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Although Wimbeldon is part of Greater London and has been since 1965, it is still very much a de facto independent jewel-box municipality. There's a beautiful, cozy shopping district... a section for stylish flats and a secluded quarter, privately set aside for manor houses. If you're in The States, think Riverdale in New York, or Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia and you'll know what I mean.
Francis and Miranda love to visit the big houses, sometimes as guests... sometimes as something else. They stand there, waiting by the side of a bed in a still, dark sleep chamber. Often taking turns. One hides in the deepest shadows. One stands in a moonbeam. You know, the best draperies almost always let a little bit leak in.
And night-folk can wait for hours. Vampires are adept at such things. They can drift away into an almost out of body experience and savor the flavors of far off places. Francis dreams of undersea cities ruled by the Mer-King , bathed in cold, blue light emanating from huge, tree-like, crystalline channels, the remains of giant corals, housing immense colonies of phosphorescent, ancient microbes. Boulevards of such things line stately thoroughfares and smaller 'shrubs' front all the houses. Such a perfect place for those adverse to light.
So he stands there, like a dazed statue, while Miranda inventories the shoes.
Then the victim stirs. perhaps she farts and curls up tight in an attempt to forestall peeing. Ah, the covers feel so good. Even the best houses get chilly at night. But the tightening of groin muscles can only do so much, so she opens her eyes and peers into the near-black charcoal grey, contemplating the five meter dash to her neo-Edwardian en suite.
Two heartbeats later, minute fibers deep inside the cranial orbits begin to focus. And then she sees it, a human hand not two feet from her face, pale and white in the gloom. At first it seems disembodied, a gruesome piece of human carnage floating in the night. It's a dream. It's a dream. It must be a dream. And the 'pee pinch' disappears, for just a little. Then the irises dilate, allowing a few more ghostly photons to dance through the pupil and die upon the retina.
She sees the outline. She sees the body, all in black. The face is smooth and young... relaxed. The eyes are dazed, still swimming with the mer-folk. And she pees a little. The smell instantly wakes him. He looks down and smiles. She screams, but there is no sound. His magic can do that.
This one has hurt people. This one has killed. Mean girls can do that with words.... their own sort of evil magic. It oozes from the pores.... A frenzied sampling of pills gathered from the leavings of public school fledglings eager to test their talons.
And the Honorable Maude Harcum, great niece of a Viscount, stood there watching as a lesser girl passed away.
Well, tit for tat, as they say. This time it's her turn. Francis kneels down, takes her hand, kisses it and bites off a finger. She shudders and pees the bed, bathed in the wet , hot stink..
All she can do is gasp 'please..please..please.'... as he laps up the blood from her wound. She tries to kick him, aiming for his doggy parts. But he punches her square in the stomach. Francis is not one for games. Then he twists her head, exposing the neck and goes in for the kill.
Miranda creeps out from her hiding place, wearing a new pair of costly shoes. And Tomas is right behind. They take in the scene and wave at the girl as she gives up the ghost and melds with the shadows, reluctant to leave her form. Ectoplasm hangs in the air like smoke, til Francis bats it away with an impatient wave of his hand.
They watch small, blue flames skip across the body, joining together and burning it up. The sheets remain... the coverlets and the pillows. But the naughty girl is gone. And a tiny Lhasa Apso runs out from 'neath the bed, leaps up onto the embers and laps the grease away.
Miranda whispers - Was she good?
And Francis answers - Very.... as Tomas' appetite begins to grow...
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thank you. for more, please click THIS ... your COMMENTS and personal LINKS are always welcome.
Francis and Miranda love to visit the big houses, sometimes as guests... sometimes as something else. They stand there, waiting by the side of a bed in a still, dark sleep chamber. Often taking turns. One hides in the deepest shadows. One stands in a moonbeam. You know, the best draperies almost always let a little bit leak in.
And night-folk can wait for hours. Vampires are adept at such things. They can drift away into an almost out of body experience and savor the flavors of far off places. Francis dreams of undersea cities ruled by the Mer-King , bathed in cold, blue light emanating from huge, tree-like, crystalline channels, the remains of giant corals, housing immense colonies of phosphorescent, ancient microbes. Boulevards of such things line stately thoroughfares and smaller 'shrubs' front all the houses. Such a perfect place for those adverse to light.
So he stands there, like a dazed statue, while Miranda inventories the shoes.
Then the victim stirs. perhaps she farts and curls up tight in an attempt to forestall peeing. Ah, the covers feel so good. Even the best houses get chilly at night. But the tightening of groin muscles can only do so much, so she opens her eyes and peers into the near-black charcoal grey, contemplating the five meter dash to her neo-Edwardian en suite.
Two heartbeats later, minute fibers deep inside the cranial orbits begin to focus. And then she sees it, a human hand not two feet from her face, pale and white in the gloom. At first it seems disembodied, a gruesome piece of human carnage floating in the night. It's a dream. It's a dream. It must be a dream. And the 'pee pinch' disappears, for just a little. Then the irises dilate, allowing a few more ghostly photons to dance through the pupil and die upon the retina.
She sees the outline. She sees the body, all in black. The face is smooth and young... relaxed. The eyes are dazed, still swimming with the mer-folk. And she pees a little. The smell instantly wakes him. He looks down and smiles. She screams, but there is no sound. His magic can do that.
This one has hurt people. This one has killed. Mean girls can do that with words.... their own sort of evil magic. It oozes from the pores.... A frenzied sampling of pills gathered from the leavings of public school fledglings eager to test their talons.
And the Honorable Maude Harcum, great niece of a Viscount, stood there watching as a lesser girl passed away.
Well, tit for tat, as they say. This time it's her turn. Francis kneels down, takes her hand, kisses it and bites off a finger. She shudders and pees the bed, bathed in the wet , hot stink..
All she can do is gasp 'please..please..please.'... as he laps up the blood from her wound. She tries to kick him, aiming for his doggy parts. But he punches her square in the stomach. Francis is not one for games. Then he twists her head, exposing the neck and goes in for the kill.
Miranda creeps out from her hiding place, wearing a new pair of costly shoes. And Tomas is right behind. They take in the scene and wave at the girl as she gives up the ghost and melds with the shadows, reluctant to leave her form. Ectoplasm hangs in the air like smoke, til Francis bats it away with an impatient wave of his hand.
They watch small, blue flames skip across the body, joining together and burning it up. The sheets remain... the coverlets and the pillows. But the naughty girl is gone. And a tiny Lhasa Apso runs out from 'neath the bed, leaps up onto the embers and laps the grease away.
Miranda whispers - Was she good?
And Francis answers - Very.... as Tomas' appetite begins to grow...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you. for more, please click THIS ... your COMMENTS and personal LINKS are always welcome.
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