A hundred long years later, I was still living with Damien. We were happy in our own little underground lair. Our clan once a small club had grown in multitudes, but many old patrons we lost. They were careless enough to step outside into the real world and were killed by vampire hunters, or "The people of the light" as some clan members liked to call them.
Times had also drastically changed in my little town, it had become "dirty", as some may call it. It was filled with sin, not just any ordinary sin either, but a sin that was so deep inside it that nothing could remove it. This sin had been building up for centuries, and very few even knew about it. It wasn’t just because of the drug dealers and hookers, that was the sin you could see, smell and taste anytime you walked though the "red-light district".
The other sin though was deep underground, maybe we were the cause, but little did we know it would bring us to our end. Over the years Damien had told me more about his life as a vampire, he could not remember anything before that, and he also told me about the dreaded war between vampires and mortals. The battles used to happen all the time, and they were filled with bloody massacres with both sides facing many losses. The battles had started as early as 1457, the time of Vald the Impaler, or Vald Dracula, as he was also known as.
The "massacres", as many of our vampire ancestors called them, had died down by now. It was like a pot of water set on a stove top, the heat had been turned down low but now slowly, over the next twenty years, the heat would grow and soon the water would boil over, just like the blood of our kind would spill in overflowing amounts.
Even with knowing these horrible things had once happened to my ancestors, we still lived a happy life. We received an average of seven new vampires a month. Many were scared and they had been booted out of society like a stray dog. I had found a real liking to one little vampire named Lothair, he was about the age of five, and I had adopted him as my son. We would get blood from donors that had agreed to an oath of Secrecy, and when we could not get enough donors we would steal other humans blood, but we never killed anyone. So it all was working out until one dreaded day on Friday, October 13th, when we met a young vampire, around the age of 16, who had come crawling to our lair, naked, and very afraid. We clothed him and asked him about his life. He was a vampire, named Damher, who had tried to make it on his own only to realize the world was a cruel place to our kind and then he had been savagely beaten almost to the point of death by some ruthless mortals.
He seemed very nice though so we nursed his wounds, gave him blood, and let him rest in a fine, satin filled, mahogany coffin. We soon learned though that he was trouble, and by that time it was to late.
