to sate their blood lust! Here I am, and there is no one to charge you for my death, for there is no one in this God-forsaken town who would care I was gone!"
She closed her eyes and kept her hands aloft. She took a breath, expecting to feel a plunging knife in her ribs, or a dagger drawn across her throat. Now, she begged silently. Let it be done and over.
She heard nothing, save the giggling of the prostitutes in their houses and the cries of babies in the tenement rooms. She said again, "Here I am! A gift, for free!"
Spattering rain and muted laughter.
Then, "No, I don't want to die. God forgive me." And then again, "Yes, die I must! Release me!"
And then a hand on her forearm and a whisper, "Sister, you're soaked to the skin!"
Danielle opened her eyes to see a pair of red orbs gazing intently at her, mere inches from her own. The skin around the eyes was as white as a corpse's. Danielle gasped and floundered, but the full red mouth smiled and said, "Fear not, dear. I have what you want. You are certainly a young thing, yes?" Cold fingers gently brushed Danielle's hair from her neck and tipped her head to the side ever so slightly.
Danielle could not move her gaze from the red eyes, and she thought for the briefest moment, This is just a painted whore. A whore who kills on the side to assuage her anxieties. That's fine. That's good. A whore may kill more kindly than a man would have.
"I will release you to life that is not life, death that is not death. My gift to you. The gift many of us have asked for because of the dreadful state of our mortal existence as women on earth. Hold, dear, hold now."
Danielle held her breath.
"Danielle!" The scream was from behind, and Danielle tried to look back but the whore with the white face and cold hands held her as strongly as any man.
"Danielle!" It was Marie, somewhere back at the entrance to the alley.
"Shh," cooed the red-eyed whore, "shh." The white face dipped to Danielle's bare neck. A searing pain shot through the flesh, the muscle, and into the very core of bone. Danielle screamed, but the scream was met with the whore's shushing and the shifting of the rain in the wind.
Then there was warmth and numb peace, and a swirling giddiness that caught her thoughts and threw them like pebbles in the wind. She almost laughed, almost, but then she fell into herself and there was no bottom and no light and she fell and fell and thought, This is death. I shall find you, Alexandre. In the good Lord's paradise, I shall find you!
T hey settled in Buffalo, New York in February of 1889, when Danielle insisted that the population of Sisters had grown too large in New York City. Marie was tired of moving. So was Clarice. But Danielle was always restless. No matter the availability nor the quantity of prey or the relative safety of their hideouts, she was happy in one place no more than a matter of months, and then began insisting they move on. Marie and Clarice, not wanting their friend to venture off on her own, always went along.
They had stayed in Europe for over eighty years, moving from Paris to Lisbon to London and countless smaller cities and towns, taking the blood they needed to survive, meeting with other Soeurs de la Nuit - Sisters of the Night - and sharing their stories, their pain. Laughing with them when some memory was amusing, mourning with them when a memory was too harsh.
The Sisters were an order of the undead, much like the lone wolves of their kind but different in their need and sympathy for each other. They lived on the blood of others, most often the blood of thieves and rapists, murderers and wife-beaters. They drank their fill, often passing the dazed man about to their fellows for a share, then killed their victims with a twist to the neck. The Sisters did not have a desire to bring such villains into eternal life with them.
On the rue Leon so many years past, a Sister had heard Danielle's pitiable cries and had come to her aid. Marie and Clarice,
She closed her eyes and kept her hands aloft. She took a breath, expecting to feel a plunging knife in her ribs, or a dagger drawn across her throat. Now, she begged silently. Let it be done and over.
She heard nothing, save the giggling of the prostitutes in their houses and the cries of babies in the tenement rooms. She said again, "Here I am! A gift, for free!"
Spattering rain and muted laughter.
Then, "No, I don't want to die. God forgive me." And then again, "Yes, die I must! Release me!"
And then a hand on her forearm and a whisper, "Sister, you're soaked to the skin!"
Danielle opened her eyes to see a pair of red orbs gazing intently at her, mere inches from her own. The skin around the eyes was as white as a corpse's. Danielle gasped and floundered, but the full red mouth smiled and said, "Fear not, dear. I have what you want. You are certainly a young thing, yes?" Cold fingers gently brushed Danielle's hair from her neck and tipped her head to the side ever so slightly.
Danielle could not move her gaze from the red eyes, and she thought for the briefest moment, This is just a painted whore. A whore who kills on the side to assuage her anxieties. That's fine. That's good. A whore may kill more kindly than a man would have.
"I will release you to life that is not life, death that is not death. My gift to you. The gift many of us have asked for because of the dreadful state of our mortal existence as women on earth. Hold, dear, hold now."
Danielle held her breath.
"Danielle!" The scream was from behind, and Danielle tried to look back but the whore with the white face and cold hands held her as strongly as any man.
"Danielle!" It was Marie, somewhere back at the entrance to the alley.
"Shh," cooed the red-eyed whore, "shh." The white face dipped to Danielle's bare neck. A searing pain shot through the flesh, the muscle, and into the very core of bone. Danielle screamed, but the scream was met with the whore's shushing and the shifting of the rain in the wind.
Then there was warmth and numb peace, and a swirling giddiness that caught her thoughts and threw them like pebbles in the wind. She almost laughed, almost, but then she fell into herself and there was no bottom and no light and she fell and fell and thought, This is death. I shall find you, Alexandre. In the good Lord's paradise, I shall find you!
T hey settled in Buffalo, New York in February of 1889, when Danielle insisted that the population of Sisters had grown too large in New York City. Marie was tired of moving. So was Clarice. But Danielle was always restless. No matter the availability nor the quantity of prey or the relative safety of their hideouts, she was happy in one place no more than a matter of months, and then began insisting they move on. Marie and Clarice, not wanting their friend to venture off on her own, always went along.
They had stayed in Europe for over eighty years, moving from Paris to Lisbon to London and countless smaller cities and towns, taking the blood they needed to survive, meeting with other Soeurs de la Nuit - Sisters of the Night - and sharing their stories, their pain. Laughing with them when some memory was amusing, mourning with them when a memory was too harsh.
The Sisters were an order of the undead, much like the lone wolves of their kind but different in their need and sympathy for each other. They lived on the blood of others, most often the blood of thieves and rapists, murderers and wife-beaters. They drank their fill, often passing the dazed man about to their fellows for a share, then killed their victims with a twist to the neck. The Sisters did not have a desire to bring such villains into eternal life with them.
On the rue Leon so many years past, a Sister had heard Danielle's pitiable cries and had come to her aid. Marie and Clarice,
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