, like the nova of a star moments before its full decay. She was fascinated by blood, and it was an intrigue that was likely fostered long before she came to accept the medium as her new source of life-giving bread, a course of nature which had blossomed long before, while still of mortal carriage. While the living was still of interest to the living.

I watch the storm approaching,
The darkness c a l l s my name.
The trees are growing restless -
They f e e l   the season change.
Their   f r u i t   h a s    putrified,
Forbidden once and bound to die
The thread of life lies s eve r ed
On   the brink of p a r a d i s e.

My lips may promise,but my heart is a whore
Come make me pure - B l e e d me your cure.

And if she was just as enamored by the turn of a blade to her own lithe physique.. well, it wasn't to be helped. Blood was

blood in any form, and any who could pull her tide through gentle and articulate minstrations of pain and pleasure was certainly one to be cherished. Unfortunately, since Jacinthe, there had been none. None with the core of steel smelted by fire that was needed for the task. None who could set aside the paltry awareness of sadism's lustrous fires and simply revel in its ultimate beauty. Some cherished her beauty, but never ceased to see the overlaying taint. She was wrong, twisted, bent... warped. Imperfect in spite of perfection. Appearance was certainly a thing spun of ethereal myths and wet dreams - hair was a silvery sheen of liquid lightning, foiling in a shimmer to hang to midback, mocking in its purity of tone. The eyes set to match were the perfect depth of sapphire, yet so dark and enigmatic the twilight tone, touching the depths of a velvet sky at nightfall, that one almost hastened to call it indigo, given the softer wreathe of violet along the outermost rim. And the devil shall come with the face of an angel, and you shall know it as your enemy.. Laugh at the thought, of course. She would never have dreamed of touching one who did not share her fetish. In her own way, she believed it to blemish the passion when played false.

What circumstances would eventually bring the lithe, eccentric huntress to the city of the Eclipse was shrouded in mystery, like all else about her. She arrived with all due grace, seeking whose hand of friendship she would, accepting what obvious praise and attentions she meritted. But then, none of them knew. She took none to her bed, for none understood. What she wanted.. no, no - what she needed - was likely far from what they were willing to give. Even vampires had a limit to the madness.. a brink they would not willingly pass. Hers stimply lay far.. askew.. their own.

"The universe appears to me like an immense, inexorable torture - garden . . . Passions, greed, hatred, and lies; law, social institutions, justice, love, glory, heroism, and religion: these are its monstrous flowers and its hideous instruments of
e t e r n a l h u m a n s u f f e r i n g."
The Torture Garden, Octave Mirbeau