Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Lie down on the ground.”
“Why? What are you gonna do?” She’s calmer now, but it’s not a true calm. Just a state of shock.
“You’re going to the Darkness, Little Baby.” I nod my head at the undulating oil slick hovering in the air behind me. “You’re a gift. An offering. A sacrifice.” I’ve got her locked now, her eyes on mine. Entranced. I take a step forward, pressing my monstrous body right up against hers as I continue to look down, bewitching her with my eyes. Then I kiss her and with that kiss I make a promise, whispering, “You have not been forsaken,” before pulling back.
She falls limp now and I catch her in my arms so I can carefully lay her down on the ground. I position her body. Legs spread, arms wide, back straight. Then I take off the remains of the tattered threads that used to be her clothes.
I pause here—it’s been a long time since Paul and I made an offering like this. So I take a moment to reflect on what I have set out to accomplish here.
Then I suck in a breath and start carving. I trace my claw through Little Baby’s skin, marking my name on her first—a big symbol, right over her chest. Then I mark Paul’s name just below that, on her belly. All the other carvings are nothing more than artistic embellishments. To add power, or direct it, or whatever. Paul didn’t care. Didn’t have any opinions on this part. He’s never been much of an artist when it comes to the Dark Death. But he’s only done it once and that was the source of all his problems back in the Old World.
Let’s just say his artistic vision doesn’t match up with mine.
I like to take my time with the symbols I carve into the skin. The Darkness, after all, doesn’t care about time. If you take ten seconds to mark your offering or ten years, it wouldn’t notice. It’s not alive, you see. Not really. Not the way humans are. Not the way I am. It’s just… an interdimensional medium. A metaphor for God, or the opposite, if that’s your preference.
But it does have desires. If one can call them that. It desires creativity and ideas. Because it has none of its own. It’s merely existing without us. The vampire gives the Darkness meaning, and in return the Darkness makes the vampire a creator. A god. It gives us the power to bring our imaginations to life.
Again, Paul and I differ here. He is inclined to make monsters. Hideous, ugly, evil things.
While I am inclined to make beauty. I like refined symmetry and graceful elegance. Though my creations, in the eyes of everyone but me, are horrible as well.
I lie down on my side next to Little Baby, propping myself up on my left elbow so I can use the razor-sharp claw on my right fingertip to make symbols. I make some ritualistic ones that have magical meanings. Sigils I have come up with over the years to focus and convey energy, and strength, and courage. Then I just draw pictures. A sun, a moon, stick people. Me, and Paul, and Lucia—even though she’s gone. I never disliked her. She wasn’t a friend, but she was useful and always there. Part of the plan, but separate as well. Still, I use Little Baby’s body to say my goodbyes. Then I carve two more figures—Ryet and Syrsee. We lost one, but we gained two.
One step back, two steps forward. It worked out.
I draw a house. A house that will be our house. A place, finally, to settle and start the dynasty of the American Vampire. I can’t make it very grand—there is only so much skin I can carve up on this girl’s body. I could turn her over, carve up the back too, but it would be unnecessary. So I make a simple house because our dreams are rather simple.
We want a family and a place of our own.
Isn’t that what everyone wants?
Once I’m done with the major ideas, I fill the remaining skin with stars. Simple crisscross stars. And then, finally, Little Baby’s body is nothing but lashes. Blood seeps out, mostly obscuring my drawings. But it doesn’t matter. The Darkness doesn’t see. Not the way we do. It senses the blood and the way it seeps through her skin. And anyway, it can read my intentions.
I look up at the oil slick, still hovering in the air where it was when I started the ritual.
Then all that’s left to do is invite it in.
There are many ways to do this. With my mind, with a beckoning finger, with words.
This might be the last time I ever see the Darkness—one can’t ever predict the future, after all—so I make it a formal request using careful words in the ancient language of the Obscurati. It roughly translates to: