Prologue
I never asked for this.
I had no desire for this darkness that resides in my veins. Most people would envy the immortality. The eternal youth. But I can’t appreciate the seduction of the subtle perks with such a black soul.
I wish I could describe to you what it feels like. Most would call it a hunger, but I remember what hunger feels like to a human. It’s so much more than that.
Humans become hungry because their bodies need food to survive.
For my kind the hunger goes deeper. Our souls need the blood to survive.
Humans might devour or inhale their food, but my kind… we ravish.
That’s how I was turned, in any event.
I know that, ever since Bram Stoker, a romantic idolization of being bitten has engendered in popular culture. As thought the sexual energy residing behind the penetrating bite was alluring.
And maybe it’s different in other cases. But as I’ve mentioned, I wasn’t the luxury of a choice.
I was nineteen when it happened. A sophomore in college.
I lived on campus, sharing a cramped room with three other girls. We weren’t the closest friends, but we got along just fine. Amanda was the nerdy science type while Brie was all for sorority pledging.
In hindsight, I appreciate the irony of it happening to me when Amanda worked late and along in the labs and Brie pranced from party to party. The two of them always walked alone at night. I was the good one – I called for police escort every time.
Well, every time but once.
I guess that’s how fate works, though. Patiently waiting for that one time.
I had been studying late in the library with a group of friends. As we were leaving, complaining about the stupidity of general education classes, we all began walking together along the main path. My dorm was the closest to the library. My friends offered to see my to the door, but the building was right in sight. I urged them to continue on, they still had quite a trek to their rooms. I promised I would be fine.
I promised.
I jogged down the well-lit side path as my friends disappeared out of sight.
I almost made it to the door when I was grabbed from behind. A frozen hand clamped over my mouth. I was so surprised I don’t even think I tried to scream until I’d been dragged to an isolated spot where no one could hear me.
Remember what I said earlier about the whole seduction part of the bite being a load of crap? Well, it is. Unfortunately, the sexual arousal part of it was not crap. Listen, I’m not here to go into gory details, but let’s just say my soul was not the only thing I lost that night.
Again, looking back, I understand I was meant to die. And I would have, if it hadn’t been for her.
As I lay there, assaulted and seeped in my own blood, I could my body convulse, begging death to take me from this sickening world.
Instead, I was sent an angel.
The moon beamed upon her alabaster skin, illuminating her delicate figure past the cloudy haze of my losing consciousness. Her vibrant red hair seemed to reflect the blood surrounding me – pulsating with a new sense of life.
“Come now,” she crooned. “Don’t give up that easily.”
She knelt down by my head and bit her forearm.
“Open up.”
My mouth snapped open at the command, eager to please the magnetic hold of her silver gaze. She placed her dripping arm over my mouth and ordered me again.
“Drink.”
I closed my eyes as the thick syrup assaulted my tongue. Imagine every delicious meal you’ve ever had. Now try to pick out that one bite that was the most savory. All those bites from all those meals were reflected in her blood. Drinking from her was the most satisfying feast of my life. Wryly appropriate for my last meal. Well, of my mortal life, anyway.
Her blood slunk into my veins, corrupting my purity with the haze of strong wine.
My convulsions subsided as I lost consciousness. And that’s the last thing I remember about my old life.
Oh.
My attacker?
Yes, I remember him. It’s funny, that’s another fact the fiction writers got wrong: memories. The stereotype of mortal life being a blur is a complete fallacy. Your mortal memories are the strongest. I see them play before my eyes constantly. It overpowers my senses, nearly knocking me down with the suddenness of the flashback.
The strength of our mortal memories are part of our punishment, you see. A reminder of our lack of a soul. An admonition that we no longer have a life, that we are dead.
So, yes. I remember my attacker vividly. I don’t think I could ever forget that face, even if my mortal memories did dull. I wish I could erase that part of my life. But the violence of the deed is engrained in my memory for eternity.
