Vampire Untitled (Vampire Untitled Trilogy Book 1)

by Lee McGeorge

  He slipped inside and tried his best to tell her thank you. He wanted to thank her a thousand times, but all that he slurred was ‘multsumesc’ a few times. Without a proper goodbye, she was heading away. She must live in the building, Paul thought; find her later, say thank you. Right now, just get inside, lock the door and never ever come back out.

  ----- X -----

  The bathroom sink was splattered with blood. He’d spat, or rather drooled a few times without bothering to run the tap and the white porcelain had thick, slimy and bloody spittle flashed across it. He didn’t want to turn on the tap and wash away the blood. There was something theatrical about it, something photographic that he wanted to look at. It was the result of an exchange and a visible part of the drama that could be seen and examined after the event.

  The injuries seemed less severe than anticipated. The blood was coming from his bottom lip which poured from cuts made against his teeth. The majority of the pain he felt came from his left ear; Nealla’s boot had grazed his face but scraped over his ear like a knife stripping wallpaper. It hurt like hell and was bright red. Paul soaked a cloth in cool water to press against it.

  That was it. His lip was fat, there was a sore bump on the back of his head and an even sorer ear. Of course, tomorrow he would have a few bruises and he could already feel a black-eye ripening, but the ferocity of the drama wasn’t conveyed in the wounds.

  He had no plan to call the police. That felt unusual. If this had been back in London he would have called the police immediately, reported the crime, given the details; but he felt no urge to call them. As he thought on it, he tried to reason with himself that he was scared of the police because he couldn’t speak the language, but that wasn’t the truth. He didn’t want to call the police because it didn’t feel like the right thing to do.

  Feeling... That was the difference. He was feeling this event.

  Normally, Paul operated on logic, doing things after thinking about them, making decisions with the head rather than the heart. Calling the police was logically a good idea; but in this strangely opposing moment it didn’t ‘feel’ right to call. It didn’t ‘feel’ right to report Nealla. He was operating in a mode of ‘I feel’ rather than ‘I think’.

  Paul walked to the living room to collect the camera and photographed the bloody washbasin. He took pictures of his face in the mirror from several angles.

  Why don’t you want to report him? He wondered to himself. Because then playtime would be over, his subconscious replied.

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Paul said, barely even aware of what he was thinking. “We can’t let this be the end of things.”

  Moving back to the lounge, Paul grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass, poured one, downed it, poured a second and downed that too. His lips felt too fat and they were tender when he ran his tongue over them. He paced the room with his wine and picked up the cruciform from the balcony to re-examine. What would you do, Jesus?

  He lit candles and guzzled down a third glass of wine. As he was drinking it he felt the mild but intended effect of sudden alcohol overload and sat in the chair to let it overtake him.

  Fuck Nealla. A day of reckoning would come.

  He picked up the digital camera and flicked through the images to see the blood in the sink. The images of his bruised and swollen face made him look completely different. It wasn’t swelling or the injuries, it was the expression that was odd. The corners of his mouth were turned up, there was a glint in his eyes and it made him look bad-ass. He’d taken a beating but was smiling through, showing no more emotion than mild amusement. Nealla had unleashed his most vicious fury and Paul was grinning.

  Fuck Nealla.

  The photograph of the sink splashed with blood was dramatic. Nice. The aftermath of a violent encounter. Nealla’s total fury looked nothing more than a pathetic weakness. Nealla, the idiot boy who rages because he has no self control or self discipline. He was laughable.

  Paul flicked the images back and forth. His bruised and grinning face, the splashes of blood. He smiled at the thought of Nealla driven to insanity by jealousy. Nealla furious. Nealla seething with anger. Nealla swinging his fists because he couldn’t get his own way and having a tantrum like a child.

  Paul clicked the image back further from the bloody sink and landed on a picture of Ildico at Bran. She was standing on the castle balcony, the wind blowing her hair against a backdrop of snow covered mountains. She looked lovely, but seeing her broke the mood; he wanted to live in his fantasies of masculine violence and aggression. As he clicked back from Ildico’s face to the bloody sink it was such a jolt that it almost made him cry. The loveliness of Ildico, the blood splashed sink, Ildico, bloody sink. This place was shit.

  Ildico’s image shocked him out of his macho complacency and the sudden reality of life seized him. For a few minutes he’d been living in his own delusional little universe where things weren’t so bad; then reality intruded and made him realise that he was living in a complete shithole. He had been assaulted, beaten up and was injured. There was nothing to enjoy here.

  Fuck Nealla. Paul drank his wine.

  Fuck this place. Paul refilled the glass.

  Fuck Romania. Paul drank it in two gulps, refilled and downed the last of the bottle.

  Fuck everyone. He closed his eyes suddenly feeling tears on his eyelids.

  I hate this fucking place.

  ----- X -----

  He was trying to sleep on the living room sofa. The alcohol and painkillers were working, but the stinging in his bitten lip and the throbbing of his grazed ear stopped him from getting too comfortable. He was half asleep and half awake, half dreaming, half conscious, half settled and half in pain. Mixed into this state was a full bottle of red wine and a few too many codeine tablets.

  He dozed.

  Ildico was somewhere in the basement with him, imaginatively, in his creative mind; but it was all horribly discordant. It was concrete tunnels with pipes overhead; a deep, underground and endless dark hole. The ruby glow highlighting edges was the only way he could see anything. It was a stupid dream and his ear hurt.

  Fucking Nealla deserved to die for this.

  Ahead of him a single naked leg emerged seductively from a corner. He knew who it was and he had no appetite to see her. She slipped sensuously around the corner, revealing herself, wearing nothing but black cotton panties and carrying the sharp knife from the kitchen. What was she going to do with the knife? Why was she here anyway? She should go away. He was in no mood for her.

  Ildico was barely visible, a silhouette against a black background. She could only be seen by that delicate ruby highlight lining her face and chin, following the slight curves of her breasts. She stepped one bare foot forward. The concrete must be cold underfoot, must be dirty on the soles of her feet.

  Go away Ildico.

  Leave me alone.

  In his mind the camera angle reversed. It was like he was watching a movie and the editor had decided, at precisely the right moment, to switch to another view. Now the camera of his mind’s eye was behind her, filming from the back of her knees to the small of her back in a way that highlighted her ass and skilfully included the knife held by her thigh. Beyond her, further into the corridor he saw himself; and beyond, far deeper behind him, he saw the vampire.

  Strange dreams.

  Ildico walked to him, close enough to touch, to kiss.

  “My ear hurts,” Paul said to her.

  “I love you,” she replied.

  Paul ignored the naked man he knew was behind. Ildico was... more interesting.

  She lifted the knife to her face. The blade brushed past her hair and caressed her skin. She swayed, slow motion dancing to invisible music, the red lines that edged her body moving as slow ripples of light. The knife blade caressed down her body, the razor sharp tip resting against her nipple, pressing it away until the knife passed and her nipple flicked back. Lower, the blade slipped across her navel and under the waistband of her
underwear.

  Despite his depressed mood, Ildico’s seduction was adamant. He wanted those pants off her, he wanted to see her, to touch her, to taste her, to run his tongue up her slit and make her moan.

  The knife in her underwear.

  Slice.

  Zero effort, the fabric was cut; the lingerie fell on one side, the other side held for a second then slipped down her leg. He watched it go in slow motion, seeing the fabric slide over her thigh, her knee.

  Behind him he felt the vampire close in, almost breathing on his neck.

  Strange dreams.

  Ildico lifted the knife to her face and turned the blade towards her to rest the cutting edge over her lips.

  Slice.

  She drew the blade down cutting through both her top and bottom lip. Blood came instantly, running over her chin, her throat, between her breasts. It was arousing. Primal. Blood and sex. It pulled Paul away from his misery by detonating a shock of hormones. Testosterone and adrenaline as a shot to the heart.

  From behind he felt the vampire rest one of its hands on his shoulder. It felt as real as any waking moment. It was ice cold. Burning cold. The vampire had its left hand on his shoulder almost as though it was a parent with a child, a reassuring hand that says, ‘I’m here.’

  Ildico handed the knife to Paul.

  “Kiss me,” Ildico said, stepping closer.

  Paul wrapped his hand holding the knife around her waist. He pulled her closer, resting the knife against her buttocks. He felt his tightness of grip, controlled but powerful, he felt stronger and more in control than he’d ever felt before in his life.

  “Kiss me,” she said again.

  His mouth pressed to hers, stemming her bleeding with his own lips. It tasted exquisite. The salinity, the warmth, the sensuality of the situation as he pressed his mouth over her bleeding lips seemed to feed into his body. It coursed and crackled through him like a spreading electric current, preparing him for action, firing him up in readiness.

  From behind the vampire took hold of his free hand and guided it between her legs. He pulled Ildico closer into the kiss, feeling her blood pour into his mouth, feeling the wetness of her sex. Blood, ran from their lips down her body to ignite burning sexual juices that made his hand feel as though it were on fire. If he pulled it away from her vagina now he would expect to see it in flames. His cock throbbed and ached wanting to fuck her, to hurt her, to stab her.

  He bit.

  His teeth gripped her lips and sunk deep, piercing the flesh, drawing ever more blood. Oh, God. The blood was amazing, powerful, sexual.

  Kissing a girl.

  Holding a knife.

  His penis was as hard as steel, his testicles raging, his muscles tensing.

  More.

  He clenched his teeth tighter feeling them bite through Ildico’s flesh, eating her lips off her face. He felt her panic, changing from temptress to helpless prey. His fingers hooked into her cunt, squeezing, brutalising, scratching her insides with his fingernails.

  MORE.

  He was almost there, almost crossing the precipice to a new sexual experience where pleasure would strike like a touched nerve, but instead of being an overload of pain, it would be a pleasure of the flesh.

  It built to the point of climax.

  He bit her lips so savagely he felt her flesh come away and hold in his mouth.

  Then he exploded.

  He grabbed the skin of Ildico’s chest so tightly it gathered in his fist like clothing. He lifted her off the floor with a single hand and cried out a guttural roar as he smashed her body off the wall. Her face, her beautiful face so deformed without lips, spurting blood as he crashed her body against the concrete, pulverising her bones.

  He screamed. Not a frightened scream but a ferocious roar, a battle cry, a statement, a declaration. His muscles pumped and flexed as his balls pumped semen out of his cock. The roar of self continued as he smashed her body to the ground and fell on her holding the knife.

  Then it changed.

  She was on the floor of the forest. He was falling towards her under the weight of gravity. The knife was between them. Nothing could prevent the blade from skewering her. It stabbed into her, doubling her body in two; blood spat from her mouth.

  “Please, Paul,” she begged.

  He pulled out the knife and stabbed her again, intensifying the sexual ecstasy of killing, the thrill, the power of having the strength to snuff another’s life on a whim.

  Ildico in the forest.

  She was dead.

  Paul smiled as he remembered it all.

  She came to visit, he tried to kiss her, she resisted. It hurt him, humiliated him. He met her the next day, took her to the shrine and killed her in the forest.

  Strange dreams.

  Killing Ildico in the forest. Washing blood off his hands and clothes in the sink.

  Strange dreams.

  Taking the cruciform from the shrine as a souvenir. Standing on the balcony with the cruciform, staring at the forest, trying to relive it in his head, trying to reimagine and capture the moment, that exact precise moment when she died.

  “Please, Paul,” she cried after he stuck the knife in. He pulled it out and stuck it in again. Blood had come from her mouth and he had kissed her. He had washed his hands in the sink and watched the blood spiral away down the plughole.

  Strange dreams.

  Strange.

  Dreams.

  The cruciform was here in the flat. Took it as a souvenir. Killed Ildico at the shrine, took the cruciform as a souvenir. Had a strange dream that it was left on the balcony by a vampire.

  It was.

  Dream over.

  Time to open his eyes.

  Time to wake up.

  Time to look at the cruciform and know exactly how it had gotten here.

  Eyes open. Sitting up on the sofa.

  Reality returned.

  And it was terrifying.

  ----- X -----

  Paul bounced up out of sleep, woken by a tsunami of adrenaline, fight or flight... or panic. He sat rigid like he had just watched a car accident and was in those few seconds after the collision, where shock stopped coherent thoughts from forming. The alcohol caught up. His head sloshed and his ear throbbed. His lips throbbed, the back of his head throbbed, his face felt bruised and swollen.

  There was dried blood on his shirt. His blood, not Ildico’s.

  It was a dream, it was just a strange dream.

  The crucifix. It was on the table beside the laptop.

  He dreamt he’d seen the vampire on the balcony and the cruciform was there the next morning. He hadn’t seen it before that. Now he’d dreamt of stabbing Ilidco in the forest and bringing the cruciform as a souvenir.

  Which was true? Did the vampire bring it or did he kill Ildico and bring it himself? Two options. Two choices.

  It can’t be. There is a third option. But what could it be? Amnesia? Hardly likely. There was misunderstanding of some kind, some stupid confusion in his own head with twisted strands of thought that didn’t immediately unravel. There was that time when Ildico turned up saying he’d arranged to go to Bran with her, yet he had no recollection. Amnesia?

  Paul stood up and paced the room. His eyes turned to the story panels on the wall and his eyes drifted to the same patch a few times without reading it.

  “What the hell?” he whispered. “There’s blood on my clothes, but this is my blood from tonight. What about earlier?”

  He walked to the bedroom to examine his dirty clothes and search for traces of Ildico’s blood but there weren’t any dirty clothes, he’d washed them all this morning. Any evidence was gone. If there was a crime, he’d cleaned up after it. As he tried to think back he saw his hands in the water with the clothing; it was only this morning but it seemed a lifetime ago. He’d washed everything and found the cruciform out on the balcony as he hung stuff to dry. He then imagined the bloody sink; in his mind he watched the blood disappear in a whirlpool down the drain.<
br />
  “Ildico is fine. I know she is.”

  He walked back to the living room and again his eye was drawn to a story panel. This time he read it. It said, ‘A stranger comes from a foreign land.’

  Logic was failing him; emotion was taking over. He was scaring himself. Ildico was fine, but he was scared to be so uncertain. He sat in the chair and tried to piece things together.

  A new and sinister thought occurred to him.

  There were things he knew as fact. He knew that Nealla had attacked earlier and he had instantly fought back; that was unusual. Normally he would have run away or curled in a ball. That was a change in his behaviour. He was up for a fight, ready for violence. He also knew he was obsessing over hurting women when he had never entertained such a thought in his head in his life. He’d never hurt a fly yet he was obsessing over hurting Ildico and Nisha for no discernible reason; in Nisha’s case it was becoming an obsession. He was also forgetting things and unable to recall events of only a few hours ago with any certainty. In less than a week he’d gone from mild mannered and peaceable to suffering obsessive violent thoughts and losing his grip on reality. Plain as day. It was happening.

  And he knew what had happened to trigger this.

  He had gone to the forest despite being told not to by John and Ildico. They called it the devil forest, they said there was a dark spirit there, the strigoi, that infects men and makes them crazy. Jesus Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, had he become infected by something? If not the strigoi then some kind of illness that was playing tricks on him, screwing with his mind, making him forgetful. Perhaps it was causing encephalopathy, a swelling of the brain that was pushing him towards violence and causing forgetfulness.

  The vampire on the balcony was real, or Ildico was dead, or he was infected by the strigoi. The strigoi didn’t even have to be a spirit, it could be a virus or a bacteria or some other pathogen. The superstition called it a vampire but it could be an illness. The day he fell in the stream, he became sick, feverish, started having violent nightmares from that point, became forgetful, unable to tell where his imagination ended.