Vampiric Interdiction: Prologue

As incisors, sharp as razors cut into the sensitive flesh of Villahr’s neck, he clenched his teeth, muffling a cry of pain. He shoved with all his might against the assailant’s solid form, cursing the fact that even if he were built as a brick, he would never be as strong as a vampire.

“Mmm! Not bad.” The night-walker licked at his lips and pulled in the remnants of the blood upon them, the rest dribbling down his shaggy chin. No doubt this was his first taste of Vicio essence; the delight was written all over his face.

They were making quite a ruckus, but it wasn't likely anyone would hear. Villahr liked the exclusivity of his home nestled in the muzzle of isolation. Of course he had neighbours, but this was a private area, and between each home bridged a gap of great distance. Any sound they made would die out long before the waves of sound made it even half way across.

Villahr could feel his footing begin to give way as he was slammed against a cabinet. The whistle of fine china and crystal mixed with their sounds of protest, falling through the air and crashing below.

“Oops! Sorry darlin’. Was that expensive?” the brute laughed, ducking his head into the crook of Villahr’s neck, going back for seconds. He shoved harder as he slurped, knocking yet another porcelain cup.

The glass of the cabinet fragmented this time as Villahr came in contact with it. He could feel a shard pierce him and the warmth of the immediate dampness that followed. With a sudden surge of strength he flipped the leech so he was pressing him against the wall, grimacing as the fangs tore violently from his neck, taking skin with it.

The bloodsucker’s body was like ice, chilling Villahr’s hands as he crushed him with great force against it. He was strong, but the vampire was stronger. It was simply the law of nature — one that could not be broken no matter how hard he tried.

For a moment he had the upper hand, and with his own teeth bared he buried them deep within the villain’s shoulder. Villahr had only managed a small tear and to elicit a brief groan of suffering before he was lifted anew. He hit the ground hard as his back impacted with the shag rug, the threading doing very little to cushion the blow.

“Now, that wasn’t very nice, was it?” The dark one shook his head in dismay, holding tight to the front of Villahr’s tunic whilst examining his own. The blood continued to seep from the torn artery a moment longer before the wound sealed again. There were several other red circles in his pale t-shirt, one dangerously close to where his heart would be pulsating. That is, it would be, were he alive.

Looking around, Villahr noticed the disturbances throughout the room beginning to accumulate. Though the area was rather large, the pair had managed to drag their scuffle from one end to the other in a matter of seconds.

Noting an poor opening in his opponents frame, Villahr turned his body swiftly, catching the malicious creature slightly off his guard. Their positions had switched, and their roles reversed.

Slinging a leg over to straddle his attacker’s pelvis, Villahr made a fist with one hand and a claw shape with the other, then set them upon his victim. Forcing savage talons in the squashy left cavity of the vampire’s chest, he quickly directed his free clenched duke to the side of the mongrel’s face.

“Not bad for a filthy bleeder,” said the offending male between ragged exhaling, rubbing at his sturdy jaw concealed with a mass of cocoa hair.

“You underestimate us,” Villahr replied, holding his own despite the fiend’s struggles to free himself from his current state of submission.

The dark one smiled, and cocked his head. “Do I?”

Villahr nodded and smirked back at him, licking away what he knew to be blood from the silver hoop in his lower lip. Scowling with distaste at the tang of iron on his tongue, he realized it was not his own.

“Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing here? Or do I have force it out of you?” Villahr said with a snarl.

The evil one cackled loudly, his deep voice resonating through the empty space. “Hah! That’s rich! Do you even know how to use those, little princess?” he gestured towards the long, piercing ivories protruding from Villahr’s mouth, resting against a full bottom lip. Primarily these were not used for combat, but they were powerful enough to rip through thick hide if need be.

“You tell me,” Villahr shot back. Running his free hand down the sucker’s chest, he forced a keen nail into one of the open wounds he’d created through sturdy bites to the abdomen.

“Ah ah… Touché!” The fiend tried to use his superior physicality to return the blow, but was surprised to find Villahr’s sudden bout of brawn holding him still against the floor, vast biceps in a vice-grip.

Villahr’s crystal blue irises shone in the dim light of the fire. Leaning in close to the hit-man secured to the tussled mat, he could smell his own vitals on the monster’s breath. The silver fluid glistened in his teeth when he smiled, giving them a certain lustre.

A great gust of wind flew in through the large window behind them, irritating the hairs on the back of  Villahr’s neck and blowing shimmering ribbons of silver across his face. The ends hanging low, tickled the savage’s high sitting cheekbones as he leaned in closer, locking eyes with dark red ones.

Villahr slept with the consciousness of a feline. He'd been asleep in his chair when a piercing spike in his ear had him up and alert. Villahr took stance by the window, his auditory sense at full capacity and honed onto the crunch of leaves outside.

He could hear the tender, yet quick-paced steps coming closer with heed, like a venomous snake slithering through the grass, careful not to alert its prey. Within moments the vampire tore in through a closed window. The glass fractured around them and Villahr spared no time in protracting his fangs, lunging for the intruder.

As they lay there on the carpet, Villahr's face so close to the perpetrator, he worried he might just lose the battle if the male tried again to resist him. He pushed that thought from his mind and instead put focus on his grip and the scarlet gaze that the demon held on him.

Villahr’s power, although extraordinary to mere mortals, was nothing to someone of much greater physical stature, but his intellect was magnificent. Vampires are corporeal, but when it comes down to wit, Vicio unquestionably brandished the sharper end of the stick – and Villahr was in the perfect spot to thrust.

The brunette's breath beneath him still ran heavy, the foul stench of blood and meat blowing hot in Villahr's face. Despite his slight stature, he was cunning and swift. The bulky fool was winded, and there couldn't be a more opportune time to strike.

“Are you as hot as I am right now?” he questioned with a hint of a laboured chuckle. Villahr's denim slacks brushed harshly against the torn flesh still generously pumping out essentials, and the thug released a loud groan of agony.

Villahr scoffed and ducked in to the vile one's pointed ear, respiring quietly against the cartilage for effect.

“You're not my type.”

It took but an instant to slash through his throat, and for the unpleasant relish of blood to torrent against his tongue as he dug deeper and deeper with merciless fury. The lout gurgled in what sounded strangely like delight as Villahr reached an arm behind his own back. He gripped tight to the stake stashed in his waistband. Without hesitation, Villahr whipped the piece of timber forward and slammed it into the organ under the beast’s ribs. He was relentless as he shredded away at the dead heart and didn’t stop until he heard the stake scrape wood.

Villahr stood, still emanating fury on his breath and dropped the spike.  Finally unhindered by two-fifty, some-odd hundred pounds holding onto him, gripping maniacally at his trachea. He could breathe easier now.

Blood flowed effortlessly from a hole in the tyrant’s chest and his severed neck, free from the restraints of skin and veins, then began to pool at Villahr’s feet. Some seeped through the cracks in the floor but most coursed further down the slanted boards and circulated around him, staining the fair skin of his bare soles.

Mouth hanging open wide, frozen in a triumphant mid-snarl, Villahr’s fangs dripped, gleaming with the stolen scarlet vitality and he exhaled heavily, like a cop having just run a great distance in pursuit of a suspect. The beat in his chest was fast and with purpose, powered by pure adrenaline; he feared a moment it might explode and began to fight for serenity. He could feel his own blood progressing through his system, running hot and determined.

Villahr knew he was capable of brutality, but never expected the inner demon would pop in for a visit, rearing its ugly head unannounced and uninvited; however, today he was most thankful it had. The whole night would have gone to shit if it had remained in recluse. Villahr had always been known as a docile creature: kind, compassionate, and secure. But any remnants of that Villahr had fled the moment his rage ripped through him and into the hellion’s jugular.

Villahr looked down to the remains of the male at his feet. His thick arms and what was left of his square, burly face, were littered with deep lacerations and bite marks. His crazed beard ―looking as though it had never seen a comb― had already started to matt. Chunks of flesh had clearly been torn from his chest and stomach; the evidence was still snagged in Villahr’s teeth.

As the victor’s breathing began to reach a normal rhythm once more, his splattered incisors retracted with a wet squelch; like pulling in a water-logged switchblade. His brow furrowed in repulsion as the sickly flavour of gore flooded his palette and he had to reach up and yank muscle from his jaws.

Villahr moved from the puddle he stood in, and turned to inspect the slaughter. Nearly everything was painted with proof of the massacre, and it was almost hard for him to believe that he had done this.

Suddenly the dull ache in Villahr’s back throbbed, and reaching an arm around, he pressed his fingertips to the source. Villahr noted the once gaping wound, already restoring itself, was still excreting silvery fluid sparingly. Another lesion extended from the back of his shoulder to the elbow. Both verified that if he were not the cause of this disorder, he was definitely involved.

Long streaks ran up the dark, victorian patterning where he’d slashed deep crevices in the vampire's mid-section. Impact marks against the stone mantle used to split the skull, left splatters haphazardly like an artist’s rejected canvas, and the rug below continuously grew darker. Villahr watched as every bit of red poured through his attacker and spilled everywhere.

Foreign blood pummelled his taste buds, and he made a face in disgust, spitting it upon the ground. He hated its flavour more than he did his own, and wondered for a brief moment if that’s why they fed on humans. It didn’t seem like a big stretch to say it was because their own vitals were too repulsive for consumption. Why this one attempted to feed from his vein was beyond Villahr's comprehension, for he was not either of the two — Not exactly.

Stepping around the body, Villahr walked cautiously towards the kitchen. He needed a drink. Through the splintered window in the den he could hear the wind whining, but nothing further, and deemed it okay to finally drop his guard. They were safe for now.

The kitchen was dark, but he didn’t dare turn on a light and silently praised his heightened senses for  not particularly needing to. He could see through the gloom like it was a simple mist of smokey pigment bleeding into the air. He could see enough to know where things were and to get where he needed without difficulty.

Villahr opened the door to the cupboard, the hinges wailing loudly as he did, and pulled out a small, crystal glass. Retrieving a thick-stemmed flask of Chilla Loq'or, a type of Vicio vodka, from behind the microwave, he poured some of the clear liquid and threw it back in an instant. Swishing the powerful beverage several times in his cheeks, like mouthwash, he swallowed and topped his cup. The aroma didn’t exactly clear the vile one’s stench from his nostrils, but the burn of the alcohol in his maw sure helped kill the taste.

After downing a few more glasses, Villahr corked the drink and wiped the slurred mixture of alcohol and blood from his face with his sleeve. Putting the Chilla back where he’d hidden it, he placed the glass in the sink before leaving the room.

The body on the floor was already decaying, his skin turning black and veiny. Villahr pushed through the thick scent of gore, scrunching up his nostrils as it tried to worm its way into them. The smell was atrocious, and if he left the carcass there it would only get worse.

As Villahr came in closer to the body again, he kicked at the concaved face of the vampire and pulled back in distaste as the entire jaw crumbled, the rest of the body following, until there was nothing but a pile of ashy remains. The stake clattered as it hit the floor, and Villahr picked it up, tossing it aside as he knelt down by the mess of what looked like soot and bones.

The frame was now gone, but the bloody pond around it still endured, blemishing the wood the longer it sat.

“Such disgusting creatures,” said Villahr with a grimace; he could feel the squishy fluid between his toes.

Closing his eyes tightly, he leaned forward on the pads of his feet and placed both palms flat in the scarlet muck. He began to envision the gruesome scene around him in his head, painting a picture with his mind until all the red colorant was gone from his palette. Once his work was complete he set to a new canvas, creating another work of art behind his eye-lids, replicating the room’s exact order before the attack. Villahr kept his focus on his masterpieces and carefully overlaid the new upon the old, and when he finally did open his eyes the room was spotless again. It was like nothing ever happened.

As Villahr rose to his feet, and lifted a hand to his face, he used a finger to brush away the lock of white hair that momentarily obstructed his sight. Out of the corner of his eye he caught something that made his gut wrench, and his stomach swirl. Examining his hands he noted they were still stained with tonights events. In a layer of crimson. It reminded him eerily of a night he tried so hard to forget, and it seemed no matter how hard he scrubbed away at the memory, the guilt still remained, splattered upon his palms.