Page 58 of Blood Lust

I pull her into me, losing myself in her touch, her scent. I’ll give her everything she wants, anything she asks for.

I give her all of me.

Killingoneofmychildren doesn’t sit right with me, though Emerson is my failure. Every life he’s taken since Roanoke weighs heavily on what’s left of my soul. He is evasive and cunning. It seems we are always one step behind when it comes to finding him. Part of me thinks I could have tried harder to find and kill him, and I hate myself for it. I could have made it my life’s mission instead of growing my coven.

I used to think he might be able to be redeemed one day, but he has done nothing but prove me wrong. He is evil, he is vile, and now that we finally have a strong beat on him, we are in a position to stop him. I worry that I’ll choke when push comes to shove.

Emerson is perhaps my greatest weakness. Oz may have asked for his life, but I took the risk and turned him. He was an unknown, a stranger we’d never heard of. If I had let him die, the entire course of history might be different.

Time for my wayward son has run out. He has invaded my city, likely with plans to attack, and through fortunate circumstances, I have an inside man.

Thanks to Oz.

We found Naritaka in Japan in nineteen eighty-three. He was despondent, addicted to drugs, and an outcast from his family. He wanted to die, it seemed. But when the moment came, and he faced what death truly meant, he cried out for help.

It is no coincidence that we set up blood houses near areas with less than reputable inhabitants. In part, if someone makes a mistake, it’s usually not with someone who will be missed. Oz and I prefer it this way because we can sometimes make a difference. A human who feeds on a vampire and does not die will be healed of their ailments quite fast. Several vampires have gone into medicine for this very reason. We have to be careful about who and how we treat.

Rehab centers are the easiest. Our blood can help the human in question bypass the worst parts of getting the drugs out of their system and heal much of the physical damage done by them. The one thing it can’t do is cure the addiction. That piece of the brain that drives someone to seek joy from whatever poison they fancy remains. Still, it helps.

Taka had tried rehab multiple times before his family gave up on him. He was thin and frail, having almost fallen over in an alleyway near the blood house we were heading toward that night. Tokyo had a bad amphetamine problem then, and Taka had fallen victim to it. We heard his pleas and gave him a choice. We could heal him, and he could try to fight his drug problem on his own, or he could join us and never feel the need to touch them again.

He’d chosen the latter.

He was only nineteen years old at the time.

Still, as one of the newer members of our coven, he was someone that Emerson didn’t know. He separated from us about thirty years ago, at my request, intending to track and infiltrate Emerson’s organization. Going by different aliases in the cities he followed him in, before finally joining his ranks two years ago in Europe.

Check-ins were quick and far apart, but he’d done it and gotten intel on a crucial move that put Emerson in reach at long last.

That means it’s finally time for me to end this.

I wish I had ended it back when it started…

Emerson, Oswald, and I traveled the Atlantic together in Fifteen Eighty-Six. The small province of Roanoke was still growing but becoming more and more of a foothold in the unknown lands of what is now North America. We wanted to help build something for our coven, for our kind. A small town, isolated from everyone else, could sustain us indefinitely as long as we compelled them to forget and fed with caution.

For a small settlement, it was thriving when we arrived. Farms were bountiful, and the dutiful Christians welcomed us with open arms. Our official cover was that I was a widower, and Emerson and Oswald were my sons. It wasn’t exactly a lie, I suppose. But I had been a widower for a few hundred years, and my sons were the family I’d chosen.

We fit in quickly enough, taking a small plot of land to build our home on, tilling and farming the soil in the daylight like everyone else. Oswald became an apprentice to the local blacksmith, and Emerson took up carpentry and woodworking while I tended our crops.

The food we didn’t need went to the hungry or was traded to the indigenous tribe some ways south of us. Croatoans. Of course, the story is well known in Roanoke. Colonists mysteriously disappeared, possibly moving and combining lives with the local tribe. It was easy to believe, an answer that made sense, and it is a lie we never bothered to correct.

I believe the insightful members of the tribe knew more or less what the three of us were. They regarded us cautiously and were always highly alert during our dealings. It took many months for us to gain their trust. They saw the human colonists were happy with us. That they were whole, healthy, and entirely ignorant of our otherness. If it hadn’t been for that, they’d have had nothing to do with the strange men who ate so little it seemed like nothing.

Through their folklore and magics, they could guess close enough. Closer than the myths that followed us from Europe. They did not try to ward us off with garlic cloves or drive wooden stakes into our hearts. Instead, once they realized we meant no harm, they broke bread with us, accepted our trades, and made fair bargains as if we were no different than the colonists who sustained us.

We determined that our indigenous neighbors were off-limits as far as feeding and compulsion were concerned. I did not want to risk any part of the arrangements we so carefully cultivated.

Our way of life was working, and we could’ve stayed there for at least a decade before sailing back to Europe. We had two years of peace. Two years of not having to travel and move around were ruined in one night.

The night we decided to meet our Croatoan friends on their land, trade, and dance and share stories. If Oswald and I hadn’t both gone… If we had insisted Emerson joined us. So many things would be different.

We had developed quite a lot of stock from Oswald’s smith-work. Several things had been asked for, and several more we thought could make a good trade. Emerson had work to do for the church, pews that needed tending, so he remained behind.

Our trip was a success. We had materials and various foods, jewelry, and baskets for the village, and our spirits were high as we returned home from our long journey.

Approaching Roanoke, we saw smoke high in the clouds. Afraid to risk using our faster abilities and be seen for what we were, we maintained pace and continued onward. It wasn’t until we were close enough to hear the screams and cries of our neighbors that we abandoned all pretenses.

Reaching the outskirts, we could smell the blood coming from everywhere.

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