Butterfly Wings

         Chapter One

         “You will grow to think blood beautiful. In time, you learn to love Death. Eventually, you will think the screams of humans are like music. With time, you will savor blood like the sweetest wine or food; innards will run over your fingers like the softest silk, soft as breath. You will come to anticipate the sharp intake of breath before you advance on your prey—and it will give you pleasure to shatter them into millions of pieces with your own hands.”
         He lifted his pale hand in the air, grasping something I had not noticed before. I gasped aloud, startled by his reflex.
         “It is lovely, isn’t it? Blood on a butterfly’s wings.”
         I did not reply as he opened his hand gingerly, allowing me to peek at the small, white-winged creature he held captive between his bony fingers. Its wings were splattered with crimson and I could not help but be mesmerized by its tainted purity.
         “Blood makes everything beautiful. Even the ugliest can be made exquisite by that sweet liquid,” he reached out to touch my cheek, smearing blood across my sharp cheekbones, down my jaw, across my lips. His handsome brow was covered with perspiration and I held the urge to kiss him. “This is actually a moth, you know,” he continued, his voice a pleasant tenor. “The color of the blood made it seem like a slender butterfly—am I right, Butterfly? Were you fooled, my delicate Butterfly? See, it’s just like you, my darling Butterfly, you remind me of this tender beast. So beautiful, innocent…”
         He slipped his free hand behind my neck and nuzzled my ear lightly, grazing it with his sharp teeth. I flinched back suddenly. I feared his shift, his change from man to…monster. My eyes moved to his other hand and I caught his quick gesture.
          “Breakable,” he let the dead insect fall to our feet as he pulled me close. I met my lips to his. He removed himself from my kiss, gazing into my eyes sorrowfully.
         His bright, ice blue eyes spoke of centuries passed. An old soul, as my mother called it. It was if they did not belong to him at all, but some ancient spirit. His raven hair swung gently in front of his hard features, casting a gray shadow across his smirk.
         “Phoenix…” I whispered, running my nails across his muscular chest. He turned his face away from me.
         “You should go,” he let his strong arms fall from around me, my stone wall collapsing and letting in the worries and fears of the world.
         I stared up at him fleetingly. I knew I should go; he was not stable at the moment. The blood-thirsty fiend within him was battling for control again. His hunt earlier in the day had not provided enough of that precious scarlet fluid.
         “Iris,” he cautioned, backing away slightly. That was my cue to leave, his warning. My life was at stake now, more and more so the longer I stayed.
         I ran away as fast as I could, not looking back and wiping the blood from my cheeks with my sleeve. Droplets of water dripped redundantly from the gray sky, hitting me square in the forehead.
         I was running away from him, again. I would always be running away from the one I loved.