…and never finished. This is from my favorite character’s (Morgan D’Arcy) POV. I doubt that it would ever sell but I like it.
If I sit quietly as I am doing now, allowing my mind to wander, the years brush past my eyes like snowflakes, each with its unique design and momentary brilliance. I can time travel from the latter years of the reign of the hapless — and later headless — Charles I to the fall of the present world travesties and triumphs. The early years are not as bright in my recollection as the long years since my transformation. My childhood I remember in flashes of color and pageantry much as anyone recalls his formative years.
The Vampyre years are as tangible and three-dimensional as a copper coin twirling over my knuckles. At will, I can pick up this coin, examine in often painful, often pleasurable detail, at my leisure, savoring or recoiling from each emotion. It is not a gift this reliving of moments lost in the river of time. For those of you who covet the vampire wSome luscious, some painful, perfect memory, a curse and a gift that came to me, unawares, as the dark gift is most times given–a surprise like death. Actually it is death, as mortals understand death.
I can feel Dominique’s silken lips pressed to my body, her tongue snaking down my stomach or up my neck. I can experience the piercing embrace of her sharp teeth on the vein. I can submerge myself in ecstasy as if her long, fine legs were actually wrapped around me, urging my passion. Or I can relive the horror of the night she was killed.
You know, it’s strange, but after three hundred thirty-odd years, I still miss her. She was both my lover and my mother. I wasn’t born from her womb, of course. There’s something repugnant to me about incest. The arranged marriages among the nobility come close enough!
Dominique du Montcleare gave me eternal life.
And eternal darkness.
Dominique was a strong woman, even before she was a vampire. Her thirteenth rib didn’t turn into Eve. By this I mean, Dominique was as callous and aggressive as any man. She wanted passion hot and sport dangerous. She mastered her stallion on the spur and wielded her ivory-handled pistol with a marksman’s skill. Dressed in a peach-and-silver tissue dress, she could appear at the theatre and stop hearts. Dressed in peach-and-silver embroidered doublet and hose, she could stop a man in his tracks with her dainty fist. There wasn’t a meek bone in Dominique’s curvaceous body nor, I’m convinced, a heart under her luscious left breast. But we were kindred spirits and Dominique was the mirror in which I first recognized my own reflection. It was the portrait of a hunter.
When Oliver Cromwell seized the English Parliament and cunningly disposed of his rival, King Charles I, most of the displaced nobility fled with the Royal Family to France.