CHAPTER ONE

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CHAPTER ONE

Evening, November 1, 1998

The moon was beginning to rise, casting its blue glow over the earth, as Michael walked to the window. He noticed the traces of sunset on the horizon, just a faint glow that most people couldn't see. But, he could see it, and every night he looked for it. It was the only part of the sun that he would ever see again. It was hard for him to believe that one time the moon had held a romantic aura for him, something he anxiously awaited so that he could romance beautiful young women outside their bedroom windows with that glow on him. Now it was the only light that ever touched his skin. Reflected light of the sun. How he'd grown to hate it. To see the yellow orange glow of pure sunlight again would mean the world to him. But, he had given that up long ago for the love of a woman who was no longer there. He knew soon the sun would be rising again. Way too soon. Those few short hours each night were all he had of life now, so he had better make good use of them. He went to the closet and pulled out his coat. Although the cold didn't hurt him anymore, he liked to try to blend in when he went out. Unfortunately, if someone looked closely they would notice that his skin was a little too sallow, his veins a little too dark under the skin, at least after feeding, and his eyes were an unusual color, slightly red under the pupil.

He had grown to hate this time of year. As most people ran around trying to catch last minute sales for the "perfect" gift for their loved ones, or rushing around to try to scrape together something so there would be a present under the tree, he would walk the streets alone and lonely, wishing that once again he could share the holy days with his family. Smiling, singing Christmas carols, playing in the snow or hunting wild boar for the Christmas feast. Cutting the perfect fir to be used for a Christmas tree and then watching it burn as the candles used for decoration caught the tree on fire. One year they'd had to douse the tree with snow because the ice was too thick on the lake for them to dip water. They'd lost all the presents and part of the parlor furnishings but it was still a good Christmas because the family was together. A faint smile touched his lips as he thought of those long ago Christmas'. Then the smile died, just like his family had died long ago. Things had changed as he and his brothers had grown older. Funny how the good times never last, he thought, as he walked along buried in his thoughts and his depression. Buried deeper than the deepest snows of winter.

Still, he had some hope that the coming days wouldn't be all for naught. He always held a Christmas party for his employees and some of the tenants of his building. The butcher downstairs, who often found his scrap bin suspiciously empty of the bloody contents and was convinced that the New York rats had been at work, was always the first to over-indulge and have to be helped back home. His maid, who had only asked once what was in the large box with the lock and was told it held the ashes of his deceased relatives, came to the party but eyed her employer with suspicion. His accountant, who still gazed at him with wonder as Michael's face appeared still youthful and his own slowly grew old. His tailor, who never appeared to notice the youthful appearance of his client and never acted put upon by late night meetings. His hairdresser, his friend the priest, the list went on and on.

The warmth of all the bodies around him reminded him that he hadn't eaten in days. Unlike most people imagined, vampires didn't have to eat every single day. But, after about three days if he didn't eat, he started showing signs of aging. Although he didn't like being a vampire, he also didn't like being old, mainly because people looked at you more closely than usual. When he aged, his power to push away those gazes was weaker, and he couldn't handle those accessing stares. So, he ducked around a corner and looked around to see if anyone was passed out in the alley.

Although he didn't like to hurt innocent people, he also didn't care for the animal blood he often drank. Tonight, he decided he would rob a hobo for his dinner and give the man a good reason to quit drinking. The hobo would be slightly weak but alive. Tomorrow, the man would probably relate the drunken nightmare to friends, might even give up the bottle and return home. Michael wouldn't kill the man. Michael couldn't kill anyone. He had learned to despise that early in his new life…

Once, he had gotten so weak with hunger that he had broken into a blood bank. Another time he had gone to a hospital claiming to need a transfusion. But things like that were hard to do. It was especially hard when the hospital wanted to see what type he was and what was causing him to lose blood. He had simply disabled their minds for a moment and walked out. But it had cost him more in stamina than the blood had been worth.

He hated lying and stealing from people who needed the blood to continue living, because he was no longer alive. Feeding off them only helped him go through the motions of living. Inside, he knew he was dead.

After drinking lightly from the hobo in the alleyway, he rounded the corner and headed into a bar. Being around others and just listening to them laugh and enjoy themselves, helped him pass the time. The wine content of the blood he had just taken gave him a little bit of a high, and he was feeling a little more merry than usual. So he walked in and ordered a drink, even though he couldn't digest it. He would drink it for the sake of looks and relieve himself in the bathroom later. It would pass right through just like everything else he ate or drank. All except the blood which was instantly absorbed by every hungry pore in his body. Even the little splatters on his skin would simply disappear within moments. Every cell was affected by this strange disease that he had. In early years, he'd been fascinated to watch blood spilt on his skin being sucked in by invisible mouths, and even more fascinated that his hunger could be quenched in this fashion.

He noticed a beautiful blond in the corner sitting with several of her friends, looking way too young. Probably in college, he thought. She was eyeing him and giggling behind a shapely wrist. She knew he'd noticed her as she began a not so subtle game of flirting. In his day, he'd been considered devilishly handsome, but every time he looked in a mirror now, he only saw his clothes and the wall behind him reflected back. So it was hard to tell how he looked on any given day. He brushed his hair back self-consciously, with his hand. Instinctively, he knew that he hadn't changed at all. His hair didn't even grow and he never needed a shave. An unfortunate ability during the short hair days of the 50's and 60's, and the full beard days of the '70's. He knew he had to put an end to the girl's game now before it went too far, even though he could reel her in with a thought. For hours they could be alone, enjoying the best of what men and women could offer each other. But sex always made him hungry beyond belief and he had a terrible inability to control his nature at those times.

In order to put off the young girl, he began to flirt with the waitress, complimenting her, giving her a big tip and kissing her hand when it strayed too near him. He knew it was out of date but women still loved it! The young girl quit giggling and angrily went to dance with another man.

Perfect time to leave, he thought, as his hormones and his blood thirst began to rise.

Strolling past the park in the moonlight, he played a special game he liked to call "catch the pervert in the park." He would listen closely as he slowly walked along the dark sidewalk. Gangs and general hoodlums had knocked out most of the lights and it was a dangerous place to be. Danger was about the only thing that gave him any sensation of feeling these days. If he heard someone cry out in the dark during his stroll, he would bound to their rescue. He wouldn’t kill the criminals. After all they were human too, and only God could judge their souls. He couldn't risk endangering his own soul worse than it already was, by killing someone before they could repent of their sins. He would simply incapacitate them by drinking enough to make them very weak and sick, then leaving them near the crime scene. Afterwards, he always broke an arm or wrist to hide the bite marks. The papers called him the Tyson Park Avenger. He wasn't sure if he liked that or not. It almost made him sound like a criminal. After all, it was just an easy way to get a meal and try to atone for his sins at the same time. During his day, good works were all you supposedly needed to get to heaven. He figured he would never know but it couldn't hurt to try.

Tonight things seemed pretty quiet and after the appetizer he'd had earlier, he wasn't very hungry. He sat down on a park bench and took in his surroundings. The trees in this part of the park were probably well over a hundred years old and if he thought long and hard enough, he could remember the day they'd been planted. He'd probably been living in this neighborhood and in this city when he could remember things like that. Every so many years he would take a long sleep in the basement of some building that he was sure would remain for awhile. Then, he'd reappear as the long lost nephew of himself and begin his life anew. Over in the north part of the park, there had been an anti-war rally in 1970 and several trees had been burned to the ground and were just now getting large enough that they weren't noticeably different.

The bench he sat on had been occupied through the years by so many people that it was slightly scooped out where their seats had been. One old man had come here every night for four years waiting for his daughter to return home. She'd sent him a message saying she'd meet him here but hadn't shown up. Michael had eventually helped the man be put in a facility for older people and had located the errant daughter. Only one hundred yards away she'd been mugged and had died from her injuries, and never been able to talk to her father one last time. The man had died heartbroken and lonely, even though he was visited regularly by Michael and a priest, who was his friend.

Gangs enjoyed the darkness for the privacy it afforded their drug deals. On the rare occasion that he caught them in the act, he'd dealt with them in his own fashion. Good old-fashioned fear. In some ways, his mind control abilities came to good use.

Couples walked by with dogs on leashes never noticing the man sitting on the bench. He listened to them bicker about how much to spend for Christmas or just how long the mother-in-law was going to stay. White clouds formed around their faces as they breathed in the cold night air and expelled the hot air of their lives. In despair, he tried to blow out a cloud and found himself lacking in the heat department. The despair encompassed him and he decided that he'd strolled too long in the park and had lost the glow he'd felt earlier.

In fact, he'd developed a sizable headache that even the young girl in the bar couldn't have overcome. Liquor tainted blood always gave him a hangover. Even in small doses, the remnants were horrible. It reminded him of his first experience with alcohol when his brother Claude, had gotten him drunk in order to anger their father...

This is only a sample. To read the whole book and find out more about Michael go to Amazon.com or ClocktowerBooks.