Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “Thank you for coming,” he said in a sleepy voice, now conscious that I was there, but not knowing what I was.

  I said nothing but moved my mouth to his neck. I hesitated before leaning closer, softly breaking his unsuspecting skin. He laughed quietly, as if this were a new game for us. I felt overwhelmingly saddened by what I was about to do. This was a much better fate than what Favreau would have planned.

  As Kyle’s blood trickled into my mouth, then flowed freely, I saw his life lived out. Astonishingly, I realized his true emotions toward me. He felt much more strongly for me than he’d ever let on over the past few years. He’d feared my reaction. I shuddered as I took in the blood and love. I clenched him tighter to my body as his heart revolted. I sobbed as I sucked. He gasped as his life slipped effortlessly away from his body. One last beat of his heart sounded in my ears, and I released him. I collapsed on top of him, too shocked to move. Is this what it will be like, forever? I asked myself.

  I was furious as I realized that Favreau had meant for this to happen. Once again I had played into his cruel game. I would not stay by his side for long. I vowed to myself to return to my own home in Irvington.

  When I regained my composure, I gazed at Kyle’s lifeless body one final time before turning away, torn between wanting to be what I had become and wanting to be what I had been.

  VAMPIRES, INC.

  Sean Wolfe

  Thanks and Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the great guys in my writers group: Lake Lopez, Matt Kailey, Jerry Wheeler, Drew Wilson, and Peter Clark. Your input and commitment to helping make me a better writer are much appreciated. Thank you for your willingness to accept my unconventional ideas on vampirism—even if it was reluctantly.

  Thanks to my earthly angel, Jane Nichols. You are always there for me, whether it’s to encourage me to continue writing and to keep dedicated when it was hard, or to remind me I am loved and to be my shoulder to lean on during the most difficult year of my life. I love you more than words could ever say. And that means a lot, especially coming from a writer.

  Thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for your unending patience in extending my deadlines during very difficult personal circumstances, and for going the distance for me. You’re the BEST—don’t listen to what those others are saying about you.

  A very special thank-you to the love of my life, Gustavo Paredes-Wolfe. Gustavo was my life partner for thirteen years and passed away on September 4, 2003, one month before this novella was originally due to my editor and publisher. He never saw the completed work. But Gustavo always encouraged me to live my dream of writing, and provided invaluable feedback on all my work. He is truly my inspiration for all that is good and right and love in this world, and I miss him terribly. Te amo, babies.

  Chapter One

  No one paid any attention to the storm when it rolled in. There was no reason to, really. Nestled between the enormous Rocky Mountains to the west and the dry and dusty plains of eastern Colorado, the city of Denver had seen its share of thunderstorms, certainly.

  Midafternoon June showers are common and, for the most part, welcomed. Temperatures hover in the mid-nineties to the lower one hundreds for most of the summer, and residents of the city revel in the precipitation and the cool breezes the thunderstorms usually bring with them.

  This particular storm began as a low rumble among some scattered gray clouds scooting in from the west and across the foothills. This was a pattern the residents of Colorado’s largest city were familiar with, and most did not even look toward the mountains to acknowledge the approaching storm. It started a couple of hours later than most did, just as people were arriving home from work and settling in for dinner. But other than that, it was as predictable as what they knew they would inevitably be having for dinner that night. The ground shook, and windows across the city rattled as the winds picked up and the clouds became darker and thicker in the sky above. The temperature dropped from ninety-six degrees to seventy-four in less than an hour. When the tiny drops of rain began to fall, people ran out to roll up their car windows or to raise the tops of their expensive convertibles to protect the leather upholstery.

  It had been an unusually hot and dry summer, as had the previous one. The ground was bone dry and cracked in amazing spider-web patterns across the entire Denver metro area. The area-wide water restrictions caused the lawns to wither and die. Instead of lush green lawns and bright, colorful flowers, homes were surrounded by dried, brown dead grass and withered, lifeless weeds. The entire state was in the middle of the worst drought in state history, and the capital city was thirsty for a good wetting.

  So when the storm first made its presence known, it was welcomed with open arms. No one looked up into the sky and pointed with confusion or wonder. Instead they looked up and smiled with relief. No one cried out in horror or sought shelter from an unknown danger. In fact, some of the more colorful citizens dropped their briefcases or backpacks and danced a little jig in thanks to the rain gods.

  As far as anyone was concerned, this was just another midsummer, midafternoon, midsize Denver thunderstorm. The kind they’d known and loved all their lives. These storms had abandoned them for the past couple of years and now had returned like prodigal parents.

  Though it had been almost twenty-four months since they’d experienced the pleasures of the thunder and lightning and cool rain, there was no reason to be afraid of this storm. As far as the people of Denver were concerned, this was a wonderful and most welcome gift.

  Sure, it had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, without any advance warning. The forecast for the day had predicted a record high of 103 degrees, and cloudless skies. But everyone knew the weathermen here could do little more than hope and pray they were anywhere close to an accurate forecast. The weather in this region was as fickle and unpredictable as it came. Even the weathermen themselves joked about their inability to deliver an accurate forecast most of the time.

  So the residents of Denver felt there was no reason to believe this storm would be any different from all the thousands of others the fine people of this fine city had seen in the many years they’d lived here.

  They were wrong.

  Christiano Montez glided through the darker clouds that were concentrated in the center of the large storm. Here the thick mist that made up the ominous clouds was dark enough and solid enough to filter out almost all of the little sun that was left. Sundown was still a few minutes away, and he was aware of the danger he’d put himself in. But the urge to keep moving was too much for him to ignore, and he’d decided to trust the instinct in his gut that told him he’d be okay.

  Christiano had been blessed with the gut instinct from a very young age. Though it had most likely been with him much earlier, he’d first really paid attention to it on his first solo feed, almost 180 years ago. He was seven years old then, as all young vampire boys were when they ventured out on their first feed without the aid of their fathers or mentors. He was just about to pounce on a middle-aged woman exiting a small corner store in Barcelona when he stopped in his tracks. Though all his training urged him to jump on the woman’s back and sink his teeth into her neck, something held him back. A quiet whisper in his ear convinced him to sit back and wait. A few moments later a young boy, probably ten or eleven years old, stumbled out of the same store and glanced from side to side in the thick fog of the evening. His little fists were filled with candy, and he looked lost.

  Christiano crouched behind the tree in the dark and watched the young boy.

  The boy called out for his mother a couple of times, and then sat on the edge of the curb just a few steps from the store. He tore the paper wrapper from the candy and began eating hungrily.

  Christiano stared at the boy and couldn’t tear his eyes from the kid’s lips and tongue as they licked and chewed at the candy. His heart raced as conflicting thoughts flashed through his mind. The boy was only a child, and he shouldn’t feed on such an innocent. Yet he couldn’t help but
wonder how thick and warm the blood would feel on his own lips and tongue. How thick and sweet it would taste as it slid past his tonsils and into his throat.

  He looked back in the direction the woman had walked, and thought briefly about chasing after her. But the fog and the dark of the night had enveloped her, and she was nowhere to be seen. He glanced back at the boy, and that’s when his gut instinct first spoke to him in a loud and clear voice.

  Go for the boy, it said. Everything will be all right. It will taste and feel better than anything you can imagine.

  And so he did. He stood from his crouched position behind the tree and walked slowly over to the boy. When he was but inches from the child, he crouched down and wrapped his own little arms around the back and neck of the boy, tilted the head slightly to the right, and sank his teeth into the sweet and supple neck of the boy who was only slightly older than himself.

  The blood was as sweet and warm and deliciously bitter as he’d dreamed and known it would be. The young boy struggled slightly, but Christiano’s extraordinary strength proved too much for the mortal boy. Christiano felt the kid fight back, felt his muscles tighten and struggle against his own smaller body. He heard the boy whimper and felt the cool tears as they dropped from the boy’s chin onto his own cheeks.

  As Christiano drank from the young boy’s neck, he sniffed the air around him. He could smell fear, yes, but there was something else as well. Something he’d never smelled or sensed when he’d accompanied his father on feedings. He could smell the sweet, clean odor of the boy. The aroma wafted up past the cold, soft throat and into Christiano’s nostrils. As the boy’s struggling began to weaken, the smell became stronger and more alluring.

  Christiano’s heart raced harder. As he breathed, the sweet smell filled his nostrils, and he sank his teeth deeper into the boy’s neck and sucked more blood into his mouth. The small body lost all signs of life and struggle, and Christiano knew he should stop. It was one of the first lessons his father had taught him. When the body is dead and the blood begins to run cold and bitter, it is time to stop feeding.

  But he couldn’t stop. He tried, but the smell of the young boy and the feel of his body lying limp and lifeless against his own were more than the young Christiano could resist. He kept drinking blood from the cold, clammy neck until no more was coming out, and he found himself almost chewing at the torn and nasty flesh of the boy’s neck.

  When he finally pulled himself from the lifeless body and stood up, he was surprised to notice that he had an erection. He wasn’t yet old enough to know exactly what that meant, but he knew it felt good, and knew he wanted to feel that way again.

  It had been the gut instinct that told him not to go for the middle-aged woman but to go instead for the young boy closer to his own age. And from that moment on, he’d learned to trust that instinct and to go with it.

  And now, all these years later, he was still trusting it. Trusting that he would be okay to fly inside the dark clouds, even a few moments before dusk. And he’d been right. As he glided in the clouds above the city, he felt his blood grow warmer and flow easier through his veins. He felt energy begin to fill his body. He knew without seeing that the sun was now dropping below the outlined crest of the Rocky Mountains. He was safe, and he opened his eyes and flew down through the middle clouds closer to the lower levels.

  When the sun was completely gone and the air around him was bathed in darkness, he descended from the clouds and landed on his feet in the middle of the city. The night around him whispered to him. It told him he would be safe here and that he could stay as long as he wanted.

  Christiano smiled as he strolled through the dark streets. They were almost empty because of the rain. He sniffed the cool, damp air and looked around him. He liked the infusion of old architecture and new, and instantly felt at home in the strange city. He’d felt that way a couple of times before, in Paris and in San Francisco, and knew at once that it was a mixed blessing. Feeling at home was always nice, and both Paris and San Francisco had offered that. But in both instances, tragedy had struck and ultimately led him to leave the cities he’d grown to love.

  Denver might also offer itself as home to Christiano, if he gave it the opportunity. But he didn’t plan on doing that. This city was only a stopover on his way to Chicago. The only reason he’d stopped in the middle of the storm that was heading slowly toward the Windy City was because he was hungry and feeling weak. He was already two days late in feeding, and he knew he wouldn’t make it to Chicago before he’d be dangerously weak.

  A short layover in Denver for a couple of evenings wouldn’t hurt anything. There was nothing waiting for him in Chicago anyway. The lure of anonymity and the ability to get lost in the largest vampire community in the United States was the only force driving him there. He wanted desperately to get lost in the crowd and to lose himself somewhere in the process.

  Once Christiano descended from the clouds, the storm dissipated quickly. It rolled out of the Denver metro area, rising and losing form and strength as it went. Christiano knew that in another hour it would disappear altogether. He was the only reason it had had any strength to begin with. Now there was no reason for its existence.

  As the winds died down and the rain trickled to a few sprinkles, the city began to come back to life. Streetlights flickered on, and people ventured into the streets. Christiano watched them as they greeted one another and laughed and hugged one another while slowly getting back to the business of living.

  He stood on the corner of Colfax and Broadway, in the very center of the city, and looked around him. East on Colfax, just a few blocks away, stood the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception. The massive white structure stood like a sentinel over the city. Bright white lights reflected over the stone building and made it shine like a spotlight against a mirror.

  Christiano walked toward the building. His steps were slow and deliberate at first. Then his heart began racing in his chest, and he found it more difficult to breathe. He quickened his pace and struggled not to break into a run. He needed to settle into his temporary home for an hour or so before venturing out into the Denver night. He couldn’t wait to reach the cathedral and find his way into the dark depths of the basement he knew would be there. Of all of the dwellings he’d called home over the past 187 years, none was more comfortable and homelike than the basements in the centers of the various cities’ most revered Catholic cathedrals. They were quiet, solitude could always be guaranteed, and when the shit hit the fan—as it always did—the cathedrals could always be assured to be the one place police and vigilante citizens never stormed and searched. They were safe.

  He strolled around the side of the building, making sure no one was watching him, and then crawled over the fence that surrounded the back of the building. Sure he was not being observed, he smashed his elbow against one of the bottom windows near the ground, and reached inside to unlock it.

  It slid open easily, and Christiano slipped inside quickly and unnoticed. Once inside, he closed the window and taped a piece of cardboard over the small hole he’d made. His eyes instantly adjusted to the darkness, and Christiano walked around the spacious basement. There were a few statues and old pieces of furniture that had long ago been discarded.

  He walked past the dusty furniture and deeper into the darkness of the basement. In the corner farthest from any of the windows, he noticed it. On the floor beneath a large and heavy statue of the Virgin Mary was a door. It would have been unnoticeable to the human eye, but Christiano saw it clearly. He moved the five-hundred-pound statue effortlessly out of the way and reached down to pull the door open. It opened with barely a trace of a squeak, even though Christiano was certain it hadn’t been used in over fifty years.

  Christiano stepped through the hole in the ground and found the steps. He climbed down about thirty steps and reached the dirt floor. It was much darker at this level even than the basement had been, but Christiano adapted to the darkness quickly. It took him only a few moments
to locate the candles and get them lit. He smiled as he looked around the small room and saw the casket. It was lying in the far corner, a heavy coating of dust covering it.

  He walked over to it and carefully wiped the dust away before opening the lid. Inside, the casket was lined with immaculate white silk. It was plush and perfectly maintained. Christiano stroked the soft, smooth material and sighed deeply. He couldn’t wait to slide inside and fall into a deep, dark sleep. He knew without ever having slept in this particular casket that his sleep would be complete and without disturbance. Tomorrow he’d wake up refreshed and ready to meet another evening.

  But tonight he had business to tend to. He was hungry and needed to feed. He slowly closed the casket lid and blew out the candles. Then he climbed the steps and reentered the basement. He was careful to put everything back in its place, and then he cautiously opened the window and climbed back into the cool Denver night.

  The evening was just coming alive. The storm had deluged the city; so much rain had pounded the streets, they’d quickly flooded, pouring over the curbs and saturating the lawns. By now, however, the streets were cleared again and people were streaming into them. The rain had cooled the air, but just slightly. More than anything, it made the evening humid.

  Prostitutes of both genders sauntered along the Colfax sidewalks, barely dressed. Some of the women had their breasts completely exposed. Young men leaned against buildings and lampposts with their legs hiked up against the walls, and grabbed their crotches as Christiano walked by them. Several of them followed Christiano for a block or two, assuring him they were the best of the bunch, and lowering their prices the farther he continued to walk without looking back at them.