Black Panther (Poesque; Lovecraftish)

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CHAPTER I METAMORPHOSIS

Millenniums had passed since I first underwent the change. The unnatural transformation, brought on by a random assault, left me bereft of those common qualities that allow humans to go about their daily lives unimpeded by a greater sense of obligation or awareness.
While the consequences of the life-changing event had been dramatic, the altercation itself had been rather simple: I had been attacked from behind by something that had easily mastered me, and accordingly drained me of my blood, enough to send me to sleep, permanently. But I had not died that night, perhaps because the creature that sucked forth my life had borne a conscience, and could not in good faith leave me to my death, and so he had made me what he himself was - a being radically different from the human race, a Noctor. In any case, he departed shortly there afterward, and I was left to unravel the mystery of my new nature - alone.
Lest you think my transmutation was instantaneous and facile, I will give you a broad description of my sufferings and distress. It took weeks for the metamorphosis to occur, and each day heralded new symptoms and new agonies, until I feared I was going to die before the process was complete. At first I experienced a general malaise with body aches, fever, nausea and fatigue as the primary symptoms. But that soon ended, and was replaced with limb twisting and physical changes, until I hardly appeared human. It was at this point I ran away, convinced that staying on would only be a disservice to my family, who could hardly help me and were forced to watch on, powerless, as I underwent the change. I knew my DNA was mutating on a sub-structural level, and my chromosomes were no longer human.
For weeks I lived amongst the homeless, the mentally ill and the addicts. I hid amid the garbage cans in the back alley of a restaurant, subsisting on the remains of uneaten food thrown to the dogs. Soon, however, my taste changed, and I no longer found human food satisfying. It was at this point I became aware of the others, and of my own new nature. A psychic link between myself and my master, at first faint and dubious, had grown to reliable and consistent proportions. I recognized myself for who I now was, the first human-Noctor in existence, and with this realization came the epiphany that I had a purpose, a unique function in the universe: I consumed vampires.
Not surprisingly, I initially resisted my calling, for I was bitter at being ripped from my position in the human race and forced into some other mode of existence. I continued to live on the streets, and discern my newfound abilities: I was, for all intents and purposes, immortal; I possessed superhuman strength, speed and agility and could -- with some limitation – assume the shape of other life forms. Furthermore, with uncanny relative accuracy, I could sense imminent events, and I also enjoyed a keen insight into people, having the power of suggestion at my fingertips. With comparative ease I could induce a trance in the most resistant individuals.
Despite these superior skills I shied away from using them for any social good. I was a freak in an otherwise normal world, and I felt it was not my place to use these talents to alter the course of history. So, I watched on as my parents, and then my child died; I observed historical upheaval and noted the shift in power and the rise and fall of governments and nations as they occurred at certain epochs in time. I also monitored the vampire population, which was initially scant and underground, and as such allowed me to feed without upsetting the precarious balance of the food chain. For a very long time, my isolation from society had little effect on the outcome and turn of events, that was until something happened, something which forever altered the course of human history
The vampire population suddenly grew, almost tripling overnight.
I knew almost instantaneously what had happened.
My master’s mind disclosed the story to me. The fringe-element Noctors had been inbreeding with the Scurge, an inferior albeit pulchritudinous race of scavenger beings that served as universal clean-up for dying, old and ill life-forms. These were opportunistic hunters who drank the blood and consumed the remains of the weakest links, but inbred with Noctors, their useful opportunistic instinct turned deadly, transposing into a predatory lust for lifeblood. The Noctors, a race that eons ago had been subject to this sanguine passion, had overcome their rage through spiritual and logical practices. But, bred with a Scurge, this recessive gene had been activated, the latent ardor aroused and turned into a murderous disposition for higher forms of life – life that had reached the peak of its existence.
The Noctor government, recognizing the epidemic, had established laws prohibiting liaisons with the Scurge and had outlawed murder for food, but the new vampire generation, rebellious and wicked at its very heart, refused to submit to the Noctor authority. Commandeering several space ships, the refugees fled to earth, where they hoped to rule and practice their bloody impulses unimpeded by the Noctors. And now they were here, infesting the general population and infiltrating the ranks of government. The Noctors, though they sought to shoot down renegade ships, refused to interfere in the development of other species on other worlds.
And so I was left alone, the sole individual that stood between vampire world domination and the complete obliteration of the human race. As such, I had no other choice but to re-enter society as I was, a freak of nature, bent on protecting humanity from this new universal threat. I assumed the shape and pseudonym “Black Panther”, a primarily nocturnal beast with a penchant for securing it’s prey. Using this form to detect and track vampires, I systematically hunted down and killed as many bloodsuckers as possible. Soon, however, the Black Panther took on a personality of its own, becoming an icon for human hope and freedom. Whether in masked human form or as an animal, I was the symbol for humanity’s ability to champion the most dangerous of foes. Although I did not welcome this status nor this responsibility, I recognized humanity’s great need to believe in a protector and so with a heavy heart and great burden I accepted it and bore it until, at last, another hope came along, this time in the form of a man: Gabriele Childes.
When I first spotted him entering the only nightclub in the city, I had no idea he would become the boast of humanity. He was only a boy, tall and lean, with a face more like an angel than a man. Although I had sworn to myself, when I first metamorphosed, I would not become personally involved with any human lest I be forced to suffer their death, I could not help but be attracted to Gabe. There was something pure and innocent about him, about the way he leaned his head back when he laughed or tossed it to one side and winked when he was flirting. His body moved through space with an almost fearless determination, although he had as much reason as anyone to be afraid, to hesitate before stepping across the street or in front of a dark alley. But Gabe, Gabe was intrepid in the face of the most dangerous circumstances, even as the coerced sesclave (sex slave) of the great human traitor Arnold Benedict. Perhaps that is why the flailing human resistance targeted him as their next leader.
I had been aware for some time now of a small band of human rebels that called themselves The Alliance. Formed under a charismatic leader that had long since passed away, The Alliance floundered to survive, only managing to occasionally assassinate a small-time vampire official or bomb a local bloodsucker café. I remained apart from them – again, afraid to grow to close to any human – but when circumstances warranted it, I assisted them in their terrorist attacks.
One night as I was observing Gabe a truck pulled up, two humans jumped out and pulled the youngster inside, quickly tying his hands and feet and bandaging his eyes. These were mortals, and so I was reticent to interfere until death seemed eminent, and truth be told, I was more than a little curious regarding their actions. So, I remained aloof, and followed at a safe distance behind the truck as it soon left the city.
Once outside the metropolis limits, the truck came to a stop and the humans exited the vehicle, pulling Gabe with them. The head of the rebel force confronted Gabe about his liaisons, and offered him this ultimatum: work for the human resistance or remain a sesclave forever. The choices, like so many in life, were hardly valid, but Gabe did not seem cognizant of their drawbacks; I saw something well up within him then, something I had not noticed before – an almost fierce resolution – an unrelenting ferocious warrior spirit that caught me off guard. I knew then he would be the one to lead the Rebel Force to overthrow the vampire government, and I resolved to be his guardian until that day.
Gabe returned to the city still a sesclave, but this time one with a mission: infiltrate the vampire government using his relationship with Benedict as a ploy. Standing amongst his peers – for the primary and really, the only means by which the young survived was sex slavery - he hardly resembled the next leader of the human resistance. Little did anyone know it was the start of a massive shift in political power, with Gabriele leading the mortals in a vicious war against their vampire captors.

CHAPTER II IN THE BEGINNING

The ruins at Welbeck Abbey were in deplorable condition, the Praemonstratensian edifice having been abandoned shortly after the European Civil War of 2050 when the host country broke from the Continental Union to join forces with what was once referred to as “America’ but what had since become simply Liberland. The catacombs or underground apartments of the former religious structure, however, were an entirely different matter. Protected from the wrath of time by natural encapsulation, the whimsical caprice of one Lord William Cavendish Scott Bentinck had produced a fantastic labyrinth of tunnels that intersected at various points of the upper estate, which consisted of the remains of a stable, several farm buildings, numerous overgrown gardens and decaying conservatories.
Touring the extraordinary subterranean quarters, I noted with pleasure the vast density of the asphalt walls, which prevented humidity from penetrating the expansive rooms, and the perfect condition of the gas lamps that lit up the library, billiard room, ballroom and observatory by night. Indeed, the hydraulic lift, built so many centuries before, surprisingly remained in working order, as did the ancient ventilation system. The entire underground residence was suitable to my taste, especially since the glass ceilings for natural light had long since been replaced by baroque trimmings and other elaborately designed ceilings, so that one could not tell they had ever been there at all.
Upon purchasing the estate, then, I immediately set about the task of renovating the entire upper area, rebuilding the Abbey as it once stood in the year 1910, save for the interior, which I remodeled to my particular specifications. I reserved the far West levels for my private lodging, then erected an exceedingly dense, soundproof concrete wall between this personal area and the rest of the Abbey, which I fashioned after a schoolhouse with all the modern day conveniences. In addition to this landscape reconstruction I finished the tunneling system, excavating as far as Worksop station and developing several shorter burrows that tunneled up to end in the dense forest.
All of this restoration was achieved swiftly so that I was able to open a charitable school for handicapped children within the year. Of course, shortly thereafter rumors began to circulate regarding the mysterious owner of the newly reconstructed Abbey. My most trusted servant informed me several of the instructors thought me mad but compassionately disposed. Still others claimed Anna Maria Druce had not lied in claiming her father-in-law, Thomas Druce, had faked his death in order to assume the alter ego of Duke William John Cavendish Scott Bentinck, the reclusive and eccentric owner of Welbeck Abbey in the 1800s. Those who favored this account alleged I was a descendant from the legendary eccentric Duke by virtue of this relationship, and that this fact had been recently discovered in the review of some ancient papers, thereby establishing me as rightful heir to his estate at Welbeck. They pointed towards our fondness for underground life, our nightly excursions, our intolerance of daylight and our social introversion as evidence of our shared ancestry. Indeed, the Duke and I shared many habits, but that was hardly surprising: he was. after all, the last Noctor on earth previous to my existence, and his immortality had forced him to reinvent himself. Unfortunately, over time the alienation of eternity had weighed heavily on his breast until one night, in despair, he had killed himself.
Although I was a relatively new Noctor at the time, having been brought across in the year 1915 and thus having suffered only a measly 145 years on the planet, I had managed to accumulate a significant portion of chattels, which had permitted me the luxury of purchasing the estate in its entirety. The assumption, then, that I had inherited it from my long lost “mad Duke”, was false, but I did not venture to correct these misconceptions, as I found them both amusing and self-serving, for I had no visitors and the instructors and other servants steered clear of me.
The only pleasure I desired and that was, in fact, left for me was the presence of the children. I would surreptitiously observe them from afar, delighting in their playful simplicity, in their purity of heart and motives. They did not carry the pitchy soul of the mature adult who had experienced both pain and pleasure to the point of spiritual aberration; they did not love for nefarious motives, or out of salacity or lasciviousness. For these reasons I avoided them on a personal level, but would spend many hours gazing through the schoolhouse windows as they struggled to understand the difficult concepts, or watched them as they laughed while eating their lunch.
One night as I prepared for my nocturnal excursion someone rapped heavily upon my door. Though I was perturbed by my late visitor, for whoever it was had chosen the hour of my departure as their hour of arrival, nevertheless I retracted the heavy iron gate with an irritated “How may I help you?”
Standing before me was one of the senior instructors from the school; I noted he wore a nervous expression on his face and seemed to shake in his shoes from fear rather than cold.
“May I speak with you Countess Moldovia?” he asked rather anxiously. All the teachers at the school had taken to calling me “Countess” since my supposed lineage to the Duke had been exposed.
“Come in.”
The professor crossed the threshold and then crossed himself as he stood gazing at the infernal furnace that lit up the room, licking the walls with its red flames. It was the only source of light as I preferred a strong fire to the artificial brightness of lamps.
“Countess, there are rumors concerning your identity,” he started, ambling over to a chair that lay closest to the door. “A number of the instructors are fearful and some are considering leaving the school.”
“Really?” I answered in mock disbelief, assuming a gaze of feigned surprise. “And who do they suppose I am, that they would resign their positions?”
“A relation to the mad 5th Duke of Portland, William Scott Cavendish Bentinck.”
I grinned at him impishly. “And why do they believe I’m his descendant?”
“The abbey is built to the year 1910 specifications. Yes, you’ve provided the school with all the modern conveniences, but you yourself live with gas-lamps and a fireplace…” he suddenly trailed off. “You’ve expanded the underground tunnels into parts of the forest that are uninhabited. We rarely see you during the day, and there are, well, there are…”
“…there are what, Professor?”
“…there are large carcasses, an exorbitant amount, stacked in the densest thicket just North of Southlodge.” As he enunciated the word Southlodge his voice fell to a mere whisper. “And according to your servants, there is a cat, a rather large, black cat that paces the perimeter and stalks its prey during the late hours.”
“Ah, a cat, I see,” I mused thoughtfully, stroking my chin as if I were given occasion to consider some new piece of data, “and a large black one at that. I suppose she has razor sharp teeth and a wide smile?”
“Countess Moldovia I am quite serious.”
“And so am I,” I retorted, scrutinizing his figure with a watchful eye. “This cat you fear is a black panther, and one I had imported recently from Africa. She is quite tame, but she needs to eat and so hunts in the forest. Evidentially she’s established a burial ground for her prey – this stack of carcasses that befuddle and confound you are victims of her hunger, nothing more.
And let me put your mind at rest once and for all: I’m no relation to the Duke. We may share idiosyncrasies, but that is merely by chance. Besides, it’s only logical that one with an appreciation for subterranean life would seek out such quarters, wouldn’t you say professor?”
The teacher suddenly stood up. “Then why host a school, countess, if you are so reconciled to seclusion? Surely the banter and persiflage of the children irritate you?”
“On the contrary, I love children. They have an innocence and purity of spirit noticeably lacking in the older generation, wouldn’t you say, professor?”
“Yes, some do; still others…”
“I’m not interested in the others,” I interrupted, hoping to bring our colloquy to an end, and thus send my visitor away. “I love our children, the mentally handicapped. They are a refreshing dose of virtue in a fallen world. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a standing engagement I must keep,” I said, picking up my cloak and wrapping it around my frame.
The professor politely navigated towards the door, which I freely opened for him. “Of course. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I just felt you should know,” he said as he departed.
“Thank-you, “ I cried after him, but as soon as he had disappeared around the bend in the road, I went out.

CHAPTER III – THE HUNT

The Coniferous forest enclosed the “dense thicket” that served as the charnel grounds referenced by the elderly professor. I had anticipated the privacy Welbeck Park’s most northern point would afford with its impenetrable mass of brushwood, but clearly now it had been found out – undoubtedly during the day by some insatiably curious staff, who were privy to my nightly activities and had chosen to avoid me by sunlight. Exposed as I was by this discovery, I hesitated to return to the virtual graveyard, and considered other possibilities of hunting locations that would be impenetrable to the human eye – or to the mind’s natural curiosity, which often compelled its owner to pursue the very thing reason argued so strongly against. Of the two, the latter proved most threatening, for the human eye would surrender its pursuit long before nature would yield in frustration; in fact, it seemed the more nature was thwarted the greater it resolved to seek its end.
After a spell, it became clear that any new approach would require a certain amount of risk, for to confound the intellect I would have to venture off my own land and hunt my victims in an entirely new habitat, and in a way that would not draw inferences between the animal cemetery at Southlodge and the most recent slayings. With little else in mind and no clear strategy regarding future conquests I transformed myself into my alter-ego, the savage predator I simply referred to as “The Black Panther”, and raced at a leisurely pace towards the closest town, Worksop, a railway station started in the late 1800s that had grown to reach a population of 339,965 by the current year 2060. With its vast array of life forms and opportunistic offerings it was easy enough to find something suitable to my palate – in this case, a young gentleman of approximately 28 years of age, with dark, chocolaty, puppy-dog eyes, shoulder-length, thick, wavy brown hair (which was pulled away from his face)and a diaphanous goatee complemented by an equally slight mustache. The dark fibers of the aforementioned lent it a thicker appearance while the hairs themselves were silky rather than coarse, a peculiarity that served to soften the high cheekbones and complement the thin, red lips that pressed together from the cold.
Dressed in a long, black, wool coat and scarf, the lad (for indeed, by this time even the eldest of humans was youthful to me by comparison) was scurrying towards the local pub, a watering hole for the city’s artistic community. From my position behind the trash bin I could hear his quick, short breaths, echoed only by his increased heart beat as he raced towards the comfort of the heated quarters. As he reached the door the redolence of his soft, peach skin penetrated my nostrils and intensified my longing, for apart from the soap his body emitted a naturally subtle, sweet fragrance with only a touch of musk from beneath his underarms. Together with his exotic beauty and the lovely auditory patterns of his breath and heart I feared that I might take him there on the street or else swoon with delight, but I dared not….I dared not disclose my presence, for at the moment he was surrounded by a group of males and chances were great that such an irrational act would prove fatal to me.
And so I waited. I waited with all the patience of a murderess awaiting her victim, with all the concentration of a predator awaiting her prey, for I knew back then (and oh, how I have come to regret it, as I have come to regret many vile deeds and wicked acts from my younger years!) that he would eventually depart and in those early hours, under the slight or blatant influence of intoxicants, he would become mine whether he willed it – or not.
Though an eternity seemed to pass in those long-suffering hours he eventually emerged from the pub around 2AM, and for the most part, alone. Waiving off his well-wishing mates, he rushed towards his vehicle with the same sort of determination he had first demonstrated when he fled indoors from the cold.
At first I stalked him – panther-like – crouching behind every garbage can and old car to avoid being discovered, but soon all fear dissipated as I realized his ears did not detect my quickening pace or my strategic approach from behind. In fact, only when the attack was imminent did he discern the danger, and by then it was too late, for I seized him with such force he was thrust backwards against the car, and I drained him till he was almost faint.
Shall I describe to you the sublimity of that moment, when the intoxicating vapor of his bare neck overwhelmed my senses, and his beauty flowed freely into me like nectar from a fruit? Even his moist breath upon my cheek and the contractions of his heart resounded in my brain like a gorgeous symphony, as if Mozart himself were conducting a new piece in the inner sanctum of my breast. For an instant we became one and I knew him as I know only myself, but then his body went limp and I recoiled in horror at my debauchery and fiendish crime. In my delirious ecstasy I had almost committed the atrocity of murder, but much to my relief he was not yet dead. No, his body still clung to life, and with renewed hope I placed him gently in the back seat of his car and drove him home. By now his existence was as transparent to me as glass, laid bare by the dastardly deed I had committed in a moment of weakness, and I understood where he lived and that he resided alone. For that reason I was not afraid when I pulled into his driveway, nor was I nervous when I picked up his flaccid frame from the back seat and carried him gently inside, laying him delicately upon his bed.
Beyond this point I had no knowledge of what to expect, and so I anxiously paced the room, eager for him to regain consciousness, but simultaneously terrified at the prospect of what that might mean to him, and to me.
Shortly thereafter there came groans from underneath the covers and he emerged, half pale with death, half ruddy with life, to gaze at me with what appeared to be a drunken elation, all the while squirming about until his black slacks lay in a heap upon the floor. He was, by this time, fully naked, and I could not help but appreciate his toned athletic form, from his wide, dense shoulders to his full, muscular breasts and narrow, trim waist, which was completely bare save for a small line of downy hair that ran from his navel to his groin and a tattoo that looked to be shaped like a full moon. I was astonished not only by his natural loveliness but also by his actions, for contrary to expectations he seemed to be attempting to draw my attention in a most seductive and charming manner, and I – the very creature who had brought him to this low state and was now deeply repentant of it – felt irresistibly pulled towards him yet a second time.
At that moment I did not comprehend the full import of my prior deed, that my bite had set off a chain of inevitable events that would necessarily run their course until the process culminated in the act of human copulation, and so I assailed him again, this time pinning him down to feed my lust.
He swooned under my advances, and appeared to completely surrender himself to my will, writhing rapturously as my mouth traveled from his long, delicate neck down to his supple nipples and then to the nether regions, from which point I gained the advantage and pursued him until he was completely spent.
It occurred to me afterwards – as he lay motionless upon the bed – that I had unintentionally killed him, and with a waking horror I reached for his wrist and was relieved to discover the familiar throbbing of a pulse. He had not expired as I had initially thought, and I was amazed by his apparent determination to live. As I have previously indicated, I did not understand at the time that he would, by necessity, live; that his initial faint had been the consequent of the release of a powerful cocktail of endorphins and dopamine in response to the bite’s toxin, and that even as he rested beside me changes were taking place inside his body – DNA was transmuting into some foreign recombination, a Noctor configuration.
Once again I rose and paced the floor, in a quandary regarding his dire circumstances and my vicious crime, until the coming of the dawn, when another murmur issued from the bed, and I knew that he had fully regained consciousness.
Through heavy eyelids he stared at me at length, scrutinizing my form with a mixture of what appeared to be trepidation and desire, before he spoke: “Are you going to kill me?”
His inquiry, a natural response to such precarious circumstances, nevertheless caught me off guard. “Of course not!” I countered vehemently, “What a preposterous notion, not to mention an unethical one! Killing humans goes against the principles of my ancestors, and defies the Noctor moral code of conduct.” I spat out before realizing the import of my words.
“So you’re not a vampire?”
“Absolutely not. The suggestion itself is an insult,” I boasted priggishly, unsure of what to say, for I was perplexed by this singularly unique situation and had no precedence or personal experience upon which to draw inspiration. Thankfully, my young hostage seemed more than willing to guide the discussion, and assuaged me with a series of questions intended to elicit the information he needed to understand himself and his predicament.
.

“Well if you’re not a vampire, then what are you?”
“I don’t really know,” I mused, for the question had brought to light the mystery of my own existence. “I am a thing...a creature, not human in the least but an alien sympathetic to the human condition. I don’t fully comprehend what I must know according to reason; for just now I did not realize the disdain my kind has for killing people until I had spoken it. So, in response to your question, I have to say while I know what I am – a Noctor – I do not know who I am, that is, what characteristics and behavior define my race.”
The young man turned to look out the window, drinking in the view of the sun as it rose above the horizon. “Is this my last sunrise then, or do you know?”
“No, it is not to your first question, and in regards to your second, yes, I do know we aren’t destroyed by a ray or two of sunlight. However, I think you will discover that day, in general, has an adverse affect on you if you aren’t resting. We’re nocturnal creatures by nature, but we aren’t limited in any capacity to nighttime only.”
The lad rubbed his temples, as if he were massaging out a headache. “So I am going to become as you are now?”
“I am afraid so,” I answered. “I apologize profusely for my actions, although I don’t suppose I can beg your forgiveness to the extent and degree necessary to make amends for an eternity. Truthfully, I have made a grievous mistake that cannot be rectified, and I am at a loss as to how I can compensate for it, other than to tell you what I am aware of and mitigate your transformation, so it is not as painful as mine.”
“Your blood...”
“Yes, I have already surrendered it to you. You will know me as much as I know you, and in that way the entire transaction shall be complete.”
Sitting up in bed, the young man pulled the covers over the lower half of his body. “You were eating animals,” he began, “but they discovered the grave yard and you were afraid, so you traveled to Worksop, and now I am dead, at least to my humanity. But why me? Why wait in the cold for so long just for me?”
I smiled knowingly at him and then took a seat on the side of the bed. “Have you looked in the mirror?” I asked, searching his eyes for recognition and understanding.
“I’m penalized because you think me attractive,” he retorted rather sarcastically, crossing his arms before him like a petulant child.
“You charmed me...,”
“I wish I weren’t so charming...”
“It is your curse to be beautiful, but there is nothing left to do but accept your condition and begin the process of learning about yourself,” I reasoned with him.
He frowned in response. “I would hate you if I could, but I can’t,” he muttered angrily. “If it were in my power, I would detest you with every fiber of my being, but something prevents me from it.”
The anger and rage in his voice informed me that it would be in our mutual best interest if I departed, so accordingly I rose and strolled towards the exit, stopping just long enough to say these words: “I made you, and for that reason you will never be able to hate me, nor will I be able to hate you. It is, in a word, destiny.”
And then I swiftly strode out the door

Having departed the splendorous abode of my victim – for he was the son of a prominent family of considerable affluence – I retreated to my estate, whereupon I arrived just in time to flee indoors before the first of the professors appeared to open the school. It was no small miracle either, for I was covered in the blood of my prey and would have been immediately discovered if I had happened upon anyone on the road home. But, as design would have it, I was able to throw my gory, black sweater and slacks into the furnace and watch as every remnant of criminal evidence incinerated in the conflagration, forever securing my safety and wellbeing.
Thus situated I fell into a deep sleep upon a mattress, dreaming only of the man I had ravished the previous evening, recounting the events that led up to the attack and then the ebullience of the moment my teeth sank into his throat, rendering him instantly pixilated and forever my bijou, my bonhomie.
When I awoke I rose and, exiting my quarters, began a tour of the schoolhouse, stopping long enough at each room to acknowledge the professor and smile delightfully at the children who, despite my gloomy appearance, demonstrated a natural love and affection for me. In fact, my only solace laid in the small, round faces of those innocent, virtuous creatures, for in their nescience, they lacked the capacity for “acute consciousness” as Dostoevsky would say, and for that reason they were able to freely enjoy the wonders of the universe, of each other and of themselves. Their only corruption – if indeed you could call it that – was a selfish disposition and the occasional maelstrom that was bound to accompany it. However, for such children love was limitless and thus grievances were instantly forgiven and forgotten, leaving no mental token to serve as a reminder of the conflict.
While observing the youth at recess I noticed a young, quite pale lad sitting alone beneath an apple tree, poking holes in the overripe fruit with heavily manicured fingernails. When I say he was pale, I do not mean he looked sickly or diseased but rather his complexion was a lovely alabaster shade, like a sculpture but softer and more delicate. In fact, I secretly envied him for his skin, which had obviously never once been touched by the sun, and wondered how it was a lad so old – he was, perhaps ten at most – had managed to make it through life without a single mark or blemish.
Approaching him I sat down at his side, once again admiring the complexion that from afar had drawn my interest. “I haven’t seen you here before. What is your name?”
“Marcus,” he answered in a most polite tone, ceasing his activity to look up at me with his deep, soulful eyes.
“When did you arrive at the school?” I inquired further.
“Just yesterday.”
‘Well you seem like an ordinary boy,” I ventured cautiously, “that does not belong in a mentally challenged school, so why are you here?
Looking down, he gently placed the poxed apple on the ground. “I can’t read,” he muttered.
“You can’t…you can’t read?” I asked, incredulous that such an ordinary child would lack such a skill.
“No, I don’t understand the words,” he mumbled. “and the letters are sideways.”
“Why, you have dyslexia then,” I announced triumphantly. “That’s easy enough to resolve, but not here at this school. You’re far too advanced for our courses.”
“They don’t know where else to put me. I haven’t any parents and the orphanages are running out of room.”
“You’re a ward of the state then.”
“Yes.”
Gazing off into the distance, my vision suddenly blurred as in rapid succession one image after another popped into my mind concerning this child’s life, including his birth, the death of his parents, and his subsequent peripatetic lifestyle. Each thought rendered me increasingly empathetic, until at last I was forced to look away lest I start to bawl in front of the child. Still, I wiped several tears from my face before turning to look at him again.
“You and I are not so different you know,” I started. “We’re people alone in a hostile world that has no place for us, at least until now,” I said, wrapping my arm around his back and hugging him close. “Your place is by my side; I’m sure of that. You need not fear the present or the future any longer because from this point on you are my son. All that’s left is for me to fill out the paperwork.”
Suddenly and much to my surprise the boy who had heretofore been reserved threw his arms around my neck and hugged me close, and I felt all the love, adoration and gratitude one human has ever felt for another.
It did not take long for me to adopt the child that nobody wanted and for whom no one cared but me. I had my servants arrange the upper apartment to provide for the lifestyle of the modern-age boy, and so the drawing room was converted into a game room, with video consoles, a stereo system, TV and accompanying DVD, and the library was transformed into a bed room, with an orthopedic king-size bed and cherry wood furniture, complimented by blue and white cotton décor. However, when I finally brought him home and joyfully revealed to him his new lodgings, he was far from pleased with it. In fact, he almost seemed to resent the suggestion that he should live apart from me, and the tears he shed over the situation were a great source of torment. But secretly, I could not have him residing in my subterranean refuge, for I spent many a night as a panther sleeping in a tree, or as a Noctor hanging upside down – bat-style, yes, like those despicable vampires! – from my black-coated, iron chandelier, and so I made my series of appeals to his reason. First, I presented to him the obvious advantages of modern technology - all of which I despised and refused to have in my own chambers. Secondly, I argued for his comfort, stating factually that sunlight is more conducive to health than the humid, damp and thus fungal, moldy conditions of underground life. When even this rationale failed to work, I informed him that my quarters were not furnished and I had no intentions of equipping them anytime in the near future, that I slept on a mattress on the floor or on a pile of hay in the corner, and I lived only by candlelight and fire. Throughout my fustian presentation, Marcus remained unmoved in his resolve until at last I was compelled by his stubbornness to compromise my position, and conceded to his desire to cohabitate under the condition that he never approach nor enter my room. He gladly agreed to my terms, and thus began our new relationship.
Initially Marcus adhered to my code, and we bonded amicably through walks in the park and the occasional visit to the theater in town. I hired an instructor who specialized in the treatment of dyslexia and other learning disorders and charged him with the sole task of Marcus’ education, and it was through him I first learned of the boy’s high IQ. Over time it manifested itself in the form of inquiries into nature and theories as well as in an appreciation for fine literature, which we discussed at length over dinner. He seemed to share my love of the classics: the logic and metaphysics of the Greek scholars, the eloquence of Shakespeare, the romanticism evinced in Coleridge and Byron, and the great wit of Oscar Wilde.
At first I believed his predilections to be mere reflections of my own personality and expected him to diverge eventually, forming his own opinion in the matters of politics, philosophy and art, yet he did not depart once from them. In due course I came to understand the reason for their permanence: his preferences stemmed from the same source as my own, the zeitgeist of a by-gone era, a legacy of a happy past.
Although our shared history provided a strong foundation for our relationship, I noticed an increasing precocity that eventually caused me some concern. It began with an appearance at the entrance of my room, something I had strictly forbidden, and continued until one night I returned home to discover him asleep in the corner on the pile of hay. Naturally I was horrified by the disclosure and fearful for my secret alter-ego, but he seemed not to notice the strangeness of the hour or my condition upon my return – only that I had departed the premises and left him alone, a situation that obviously traumatized him. After reassuring him of my love and devotion I chastised him for his disobedience, and the following day went out and purchased a pet for him, a Black Labrador he named “Rolf”.
For awhile he seemed satiated by his pet, who snuggled with him in the late hours when I was unavailable for comfort, but then an incident occurred that shook the very core of my being. By now five years had passed, and my 10 year old had transformed into a 15 year old lad, and a very intelligent one at that.
One night whist engaged in tracking a deer, I heard a rustle in a nearby bush, and observed the disjointed outline of a whitish animal pass deeper into the forest. The scent of the creature reached my nostrils, and in dismay I instantly recognized the familiar nescience of my own son. Slowly and cautiously I retreated behind the nearest tree to avoid detection, but not before he heard me and spun around to identify the noise.
For several minutes we stood, face to face, staring at one another with a recognition only possible between two intimate acquaintances, and then I knew that he not only comprehended everything but did so with a copious sympathy. His features, still fresh with youth, suddenly appeared to age before my very eyes, until they resembled those attributed to pain and suffering in the old.
He turned then and withdrew back into the passageway from whence he had come, the tunnel that, like all the rest, I had attempted to conceal from him with false walls. And though from that day forward we understood one another completely, we never spoke of that evening,

or of the presence of the hidden tunnels or of my secret burden.

CHAPTER V – The SLAUGHTERHOUSE
My beloved Marcus not only kept my secret, but he also provided plausible explanations to justify the presence and increase of the animal corpses on the most Northern point of Welbeck. One day at supper he joined in the professors’ discussion (I was present), and found occasion to tell a tale most mysterious and compelling, concerning a large black cat he had spotted on his excursions and how it had stared at him and Rolf with its large, yellow eyes before retreating into the forest. He mentioned that he had tracked the animal, and stumbled upon it while it was consuming a deer, and added that while it recognized his presence, it did not once turn from its activity, nor did it threaten him in any manner. By the end of his narrative the professors were all mesmerized, for my son, with his keen intellect and love of literature, was able to able to transform the most mundane events into spellbinding fiction, and they craved to know more of the creature and its behavior. But Marcus, understanding the value of suspense, refrained from further revelation, although from that day forward he became a regular at the professors’ table.
Meanwhile I continued my predatory ways at night until I became the most feared creature in the forest; even the reptiles fled my appearance. Still, I sympathized with the animals’ suffering and so I killed my prey swiftly and painlessly, eventually becoming a master executioner. As such I was never required to assume my Noctor form and avoided it not only for mere inconvenience but also to remain anonymous. My natural shape was now quite unnatural, and I resembled what appeared to the human eye like a cross between a dove and a lion, something ethereal but clandestine.
One morning I returned late from the hunt, and found Marcus already in the upper study, discussing the irredeemable character of Shakespeare’s Iago with his professor. Satisfied that my son had commenced his academics, I returned to my underground haven and at once fell asleep upon the mattress.
At this point I should take a moment from our story to elucidate the advantages Noctors have over homo-sapiens regarding sleep. While the average amount of sleep an individual requires to be “well-rested” is approximately eight hours, Noctors need only half that time, and function optimally at five hours. In addition to a decreased sleep requirement, Noctors have extrasensory perception even while subconscious, and are able to detect the presence of others in the room or of imminent danger. While these qualities are trivial and might otherwise go undescribed, it is necessary to mention them here in order to enlighten the reader to the circumstances which were responsible for rousing me from my slumber, for it seemed that I had no sooner fallen asleep that I was awakened by a sense of impending peril. I detected traces of smoke, something that I considered odd since I had for some time been accustomed to the slight scent of the unceasing infernal combustion in my fireplace. Rising, I reached for the door but instantly withdrew my hand in pain: it was practically singed to the bone. Although I recovered at once, I hardly cared, for a scorching metal handle indicated a raging fire on the opposite side, and so I raced out the back door and ran towards the school, which was – alas! –by this time a raging inferno. I watched as the last of the interior walls collapse into flames, and with it any hope of sustained life, for the schoolyard was completely empty save for a single match – indiscernible to the human eye – but easily identified by a Noctor. The fire had been the result of an arsonist, and I almost simultaneously apprehended the culprit. Without delay I sped towards town, my wrath burning inside of me like Hellfire itself.
I arrived at Dorian’s house – I should say Alexander Dorian Hamilton the 3rd’s – within minutes. Dorian was seated outside on the steps, audaciously lighting the matches that remained in the pack of the one he used for the fire. He did not look up when I approached, nor did he stir from his spot, and it was evident from his demeanor that he thought I posed no threat to him.
“You murderer!” I screamed at him uncontrollably. “Villain! What kind of fiend kills children? Are you the devil himself?
He lit the last match and watched as it burned itself out. “I don’t know; you made me. What say you?”
“I made you a Noctor; not a beast. What happened to your conscience? What about your ethical obligations to preserve life?”
“I never had much of a conscience,” he replied calmly, studying his nails, which were tattered and torn from chewing, “and once you made me a Noctor I hardly cared for life.”
“Oh you lie, you lie like the devil; you love your own life, you loved it enough to be jealous of it, and vengeful when it was stolen from you. I am responsible and could hardly blame you if you attempted to kill me – but slaughtering the children as retaliation! It’s unconscionable!”
Dorian studied me at length. “Unconscionable is a relative term but one that I can easily apply to you in the same circumstances. I exacted justice, which is to say I had a valid motive, but what had I done to you for you to damn me to eternity here on earth?”
I fell on both knees, humbled by my dastardly deed, and grabbed his hands in mine, bringing them to my lips to kiss to back of each one. “I can sever my act from yours and I beseech your forgiveness, but do not confuse your behavior as justice for this atrocity. The only interest served in the fire was yours and you merely projected your fury onto God’s most innocent creatures. In this manner your crime was not against me but against God himself, and your punishment will not come from me but Him, however he chooses to serve it.”
I stood then and resumed my previous deportment. “I cannot slay you, for you are as much my child as Marcus, but I feel as if I lost two sons today: one to physical death and decay; the other to eternal damnation. Remember this day,” I added, as an insidious thought was born and began to weave itself through my mind. “Remember it, because I will call upon you again.”
“It will be easy enough to remember as the day I murdered your favorite child,” he replied resentfully.
“I loved you the same.”
“You never visited,” he protested haughtily. “Isn’t that what mothers do?”
“Only when they’re wanted,” I retorted. “You never once wished me here; if you had, I would have come. But as it was, you harbored anger against me, and I knew my presence would only provoke you. And now – and now it has been made manifest for the entire world to see – but don’t worry; it will remain a secret between us. I won’t betray you, but I shall see you again, sometime in the future. Till then, live well.”
And I departed as quickly as I had arrived, and began to lay my plans to teach Dorian a valuable and much needed lesson.

CHAPTER VI – THE INVESTIGATION
Not surprisingly, the police demonstrated a keen interest in the nature of the fire, the consequential destruction and the impact it had on both my personal and public affairs. I was honored by multiple visits from a particular detective who seemed compelled to keep me constant company, although I assured him my grief was within natural limits and I presented no threat to myself or others. He was an older gentleman with large blue eyes that sagged slightly at the outer corners, and which were surrounded by concentric circles that I attributed to both age and a lack of sleep. His mouth likewise drooped on both sides, giving one the distinct but false impression of a continual melancholy. I told him he should spend more time at home with his wife who was also getting along in age and suffered from some unspecified medical condition, but he informed me he was the best estimator of where he should spend his hours and he believed they were best spent in the pursuit of criminals, especially those that managed to elude the police.
So it was the man was there when I slept as well as when I awoke, to the point that I questioned if he had ever returned home between the two epochs.
“Detective Modigliani,” I said one evening, when I opened my eyes to discover him mere inches from my face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in love with me. Don’t you ever tire of my presence?”
“No.”
“Well, certainly I must grate your nerves occasionally, and I want to assure you the feeling is mutual, so you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. If you were to depart and leave me alone, I might miss you but I would get over it, understand?”
“Yeah, I understand but it’s not going to happen, so get used to me.”
“I’d prefer not to – but honestly Detective; there are rapists and murderers about; don’t you feel the least bit of remorse for not chasing them?”
Detective Modigliani shook his head. “If I could I would catch them all, but I would settle for one at this moment, a really smart one, hard to catch.”
It was difficult at times to avoid engaging the detective in this conversation. I longed for an outlet for my thoughts, or an answer to the mystery that now plagued me: how did I, a Noctor with a telepathic link to those of my own kind, especially those related to me, miss Dorian’s plot? How did I fail to anticipate the burning of the school? In short, how did he evade me? With no sounding board or input, I was forced to rely on my own judgment concerning the matter, and ultimately decided it was the human element that had been my stumbling block, for as time passed I felt our connection grow stronger and his cerebral walls succumb to the growing link, until at last I settled into the unknown regions of his sub-consciousness.
The detective’s consistency and unrelenting tenacity compelled me – at least for a spell – to maintain appearances, including the third reconstruction of Welbeck Abbey along with a reasonable justification for the animal necropolis on the northern point. I explained to him, as I had done previously for the professor, the existence of a black panther on the premises, and indicated I did not consider the animal a threat to humanity and thus ruled it inconsequential. Of course, Modigliani was suspicious and attributed my furtiveness to a conspiracy that somehow involved the creature, and on more than one occasion he even offered to shoot it for me. But for obvious reasons I forbade him, and since I had attacked no one while in this modus operandi, he was legally obligated to concede to my wishes despite his murderous desire.
Welbeck Abbey was rebuilt within a year from the fire, and I invited a convent to establish an orphanage in the upper abode. My altruism did not go unnoticed by Detective Modigliani, who commented that he had never met a known murderer who possessed such a philanthropic heart, and was amazed by the juxtaposition of iniquity with charity. Whether intentional or not, the discovery of this love in me affected him on behavioral level till his visits – although unwavering – occurred during normal hours, giving me the freedom to move about at night as I pleased.
One particular evening at sunset I ventured into my upper apartment study and sat in my favorite reclining armchair. Before me where hundreds upon hundreds of books, many over a century old, containing the writings of the ancient Greek philosophers, the existentialists and post-modernists; the theological considerations of Augustine, Aquinas, Calvin; the cautions inside of Christopher Marlowe’s “Dr. Faustus” or Poe’s stories of madmen, and the ruminations of renowned psychologists as Freud, Jung and Maslowe. I had consumed them all over the course of my long life, and it was through them I had first grasped the nature of the human personality on sundry levels, and it was through them that I now understood the dark inclinations of my sordid son and of his predilections towards a sadistic psychopathology.
Closing my eyes, I focused internally, first upon myself and then upon that fateful night, traveling back into the recesses of my mind to locate those faded memories that, despite time, nevertheless remained within me. Suddenly and much to my surprise I found myself alone, standing in the middle of the parking lot of my old town home, and immediately recognized the scene as that which preceded the cataclysmic event by perhaps an hour. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps due to my new nature – I was not afraid, although certainly I had been terrorized by the initial attack, so much so that I had been unable to run away or to fight.
My recollection was marked by a peculiar acuteness of the senses. The damp, heavy air of springtime felt particularly wet upon my flesh and was difficult for me to breathe, the gentle breeze cooled my skin and produced a tingling sensation throughout my body, the stark, naked night sky appeared especially deep and expansive while the twinkling stars seemed to glare down from the heavens.
Just then I noticed one of the celestial bodies was moving at an accelerated rate across the bleak canvas. Like a shooting star it soared down towards some unknown destination, but then I observed it was followed by yet another light that was quickly breaching the gap between itself and the other. It was then I understood these were no meteoroids burning up in the earth’s atmosphere, but ships of some kind chasing one another across the galaxy.
The first craft grew closer and I realized with some apprehension that it was going to touch down nearby, so I gazed around for a spot from which I might observe the phenomenon unnoticed. To my left a low brick wall enclosed the complex’s pool; to the right a small park led into the dense thickets of a wild forest. I decided the wall would best serve my purposes while shielding me from any fall-out, so I quickly jumped behind it and cowered there in the darkness, waiting.
I watched as the two beams of light continued their rapid descent. For a moment it looked as if both were going to crash into the earth but then a flash from the first ship blinded me. Upon recovering my eyesight, I noticed the second ship had almost completely disappeared; only a few traces of scrap metal remained as a sort of token of its previous existence.
The first ship, which was steadily incinerating, struck the ground with such force I felt it quake beneath my feet. Immediately the wreckage burst into flames. Unable to proceed forward to check for life or to turn away and flee the conflagration, I looked on helplessly as the inferno licked the tree tops till all that remained was foxfire.
And then I heard a swoosh! noise, and observed the disappearance of the fire and then strangely my ability to breathe, but within moments another swoosh emitted from the words and I labored to respire no more.
This bizarre and perplexing situation combined with my acute curiosity easily overrode any logical imperative I felt for self-preservation, and I proceeded forward into the dying embers to see what odd supernatural occurrence had taken place within them. A few yards into the debris I came across several shiny, black, colossal panels that I had never seen before, and a few more feet further I discovered what appeared to be a spacecraft built for one -- but as to the identity of the one I could reach no conclusion, though I studied it at length.
Soon the gloomy night and the crash site began to work on my imagination, and within moments I had constructed a potpourri of monstrous aliens and phantasmagoric demons that had piloted the massive spacecraft before me. Struck with terror by my dark fantasies, I turned and bolted towards the open parking space, but just as I reached the aperture in the forest, I abruptly came to a standstill. Something had grasped me forcefully from behind, and though I struggled I could not escape its clutches or prevent the sharp, dagger-like teeth from sinking into the sinewy trapezius muscle. The pain struck like a lightening-bolt coursing through my body, and I cried out, but to no avail. Though I strained I could not move nor were my screams audible, but seemed to come from inside my head, where they echoed and resounded off cerebral walls.

When the creature finally let go its hold I fell to the ground like a collapsing skeleton, but it was a futile freedom. Devoid of a sufficient blood supply, I had neither the energy nor the constitution to crawl away or fight back against my attacker. Nevertheless, hoping to catch sight of my assailant before I died, I opened my eyes -- and was promptly shocked by what I saw:
Before me stood what appeared to be a man. About 6’2 tall, he had long whitish hair, gentle grey eyes, and pasty-colored flesh, like the gypsum of an ancient Roman statue . Two large wings heavy with the softest down feathers protruded from his back, and were the means by which he now covered himself in an act of modesty.
It struck me as strange that such a creature would consider propriety while observing his dying victim, but when he gazed into my eyes my thoughts changed as I felt a rush of comfort and a pervading peace. I knew then that I was not destined to die but to live to become like him, and though this idea should have struck terror in my heart, I could feel nothing but contentment and happiness….
…and that is when I opened my eyes and realized it was but a dream. I was still in my study; Marcus was still dead; Dorian was still flourishing and Modigliani was still suspicious, as he now sat in the high back maroon leather chair gazing at me from across the room.

I had not expected Modigliani at that late hour, for it was his custom to visit me in broad daylight when he could interrupt my sleep and interrogate me during my subsequent moments of exhaustion. Thus, his appearance at such an unconventional time caused me some confusion, and I studied him at length before I spoke.
“Hello Detective,” I said cautiously, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
The detective smirked. “I have good news for you.”
“And pray tell, what is that?” I inquired.
“We have a new suspect. A farmer passing by the day of the fire saw a man dressed in black pouring something on the ground. He said the guy had long dark hair tied in a pony-tail. You know anyone like that, Countess?”
“Absolutely not. Why would I?”
“Well, the way I figure it, you two are in cahoots with each other.”
“That’s a wonderful theory,” I retorted bluntly, “but there is only one problem with it: I don’t know anyone by that description. Besides, what motive have I for burning down my own school? It’s a preposterous notion!”
The detective glared at me. “I’m thinking you two did it for the insurance money.”
“You’re being absurd now detective. I used all the insurance money to rebuild the abbey and provide for an orphanage, so that discredits your hypothesis – not to mention that I loved my son more than my own life, and would have preferred to die in the fire along with him.”
“Yeah, but if you were having an affair with this guy, then there may have been reason to get rid of the extra baggage…”
“How dare you?!” I roared, for the detective’s suggestion offended me to no end. “I loved Marcus like he was my true son, and I still love him, even now. Whoever this gentleman is- - he did what he did without my help, alone.”
Modigliani would not be dissuaded. “You two are connected with each other and with the fire and that animal cemetery out there. I have no doubt of it. I don’t know how yet, but I plan to find out.”
“Fine,” I spat back. “I wish you luck in your pointless endeavor.”
“I don’t need luck,” he answered “but by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you: where did you get the title Countess of Moldovia?”
“From my mother, Regina Churchhill,” I muttered, knowing full well I had been Regina Churchhill under a former pseudonym. “Why?”
“Just wondering. Where is that, anyway?”
“Moldovia? It’s in Romania, next to Transylvania. Why do you want to know?” I inquired suspiciously.
“I never heard of it before. Transylvania…” the detective mused “…isn’t that where Dracula lived?”
At this I had to laugh. “Yes. Would you like a detailed history of my native country?”
“No. No,” Modigliani waved the notion away with his hand. “But…is that why you wear those strange dresses?”
“Oh, this?” I announced, lifting the bottom of my red and black velvet dress. “I’m rather fond of the Romantic Era, though I favor La Belle Époque on most days. My red crepe silk skirt with the sash and the matching bolero with leg-of-mutton sleeves reflects the haute couture of Edwardian England.”
The detective looked at me and then down at his dull polyester grey pants, white button down shirt and matching grey and blue tie. “My kids tell me my clothes are out-of-style, but you take that to a whole new level.”
“Well I suppose I am a bit sentimental and nostalgic,” I reflected, “but it’s my property, and I am allowed to do with it what I want, and to dress however I want. If you don’t like it you can always leave. I won’t mind a bit.”
“Actually, I was hoping you would leave – with me. Since you don’t know the stranger who burnt down the abbey, you won’t mind accompanying me to see him, will you?”
The detective’s invitation shocked me, and I let out a small gasp. “Right now? I…I am busy at the moment. There’s so much to do around here I don’t think I’ll be able to escort you. Thanks for inviting me, however.”
“I don’t think you understand me, Countess. If you don’t go with me, I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station to conduct the interview there.”
“Fine,” I sighed in frustration. “I’ll join you. Will that satisfy your obsessive curiosity finally?”
“It’ll help a great deal.”
“Anything to aid you in quitting me permanently. Let me get my frock,” I said, going over to the coat-hanger to retrieve my coat. We then departed the Abbey.
Modigliani’s car was a behemoth thing with a curved silhouette and lots of space inside the vehicle. I did not share the communities’ fondness for this mode of transportation, and so had managed to avoid it save when I was forced to ride alongside Marcus to the hospital or go with friends to the theater. Now was no different; my fear mounted as the speed of the automobile increased, but I was not about to reveal my discomfort to the detective, and so I restrained myself.
We passed several crumbling houses with weed-ridden, brick foundations and fireplaces, and then barren fields, which were occasionally interrupted by a dense brush or woods. Eventually the meadows disappeared and were replaced by old warehouses with flat tops and an occasional country store until we entered the city. The infamous Worsop railroad soon appeared to my right, and we drove for some time, eventually crossing over the tracks into a residential area that I recognized immediately as that belonging to Dorian Hamilton. It was then my worst fears were confirmed, and I wondered to myself how I could cast doubt onto my other son while sending Modigliani searching elsewhere.
The sun had already set by the time we arrived at Dorian’s. I instantly sensed my son’s presence within the house and I knew that he too, discerned my arrival, and through me, the arrival of the detective as well. Though we could not yet speak to each other, our intuitive abilities were superlative and enabled us to reach general conclusions regarding the situation before I had even stepped within his domicile.
“Whose house is this?” I asked the detective in feigned ignorance.
“Dorian Hamilton’s. The farmer knows the family and is fairly sure he’s our man.”
“Your man perhaps,” I quipped, “but certainly not mine.”
The detective rung the doorbell and we waited patiently for Dorian to appear. When at last he arrived, he was wearing black, baggy jeans and a tight black turtle-neck shirt.
“Can I help you?” he inquired politely.
Modigliani flicked open his badge, showed it to Dorian, then shoved it back into his pants pocket. “I’m investigating the fire that occurred at Welbeck Abbey – can we come in?”
“Sure,” Dorian answered, stepping politely out of the way to allow us to enter. We followed him into the living room - a vast area that contained two black leather couches, a matching love seat, armchair and recliner - and sat down.
Modigliani coughed slightly and then turned to address Dorian. “Do you know where you were the day of the fire?”
My son smiled politely. . “I really don’t remember. It was over a year ago and I don’t keep a calendar. Do you recall where you were that day, detective, before the fire?”
“He’s an old man,” I jested “and can’t be expected to remember anything except holidays and the location of my home.”
Dorian laughed and our eyes met in mutual adoration. “I see, and who are you?”
“I’m the owner of Welbeck Abbey of course,” I announced. “Countess of Moldovia, although I answer to the title “Countess”. Detective Modigliani has faithfully visited me every day since the terrible incident. One could easily misconstrue his dedication as love.”
“Oh I see. Well, I won’t destroy his pretense by supplying ready answers to his intrusive questions. Detective, I have no recollection of the day in question regarding where I was or what I was doing. I suggest you investigate my whereabouts further so I can account for my poor memory and please, let the Countess assist you in your search.”
“No, no,” I protested lightly. “Don’t confuse the issue; the detective is my admirer; I simply tolerate him.”
“Unrequited love is such a tragedy,” Dorian sighed sadly, “that is why I prefer it. It lends a dramatic moment to an otherwise dull existence.”
“Oh I adore unrequited love. It is by far the most romantic of all the loves.”
“I’m married,” the detective countered.
“Well that settles it then,” Dorian replied. “You are undoubtedly in love with the Countess; all married men are in love with single women.”
“I’m not in love with the Countess,” the detective snapped. “But I’m more certain than ever that you two know each other and planned the whole thing.”
“Oh, neither one of us planned you falling in love with me. You did that all by yourself.”
Modigliani’s face lit up like the fire he was investigating. “You can play games all you want but I will find out who started this fire if it’s the last thing I do.”
“It may be the last thing you do,” Dorian mumbled.
The detective looked confused. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Nothing,” I retorted quickly. “I didn’t hear him say anything. Did you say anything Mr. Hamilton?”
“No. I suggest you get your hearing checked, detective. Auditory hallucinations are the beginning signs of schizophrenia.”
“We should be going anyway,” I announced rather suddenly, for the conversation had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and I feared any further dialogue would put the investigator’s life at risk. “I have an appointment I must keep. Modigliani, would you drive me home, please.”
Under normal circumstances, such a request would have ensured the very opposite from the officer but for reasons only known to him, he conceded and within twenty minutes, we had returned to Welbeck Abbey.

Thats really good keep on writing!!

Thanks for the encouragement. I really needed/need it. Sometimes I feel like I write in a vaccum and all is vanity/meaninglessness. Knowing at least one person is moved by it really makes a difference.

you should check out my site,
we could always use some good writers...
The link is in my signature.
Hope to see you there...

CHAPTER VIII – FORMULATING A PLOT

Dorian had performed some significant and intricate remodeling of his home since I first visited him that fateful night over five years ago. The once staid white-walled bedroom had been converted into a flamboyant if not tenebrous boudoir containing medieval elements from both the Romantic and Gothic periods,. The cinnamon colored walls offset by sumptuous white crown molding and decorative base-board appealed to the refined senses while the dark cherry-wood panels and furniture, the black curtains and bed runner, the luxurious cinnamon silk comforter and black silk sheets suggested high gothic style. It was within this room that Dorian now stood, curtain parted, gazing out the window at something taking place in the courtyard below.
Looking down I noticed an intruder, heavily clad in black, creeping through the heavy underbrush towards a dilapidated shed located in the very densest copse The illumination from two dozen candles cast murky shadows upon the walls, and I could not help but wonder if the prowler could see Dorian’s silhouette against the resplendent backdrop.
But I did not have to wait long to find out.
Dorian quickly descended the stairs, entering the drawing room long enough to retrieve his piece from the desk before rushing outside and into the coppice where the intruder lurked. He moved like lightening, ripping through the heavy shrubbery and tearing away any ivy, vines or branches that obstructed his path. Seconds later he stood directly behind the stranger, who consequently whirled around in surprise at his sudden approach.
Incensed by the individual’s impudence, he thrust the weapon into the person’s ribs and hissed. “Take off your mask”.
Slowly and methodically the intruder removed the black opaque stocking that covered his head, revealing none other than Detective Modigliani. Neither Dorian nor I was surprised by the identity of the visitor, although now that he had discovered the gasoline canisters in the shed, something would have to be done about it. Exactly what to do was the question circumstances now posed, and I dreaded what I knew would be Dorian’s answer.
For a moment my son seem to waiver on the point, and I thought perhaps there was yet hope for the detective, but an instant later a pernicious desire struck and Dorian sunk his teeth into Modigliani’s flesh. Although I struggled to dislodge him from his victim, my movements were futile and produced neither force nor change. It was as if I were a phantasm floating in some dimension beyond our current world, able to discern my surroundings but powerless to alter them. Left without any recourse, I naturally panicked.
Had I owned a living human heart that beat within my chest I have no doubt it would have ceased its clamor at that moment, and I would have been shot awake by the consequential asphyxiation and throbbing pain that would have coursed through my body. But as I possessed no human heart nor did my life reside within my chest, it was only sheer terror fused with a subtle Noctor premonition that sent me bursting from my hiding spot in the far corner of the room with fangs bared and in-transit to my natural form.
Finding no imminent danger or enemy threat, however, I assumed panther mode and took off towards Dorian’s house.
By the time I arrived it was too late for Modigliani, who now sat in the far corner of Dorian’s shed with his head half-decapitated and both eyes bulging from their sockets, a sight that I found more disconcerting for its life-like appearance. Dorian was reposed upon a make-shift bench, his eyes closed with the back of his right hand flung haphazardly across his forehead in what had to be feigned angst – or so I thought. Upon hearing me, however, he shot upright to gaze at me with a frightened expression, his eyebrows knit together in a perpetual worry.
“He’s dead,” he announced.
“Yes I know.”
Dorian sighed heavily and sunk his face into his hands. “What should I do?” I didn’t mean to kill him, but he found the gasoline canisters. Regina, he *knew* I set the fire.”
“My name is Countess Moldovia.”
“No it’s not; it’s Regina Churchhill. You forget I know you as well as you know me.”
“Regina died a long time ago and there is nothing left save this mortal coil, which hardly qualifies as something that should have its own term, but as to your question, you have to leave Dorian. You can’t stay here; the police will find you and your secret won’t survive prison, so you must go to Liberland, where you can disappear in the crowds.”
Dorian crossed his arms and pouted in self-pity. “But I don’t know anyone there. Where will I go?”
“Give it time and you won’t know anyone here either. People die, so get used to being alone because solitude will be your only company for the rest of your life – however long that may be. But, tomorrow I’ll crate you up and have you flown overseas to cover your tracks. You will disappear, just as Modigliani has disappeared this night, understand?”
A look of hope crossed Dorian’s face. “What are you going to do with him?”
I turned to Modigliani, whose bulging stare seemed to beg the same question. “You’ve taught me that fire covers a multitude of sins,” I answered gravely. “He’ll burn in my furnace tonight.”
After Dorian and I wrapped the corpse in black linen sheets, we carried it to his car and hurled it into his trunk with great force, snapping its neck and rib in the process. Despite this additional horror, however, we managed to secure the abomination by lodging it between two concrete bricks before departing for Welbeck Abbey. For this reason we were astonished and not a little perturbed when, upon opening the trunk, we discovered the corpse had freed itself from these constraints and now met us anew with its unblinking accusatory expression. Although Dorian felt the uncanny incident was a baleful omen, I was certain there was a more reasonable explanation.
“Dead bodies don’t have wills,” I assured him, “and even if they did they lack the capacity to carry them out. This is nothing more than a strange coincidence.”
“Then why does he stare at me that way? It’s like he wants everyone to know I murdered him because I burnt down the abbey.”
“That’s paranoia brought on by a healthy dose of guilt, which is refreshing considering your past apathy,” I retorted rationally. “Now let’s go inside before we’re discovered and sent to prison.”
I hoisted the remains of Modigliani over my shoulder and carried him indoors with Dorian trailing closely behind. When we reached my room the fire in the furnace was raging, the flames licking the walls with a ruddy color that elongated our shadows and made us appear more demonic than human, although we hardly qualified as members under that term.
Together we removed the dark linen and cast it into the fire, watching as it incinerated till nothing remained. Then, with one accord we also pitched the detective’s corpse, and slammed the furnace door shut to wait out the process.
At first all went well, and the body was consumed according to the laws of physics and thermodynamics, but soon an odd sound emitted from the infernal chamber, a noise low and reverberating that grew into a distinctive shrill and then, a most pronounced and strident shriek.
“You fool!” I screamed at Dorian. “Didn’t you rip his head half-off?!”
“No, I bit him, why?” came the shocked response.
Outraged, I shook my finger at him. “A bite doesn’t kill; it creates life! For God’s sake, Dorian, Detective Modigliani is still alive!”

The frightful monstrosity that was once human howled in pain as he struggled against the iron hatch that locked him within his personal Hell. Half-human, half-noctor now, this beastly hybrid transmutated first into a torched human corpse, and then into something ineffable, a creature with skeletal body and wings, claws for hands and feet and skin burned beyond redemption. The burgeoning eyeballs finally escaped their sockets, and the body – unable to maintain its structure – melted away into bubbling globules that oozed from the remaining form until all had evaporated into the ether.
When it was finished, I quenched the fire with water and retracted the residual bone fragments from their resting spot, shoving them into a bag, which I placed in the crate alongside Dorian. Equipped with instructions to bury the evidence in a remote location, Dorian was shipped out next day air. After two days I received word of his success breathed a sigh of relief, for the police department had already begun a new search of my lodgings and an investigation into the animal graveyard that lay at the most Northern part of my estate.