the genre twisting vampire thriller serial

October 2, 1999
St. Augustine, Florida

Hope lay in bed, mentally tracing her fingers over John’s angular jaw, across his chin, and then over his soft lips as his breath rose, fell, and whispered between them.

The soft blue light of predawn made her feel ridiculous for her mini-breakdown hours earlier.

The painting, which she’d started without any thoughts of what it was or where it would eventually go, had taken a dark turn in recent weeks. It was a non-commissioned piece and not something she planned to show at her friend Sergei’s gallery. She initially thought the new direction was some unrealized artistic desire bubbling up and pushing her to explore her boundaries.

However, as the painting progressed, she began to sense another power at work. Night after night, she was continuously pulled from her sleep, unable to rest until she returned to the canvas, adding bits and pieces of images, compelled to lay them across the canvas as though she were obsessively divining the will of the Gods.

She’d never felt so out of control and without direction, save for the first painting she’d ever professionally shown, Dusk Wanderlust. The one which drew John into Sergei’s art gallery when it first opened in the historic district of St. Augustine nearly two years ago. Just as that painting seemed to draw her and John together as one, this painting seemed more ominous, though she wasn’t quite sure why, as though it would rip them back to two.

The angel didn’t originally start out looking like John. He originally appeared a rather generic, golden-haired heavenly being. Prior to that morning, there was also another person in the painting—the broken body of a red haired woman, her body draped in black. A dark tattoo of a shooting star stained the pale flesh along the nape of her neck.
Hope wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was positive the angel had just killed the woman.

Then, last night, she was roused from her sleep with a sudden, burning desire to return to the canvas and scrub it with changes. Without realizing where her mind was moving her hands, she’d endowed the angel with her lover’s face.

Two hours later, sweat matting the hair on her forehead, she dropped her brush and lost the first of her tears. Shaking, she knelt down and picked it back up, then quickly began to paint over the dead woman’s body in violent strokes of indigo and violet.

Horror was bubbling to the surface of their lives. Hope could feel it burning beneath her skin and in every pore of her body. Well, at least, in the inky shadows of the night.

In the bright light of morning, under the down covers of a warm, soft bed, that fear seemed as out of place as a grandfather clock in the corner of a nightclub. John had talked her down from the ledge last night, helping her examine why she was so upset. She didn’t tell him about the woman in the painting because some part of her felt it had something to do with infidelity and she didn’t want to appear insecure. If there was one thing Hope knew about John without any doubt whatsoever, it was that he was a faithful man.

During his examination of the painting, John told her, with a satisfied smile, that she’d never been so happy for such a long period of time. That realization, in the face of the looming two year milestone of their dating, was bringing some nested fear to the surface and manifesting itself in the form of this unsettling painting.

“The fear will go away,” he’d said, squeezing her shoulder blades beneath his large, strong hands. He turned her around, then pulled her into his embrace, absorbing her tears as they soaked the thick cotton of his nightshirt. “You deserve to be happy.”

While other men in her life had analyzed her only to determine that there was something wrong with her and that it was her fault she was miserable because she must be afraid of happiness, or some such psychobabble, John didn’t search for what was wrong.

He simply told her what was right—them and their love.

And he was right. She deserved to be happy. She just needed to get past the fears.

Even though they’d been together for two years—her longest relationship by at least 14 months—they had never settled into the mundane routine which seemed to poison the wells of so many other relationships around her. She sometimes wondered why this man seemed so different than all the others?

She was far too cynical to believe in things like fate or soul mates. But the inner romantic in her, the one who existed at her core despite all the bad experiences life had seen fit to throw her way, secretly believed that John was the closest thing to a soul mate she would ever know.

They were different in many ways, but their differences seemed to work in harmony. While she was anxious, frenetic and prone to emotional flights and dives, he was calm, laid back and perhaps the most evenly tempered person she’d ever known. However, they also had many things in common, including a love for reading, art, and equally at home discussing philosophy or why there would never be a show on TV better than the X-Files.

John was also the first person who ever took such a deep curiosity in knowing everything about her—from what she was like as a child (a clumsy, scrawny introvert), to the consistency of her dreams (incredibly rare), to her deepest fears (being unable to conceive a child), to what inspired each and every one of her paintings. At times, John appeared like a scholar with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of the subject of her, no matter how uninteresting she sometimes felt.

Perhaps the biggest reason their love was so intense, even after all this time, was that to her, John was still something of a mystery.

He worked as a cook at an upscale Italian restaurant just a short walk from Sergei’s gallery, and didn’t talk much about his life before moving to Florida, which he said was rather ordinary. With any other man, she would suspect such reticence to be indicative of an unseemly past filled with debauchery and selfish deeds.

John was different, though.

He grew up in more than 20 foster homes after his parents died, drifting from state to state, never really establishing roots in any of them. He spent his time working and reading and sometimes composing music on piano, though he never played for another soul. He had no friends, family or meaningful relationships. John was, in some ways, a blank slate, a guy who seemed to have been waiting for some spark to bring him to life. Hope was that spark, he confessed during one of their few discussions of his past.

Despite his claims to the ordinary, there were times, such as this, when she lay next to him in bed watching him sleep, that she felt there was far more to John than she might ever know. There was a deeper John somewhere inside, a John who had yet to look her in the eye. She suspected that perhaps he had suffered some great hurt which made him the way he was, so remote and distant to everyone other than her.

She moved a bit closer to him in bed, wanting to touch him, but not wake him.

John’s eyes opened and his left eyebrow arched.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he asked, a smile breaking through the surface of his tired face. It wasn’t the first time she’d been busted.

She slid towards him under the sheets, her hand sliding under his shirt and finding his warm chest as her leg wrapped around his groin. She felt his cock stiffen immediately. She smiled.

“Well, good morning,” she said as she climbed on top of him and reached down to slide him into her.

“Wow,” John said, still smiling, “it is a good morning.”

Suddenly, the sound of their doorbell shattered the intimacy of the moment.

“What the hell?” Hope said, climbing off of John and cycling through the possible selections in her mind—who could possibly be showing up on her doorstep at this hour?

John threw on some jeans and then flew downstairs.

He peered through the front door’s peep hole and glanced back at Hope, who stood at the foot of the stairs with the phone in her hand—just in case she needed to call the cops.

She didn’t need to, though. They were standing at her doorstep.

“It’s the cops,” John whispered, a confused look on his face.

He flicked on the porch light and opened the door. Hope, suddenly by his side, wrapped both her arms around his right one.

“Hi, I’m Detective Avery,” said the tall, hawk-nosed, dark-haired cop with raccoon circles under his eyes. “This is Detective Johnson,” he said, gesturing toward his partner, a thin black man with salt and pepper hair and a receding hair line.

“We’re wondering if either of you have seen this woman?”

Avery held out a photo. Hope’s throat closed and her stomach nearly fell through the floorboards. Staring back at her was a glossy image of a red haired woman, a shooting star tattoo leaving a trail of ink across the nape of her neck.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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October 2,1999

Los Angelas, California

Jacob stood on the building’s ledge, wind whipping the loose charcoal suit against his wiry frame. The city view from 50 stories in the sky personified his feelings about humanity: almost beautiful, from a distance.

He’d been on their soil, mingling among the insects for far too long. His body was starting to show signs of human frailty. His face was sunken and pale. His hair had all fallen out years ago. His pain was constant.

Of course, Jacob could regenerate at any time, but his desire to feed had faded a while ago. A few months earlier, he’d started to widen the gap between feedings. Now he was trying to see how far he could stretch the rubber band before it finally snapped. Though he’d not given it much thought, he supposed he was trying to see how close he could drift to death before she finally circled her fingers around him.

Death was an inviting mistress, offering sweet release from breathing the breath of a world in which he didn’t belong.

When he first crossed over, thirsty for vengeance against his mother and brothers, the idea of a new world seemed to harbor eternal wonder. It was the world’s initial beauty and seemingly endless possibilities, actually, which had caused him to spare his young brothers’ lives so many years before. He had planned to kill them all, planned to make them pay for their treachery. There was however, something about this world, a chance to reinvent himself, create a new life away from his father and his expectations, that seemed liberating.

Of course, his singular act of mercy was a splinter of resolve that had haunted him for years. Because, ironically enough, his brothers were the only ones on this planet who knew of the one way back home. Of course, he had not known that back then. And now they were now beyond his reach, hidden by the conspirators who sought to rid the world of all of his kind while he remained stuck in eternal purgatory.

Though he knew better than to believe in such human constructs as Hell, Jacob surely felt as if he were stuck in his own version of it. He was tired of this world and its people; narrow-minded, petty creatures with such limited intellect. They did serve their purposes, though. They were such wonderful fun to torment. And the pleasure of a good hunt was universal, regardless of the animal. Frankly, Jacob was amazed humans had gotten as far as they had as a species—not that they hadn’t had some help along the way from his kind.

Jacob creased his face with a slight smile as his memories drifted back to his first home, the true one. Though it had been two decades since he’d last laid eyes on it, Earth, for all its incessant assaulting of the senses, could not erase the nostalgia for home from his mind. The spiraling snow capped mountains, the lush green and blue forests, and the sky at night—a dizzying array of colors and shapes. He also longed for Other World’s denizens, a rich diversity of species which made Earth seem like a small fish tank in comparison. To think that he would never lay eyes on another Allutroch only made him sadder than he already was.

He glanced again at the pavement below. Given his weakened state, he wondered if the fall would finally do it. His foot inched forward, seemingly with a mind of its own. He laughed at the thought that his body was willing to do what his mind had not found the strength to carry out.

Perhaps I should listen to my body.

His right foot was hovering in midair, 50 stories above probable death, when a ringing from his pocket suddenly whispered above the wind’s cry.

He laughed again. Cell phones, always interrupting him from important tasks.

He looked at the screen. It was Davis, a man he had not heard from in more than a year. Davis was a descendant of one of The Pioneers and wouldn’t be calling Jacob to exchange pleasantries.

No, this was important.

Jacob turned, leaped to the rooftop, then dangled his legs from the ledge where he’d just seconds ago been ready to jump.

“Yes?” Jacob answered the phone.

“It’s Davis,” the man on the other line said. He sounded excited. “I found him!”

Jacob said nothing. The words had paralyzed him with something he had never felt before—hope.

Davis continued, “I found John.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Abigail’s body moved with alien instincts. She was surprised by her hands locking on Lydia, and startled by the energy, which surged into her fingers, then flowed through her arms and into her brain.

Memories coursed through Abigail’s mind like a torrent of waves bursting through a dam. The images were foreign; memories from another life lived—Lydia’s life, unfurling before Abigail as she feasted on the energy swirling from the woman’s emptying shell.

The memories overwhelmed Abigail.

Lydia’s older sister, Vicky, took her pink dolly away from her “she’s mine!” Lydia was hurt. Then, another memory, of Larry and she, in bed. Larry was casually puffing on a cigarette while drawing lazy circles on Lydia’s breasts with his fingers and whispering odes to her beauty. Then, she watched, through Lydia’s eyes as her boyfriend, Tony bloodied his knuckles against an unmoving wall. Fury rose from him like vapor and Lydia was afraid…

Then, darkness extinguished the memory.

The energy stopped flowing and Abigail sat, hunched over, staring at the charred corpse beneath her.

Lydia’s memories continued to flicker like a strobe light in Abigail’s mind, threading through her own images of yesterday, weaving all thoughts into one incomprehensible tapestry.

Lydia as a girl again, this time walking to school, alone. She was fiercely proud not to need an escort. A big girl now. Though school was only two short blocks away, you’d think it was two miles, the way her mom kept carrying on. Lydia had made it almost all the way to school when she caught a movement in the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to see her mom, about half a block behind her, ducking behind a car. Lydia flared. “Mom, how could you?”

Grief clawed at her throat as Abigail experienced and mourned Lydia’s life, which had been reduced to moments remembered in her dying gasps.

Abigail’s body had never felt more alive, but the intoxication of power did nothing to soothe the decay she felt in her mind and soul. She wanted to weep, but no tears would come. Sadness washed over her, as another flood of memories seeped through her system. She struggled to focus on the here and now. Then, she heard a familiar voice—John!

She stood and turned, desperate for sanctuary from the darkness swallowing her soul.

John’s back was turned to her as he stood over Larry. They appeared to have been fighting. She noted the gun on the floor behind Larry. He noticed her first, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened. Then, John turned to her; a cold sadness sculpted his marble face.

She struggled to push words from her mouth, though breath would’ve been a good start. “What happened?” she finally managed.

“You were hurt,” John said, as he cautiously approached her, “You were dying. And I… saved you.” He looked at the floor; it was easier than her eyes. “But I turned you into…this.”

Abigail flinched as she remembered the pain that had shattered her insides. She’d been shot in the back. Panic pounded through her body as she noticed the blooms of dark crimson, which stained the front of her shirt, coated her hands and blackened her fingernails. She pulled up her shirt, searching for wounds, and then reached back with her fingers in an awkward search for any sign of puncture.

“You’re all healed,” John said.

Suddenly, Abigail became conscious of her exposed flesh, pulled her shirt down, and glanced down at the ground.

“I am so sorry,” John said, “it was the only thing I could do to save you.”

“So, I’m a vampire now?” she asked.

John turned to Larry, who now stood next to John, for an answer.

“In short, yes,” Larry fixed his stare on Abigail, “You will likely have the same abilities and same weaknesses.”

“You mean,” she flicked her eyes at Lydia, “I’ll have to do that again?”

Larry looked down and pursed his lips. His chest surrendered into a sigh, “I’m afraid so.”

Abigail shook her head, slowly at first, then furiously from side to side.

“No, no, no! I can’t do that again!”

Her knees hit the concrete. Tears were only seconds behind.

John knelt beside her. He wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close. She flinched at first, then realized his touch was no longer a danger to her. They were, after all, now the same. A small wave of soothing relief fluttered through her body and caused her to shudder.

She was finally able to root into the embrace of her angel. So strong, so comforting. The opposite of every other touch she’d experienced in her recent history.

Abigail continued to cry.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered into her ear, brushing the damp hair from her face. “I’m here for you.”

She thought he might also be crying, but couldn’t bear to look up. She nuzzled her head into his chest and allowed the tears to flow as she pondered a future of killing to survive. Then, she thought of the sun she would never see again. The only sun she’d seen in years was the waning sunshine the evening before. Now she’d never see it again. For some reason she couldn’t understand, this made her cry more than the thought of killing more people.

They embraced for an eternity until Larry’s shuffling and pacing drew their attention.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

John pulled away and looked down at Abigail. His eyes were wet, she noticed. He had been crying. For a moment, their eyes locked, exchanging some unspoken truth between them, something she could not yet give voice to, perhaps a kinship in their curses.

“Okay,” John said, turning to Larry, “we’ll get in the back. Let‘s find that safe house.”

Larry took a moment to say his goodbyes to Lydia, or what was left of her, and Abigail felt a sting in her heart as she watched him kneel beside her.

Abigail crawled into the back of the van and quickly fell to sleep, swaddled in the strength of John’s arms.

_________

As John slowly drifted to sleep, he thought about the look in Abigail’s eyes right before they crawled into the van. There was something there, something that whispered only to him. Perhaps it was the incredible sadness within them, he thought. But John knew better. Two had become one. His darkness had swallowed her light, like cancer that spreads through the body.
He grieved for her loss. All he could do now was be there to help her. But, he wondered, how could he help her when so much of his life remained a mystery?

His mind dwelled on the missing pieces of the puzzle that was his past. Who was he? How many people had he left dead in his wake? Why did he choose to have his mind erased? What was he running from? Who was the bald man who sought to capture him? What secrets did he harbor that so many people were willing to murder to get?

Where was Hope?

Too much to contemplate, he felt his mind would soon crack beneath the pressure. Then, as he slept, something clicked inside the vault that kept his memories.

John remembered.

PART TWO: INTO THE PAST

October 2, 1999
St. Augustine, Florida

John woke from a nightmare, shivering. His sopping shirt sticking to his chest, again.

He’d had the same dream for nearly two weeks, now. In the dreams, he had returned to his killing. The monster within him, the one he’d taken so many measures to bury, had clawed its way to the surface.

Not again.

He rolled across the empty bed to see the soft blue neon face of his alarm clock. 2:07 a.m.

Where’s Hope?

He slid from bed, the cold hardwood floor greeting his bare feet like a splash of water. For the hundredth time, if not the thousandth, he reminded himself that he really needed to get a good pair of slippers.

He opened the bedroom door. The hallway was dark, save for a sliver of light bleeding from beneath the door to Hope’s studio.

She’d also been unable to sleep recently. He wondered if she was having some sort of reaction to his nightmares. Or perhaps it was just the artist in her, demanding its muse to be fed out at odd hours.

He opened her door slowly, not wanting to surprise her in mid stroke. She wasn’t painting though. She was sitting on the floor, face in her hands, and crying.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he said, quickly falling next to her and wrapping an arm around her.

Her cry grew more intense as she hugged him tightly.

“What is it?” he asked.

He looked around the studio for the source of her tears. While the studio was well stocked (or cluttered, in his words) with paintings, blank canvases and a small store’s worth of art supplies, it had no TV or radio or even a phone, which ruled out a sad song, TV show or phone call heralding bad news. Hope liked to work in solitude. Whatever the source of her tears was something she’d been holding inside for some time.

Finally, she spoke, through a snort, “It’s silly.”

“No, tell me,” John said, his hand stroking her hair and down her back. She was wearing one of his shirts, a blue and yellow Wolverines tee.

“It’s the painting,” she said.

“What?”

She pointed towards the window, where one of her two in-progress paintings stood on an easel. He couldn’t see what the painting was. It was facing the large picture window, which overlooked a scenic lake. For all its beauty, the shimmering pool had never been a source for one of Hope’s paintings.

“I don’t know,” Hope said, “It’s not like anything I’ve ever painted before. And for some reason, as I was painting it tonight, I just became overwhelmed with sadness.”

“A painting?” John asked, wanting to laugh, but not wanting to offend her in a moment of genuine pain.

He stood up and approached the window. One painting was an apple orchard at midnight, which she’d started seven months before but had yet to finish.

The other, the inspiration for her tears, was unlike anything he’d ever seen her create before. It was almost surreal in its nature. The painting was of a nude man with long dark hair, who looked a bit like John. He seemed to be floating against a dark violet background of churning storm clouds. His hands were outstretched, red rings of something spinning around them.

And he was suspended by two incredinbly large white angel’s wings.
TO BE CONTINUED…

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