When I was in college I had an almost obsessive love of all things vampiric. This was way before Twilight and sparkly vampires. This was back when vampires were bad ass killers and Anne Rice still wrote horrific horror. When I wrote this series I thought myself a poet and a bit of a goth. Actually, I’m neither but I have revisited these recently and wanted to know what others might think about them. So there you are.

Chapter One: Dominic, Self Styled Demon Warrior of Old

Harken unto me,

warm thing

walker of the sun,

seeker of truth.

For I be Dominic,

Master of the dark,

Father of the cold hand of death,

and dealer of deceit,

Slayer of bairns such as you.

Mocking laughter lifted up,

up to the cavern walls and heights,

echoing around, back and down and

climbing the walls, fading slowly.

What would ye have of me, puny thing?

Be quick to keep my interest, for should I tire of thee and yer tales, then no more shall ye tell.

Truth ye want? Straights and beginnings ye want?

Ha! Ye are but a lad, a youth, a pale glimmer of what men have been and of the man ye might never be. What makes ye presume upon a demon?

Ya amuse me lad.

I’ll tell ya some to while away an hour or two.

Bats are wearisome mates and I find I hunger for conversation, as well as for…other things.

Maybe I’ll let ya live to walk the day. Maybe I won’t.

The start of it lies with Him. The One. He came from the heavens ridin’ upon a fiery star that crashed unto the earth with such a blow of such force that the hole left in its wake is a crystal lake now, of calm waters, deep and cold.

He walked away from the blaze and He was terrible to behold.

Huge he was. Bigger en’ me and I ain’t no wee one. Strong he was of limb, but his real strength lay in his eyes. Power lays behind them. His mid. He was the first of us here. Whence he came none knows save Him. If there be more of His ilk, none knows save him.

Or, least that be the tell of it.

He made us and we make each other. Calling to souls who cry to be filled with His passion, as he crys to be filled with our life.

What be His purpose?

Ha! Little one, I kin to what ye be thinkin’ on. To brave the lion in his den. But this be no lion. This be one unto the Gods of old! He is Satan incarnate, none can stay his orders. To all He speaks His word be law.

He be strength.

He be might!

He be death!

He be life!

He be master of us all.

Ha! Yes, I think I shall let ye live tonight. For if this be yer plan, O’ sucker o’ knowledge, then this night be one of yer last.

Or the morrow be one of yer last to see the sun.

Who knows the kin of it?