There is something familiar about that woman, I can feel it in my fangs. I took a big deep breath in. It was a useless action on the most part. Being a creature of the undead breathing has long since been forgotten. All it served was to fill me with her scent. It was a very peculiar scent, familiar, aged, and so very different.
She was a tall woman, and wore her very long curled dark black hair down. Her face resembled that of a woman I knew long ago. With another deep breathe my long fangs descended slowly from my gums. She will be a very tasty O negative.
I walked past her, and then looked deep in her very brown eyes. Like a puppy she followed me. Being undead has its perks. The ability to control the minds of the mortal: the humans. I suppose we are of different species, different origins. That and I don’t die and they do every day.
I walked her over to a dark alley. It was empty. I pressed her against the wall and sank my fangs deep into her aorta. If I went for the jugular I’d get deoxygenated blood. Part of the reason as to why I must drink this sweet succulent nectar each night is because I don’t breathe. I don’t eat. I don’t drink. All nutrients come from this sweet syrup. I drank, letting the fluid wash down my throat. I felt the woman’s residual heat wash through me saturating me very essence.
Once I had my fill of her, I withdrew my fangs. I could easily make her my companion for all eternity. I learned that mistake the hard way my first night on the kill. Quickly I bit her again this time releasing a coagulating agent into the woman. Her neck will heal, and she will not become a creature of the damned. With that I left her in the dark alley.
Feeding is bothersome at best. Interacting with these pests is just foolish. But it is a deed I must. I learned I was not the only creature of the damned in this world. As of any race, there are always the wolves pretending to be sheep. Once a knight: always a knight. Being undead is a state I can’t control.
There was nothing governing these monsters that stalk the nights, praying on the weak. That was before everything fell. My life was gone; I was supposed to be dead. I could no longer be a Knight. So I made my own round table. We fight the injustice of this new shadow world.
I made my way back to my lair. I’m fed, I’m very much awake lets hunt us some nasties. I checked the clock at my desk it was half past 11. I should be getting a phone call soon. I flipped through my papers nothing interesting came up until I found a small card.
‘You should have listened, Bruce Pendragon. Don’t fail again.’ He read it twice over. Azella. Of course you’d be watching me. And Bruce? As in the newly admitted Knight, Bruce? He must be a sire of Arthur. Great he’s even more annoying than the last Sire if Arthur.
By 20 after the phone rang. I sighed and picked it up this had better not be Pendragon.
“Nicodemus, We found a boogey, about 5 km from your place, she’s old and she’s feisty!” Pendragon boomed into the phone. What a dolt. Of course he just had to yell in my ear. Useless sons of Arthur they have nothing on him. To think if it weren’t for me that whoring wife of his would have bedded with any man she felt like it, birthing plenty of bastard children.
I got up with a shake of my head and grabbed my coat lets go see what this new guy has learned.
“Lancelot why must we play these shadow games? I hate all this trickery.” Guinevere whined at my door. I decided to spend the night at the palace.
“Because you are a fool, and are to marry an amazing man, yet you require the touchings of any other man every night. I told you once already, I am married with enough bastard rats running around. Piss off.” I stated from my bed. I felt her whoring eyes following my chest.
