Blood Angel

Blood Angel.
As I stand on the balcony in the night, a single snowflake lands on my pale hand. Though it touches my flesh, it does not melt; those such as I have no heat. I hear muttered voices in the next room, as the parish priest completes the Lord’s Prayer, holding the hand of my meal. A door opens, and the candlelight inside the home flickers from the wind. The priest is gone. She is alone, and she is wary, which prompts me to stay my hand momentarily. Adrenaline poisons the blood, gives it a bitter taste, a taste that speaks of failure and imperfection. I prefer the clean kill. I wait for her to slip off to sleep.

The flakes of snow continue to fall, and soon I am coated in white, a solitary gargoyle, keeping watch over the shadowed streets before me, and the dwelling behind me. Hearing the soft breaths, the alteration in breathing patterns that signal deep sleep, I unlatch the windows. Perhaps, I reflect to myself, I should have an outdoor meal, and feast on the balcony. This thought pleases me.

Striding soundlessly towards the bed, I bite the young woman, the surprise sending her into shock. Her muscles relax further, a body betrayed by its own chemistry. Cradling her gently in my arms, I deposit her on the snowy balcony, an angel fallen from flight, and bare her already punctured neck to my kiss.

Consumed with hunger, I pierce too deep; bright crimson mars the snow, spoiling its pristine beauty. I recoil from this creature, struck by the profound realization that even in the act of death, humans have found a way to make the beautiful ugly, to defile what is pure. How fitting, then, that her death should feed an artist such as myself.

As the last vestige of life leaves her body, she suddenly wakens. Arms and legs flail madly in an attempt to escape my embrace, snakes recoiling from the touch of those who would capture them. Her struggles continue to melt the snow, scooping out arcs near her arms and legs. Infuriated with this wanton destruction of the purity of the falling snow, I lift her body and carry her back to the catacombs, where I feast.

It is the nature of the Enemy to turn even our triumphs into defeats. Upon discovering the impression of her body, all traces of blood having vanished, the parish priest announced that clearly an angel had fallen here, and was even now walking amongst the townsfolk, having taken my victim to heaven early.

I have seen the children making these “snow angels” in the town square, hoping for a blessing from above. Recently, the good Father was taken to Rome to be canonized. As near as I can tell, the priest’s recognition of the “angel’s” imprint marked him as a divine man .

I have a copy of the portrait that was painted in honor of his canonization. It hangs in an alcove, over the solitary candle I burn just for this purpose. I sit and gaze at the mysterious smile, almost a smirk, that crosses his face. I have heard many wonder at this knowing look, intrigued by the secret knowledge the Saint seems to possess.

This grin holds no mystery to me. I know the secret. I watched him scoop the stained snow away, replacing it with fresh white snow. I did not interfere, because neither had he intervened while I fed, even after he unlocked the window for me. I could expect no less. After all, blood is thicker than water, and he is my brother.