Part III
By Woolhat's Traveling Mood
He had felt guilty about that one. Sixteen was way too young, he should have known better. It was her energy that had attracted him to her, she looked like she would put up a good fight, and he wanted a challenge. Mike was impressed but didn't show it, he had bigger fish to fry. The Texan could only feast on blood, so he needed regular intakes, but Micky considered himself in the 'twilight zone'. He could eat food perfectly normally but had a deep inner craving for blood, just like all other things mortals
consider bad for them, chocolate, fries etc. He flicked the light on and yawned wearily. Then he flicked the light off again, then on, then off; he was well and truly bored.
"What's that? Morse code?” Peter called almost angrily as he staggered through the door.
Micky looked frightened, temptation teasing him as soon as the blond entered the room. Perfect time, he thought, no one home, no one would know. Micky shook his head, trying to rid his head of the hideous thoughts. He watched as Peter heaved his aching body into a nearby chair and lolled his head back. If Micky hadn't known better he would have sworn Peter was teasing him, his hair was blown backwards and his pale neck glistened under the lamplight. Micky licked his lips and tasted sugar and blood. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything to stop him from leaping on Peter then and there. Slowly Peter gathered the energy to open his eyes and looked at Micky, who was
hiding timidly in the shadows.
"Everything ok?” He asked, genuine concern and weariness in his voice.
Micky nodded enthusiastically and stepped out of the darkness. He hadn't seen Peter in days and even that was a fleeting glance. He stood still as Peter studied his new appearance, the blonde's mouth slightly open. "So it's true then?” The bassist asked, eyeing Micky up and down, "You too?"
Micky nodded and went to sit on the couch, his eyes deliberately averted from Peter's. Peter was silent for quite a while, seemingly unable to come to terms with the unbearable truth. Slowly Peter locked eye contact with the drummer and sighed, "Does Davy know?"
Micky nodded again. "And Mike? Was this...his doing?"
Micky nodded, trying to hold back a few tears, Peter's gentle voice almost too much to bear.Peter shook his head slightly, "Why Mick?” He murmured quietly, leaning forward, unafraid.
"Because," Micky began, tempted at leaving it at that, but decided Peter deserved an explanation, "Because...Pete, I needed to... I wanted so badly to be wanted. That's why. I wanted to feel wanted. I wanted to feel like I was worth all the trouble. I was sick and tired of 'good old Micky, always good for a laugh'."
"Mike makes you feel wanted?” There was a touch of scorn in Peter's voice.
Micky glared at him, defending his growing idol, "Yes, he does. Why would he go to all that trouble? He said so, and you know what? I believe him."
Peter shook his head and leant back in his chair. "He cares about no-one but himself. I've known him a lot longer than you have, we were both folk singers once, even then he was a bastard, and he still is. Don't hero worship him Micky."
Micky felt his blood boil and his fingers clutch into fists, no-one talked about Mike like that. His mind grew mad with all the things he'd like to do with Peter, how to make him hurt and he felt his fangs press in his bottom lip. He tried to keep his mouth shut, forcing the thoughts of drinking Peter's blood to the back of his mind. The blond looked smug at hurting Micky's feelings, or at least that's what Micky saw. Micky tasted the blood in his mouth from where his own fangs were puncturing his lip.
Peter's expression seemed to change as he watched Micky's reaction and he squirmed slightly in his seat. "Hey Mick, I'm...I'm sorry man, but.”
Peter was stopped as Micky suddenly leapt onto him, forcing his head back. "Don't worry big Peter, it doesn't matter anymore." Micky hissed as he produced his fangs, menacingly and glared into Peter's terrified eyes.
"Micky...please!” Peter squirmed, trying to force Micky off. He struggled and felt tears springing to his eyes as he realized that Micky now had the strength of ten men.
Micky lingered on top of him for a few moments, relishing in the fear he caused. "Are you hurting Peter? Am I hurting you?” Micky's eyes glistened as he lowered his head until their faces were
touching. Peter nodded, hoping that Micky would release him with the right answer, but that was wishful thinking and he knew it.
"I wonder what it's like to drink the blood of a virgin?" Micky grinned fiendishly.
Peter glared at him, the expression of 'how do you know that' on his face and opened his mouth to scream.
"Tut-tut," Micky smiled, forcing his lollypop in Peter's mouth, "No screaming,"
By now Peter had tears rolling down his face and he felt sick. His arms throbbed as Micky's knees held them down and he could feel a cold breath on his neck. Peter began to choke on the candy in his struggle but Micky took no notice. The drummer's head was reeling with thoughts of success and the smile that Mike would give him when he finally became 'complete'. At that moment in time he hated Peter. He hated the blond for being so wise, so loyal, so cultured, and so uncaring. He had made no attempt to agree with Micky; instead he just lashed out at Mike as if he was the culprit of every known hatred and badness in the world, and even if he was, Micky knew that he wouldn't love him any less. He was infatuated and obsessed.
He felt Peter shiver beneath him, shiver with fright at the thought of death at the hands of his best friend. Micky sighed slightly in remorse, but there was not enough of it to hold him back from his goal. He leant forward and brushed his fangs along and across the bare naked skin, trying to find the right spot. Peter's flesh smelt of cigarettes and some kind of alcohol, Micky couldn't make out what, but it was sweet, oh so sweet. Micky couldn't hold back any longer as his fangs slowly sank beneath the fleshly protective layer. He heard Peter gasp at the pain and then there was a warm sensation flowing through him, Peter's life source.Peter tried to struggle again, spitting out the candy and screaming for all he was worth, before Micky's cold white hand smothered his mouth. Peter tried to hit out but
suddenly felt his energy level drop to almost nothing. His eyelids became heavy as the continuous pain raged on in his throat. Everything was growing dark and then there was nothing.
~~~~~
Mike looked wearily at his watch, two o'clock in the morning. He yawned and vowed to go without sleep for over three days ever again. He had come to the conclusion that trying to stay up during the day and being nocturnal was stupid and he had to choose. But he would leave that until after he had some well-earned sleep.
The pad was silent and he guessed everyone was asleep. The moon shone happily through the large windows that overlooked their miniature bandstand and made Mike smile."My best friend," He called to it, giving an expression as if he were sunbathing in the timid light. He sat on the couch and sighed, winding down before deciding to go to bed. The silence was welcome after the noise of the club he had been to. He looked down at his arms as he remembered the previous few hours. The gashes were healing nicely; his victim had certainly put up a fight. He licked one of the cuts and tasted the blood, sour compared to that of a mortal. He continued looking at his arms and shuffled slightly before noticing an odd feeling by his foot. He tapped his foot slightly and realized that there was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He sighed wearily as he pulled up his foot and inspected the sole.
"What the...?” He asked his foot as he pulled off a half-eaten lollypop from his shoe.
He gave himself a chuckle as he thought about it and came to the unchallenged decision that his apprentice had been here earlier. Mike smiled as he closed his eyes and images of Micky floated past his closed lids, making his smile grow.
He yawned again, reminding himself how tired he was and climbed the stairs, dragging his feet slightly. The bedroom he shared with Micky was pitch black and silent.
"Mick?” Mike called quietly, shuffling over to Micky's bed. No sign of him, the bed hadn't been slept in.
Mike scratched his head and shrugged, "Probably getting laid," He gave a laugh and perched on his bed, slowly removing his shoes with the ultimate precision. He laid back on his bed and propped his hands behind his head, he had hoped to spend a few minutes with Micky at least, and he found it hard to ignore his disappointment. Mike was still finding it hard to truly convince himself about his own feelings. Did he love Micky? If so, why? Why him? He knew for sure that he wasn't gay, no way, so what was it about Micky? He shrugged again to himself, enjoying his own company as he had always done. He let his eyelids drop naturally and hoped sleep would wash away his thoughts of Micky before he became too aroused, he was too tired for all that right now.
He lay back carefully and watched the ceiling, half expecting something to happen. Mike sighed and let his eyes close, preparing for the inevitable sleep to engulf him. But he found it hard to sleep; the silence was too overwhelming, too unusual. Mike opened his eyes and gazed around. Everything was the same, as he expected and he groaned with the monotonous emptiness. He slowly dragged himself to his feet and staggered over to Micky's bed; collapsing on it and making the floorboards creak loudly.
Mike smiled and buried his head in Micky's pillow, breathing deep. The fragrance was sweet and reminded him of Micky's smile. Still sleep wouldn't come and Mike's eyes forced themselves open, despite the painful tiredness. He wasn't hungry, and there was nothing for him to eat or drink in the pad anyway - Davy was out. He staggered to his feet and wandered out of the room, humming slightly to himself. He slid down the banister; usually something only Micky did, and surveyed the room. He couldn't help thinking that something was wrong; the pad was never this silent. Mike fumbled for the light switch and was blinded by the immediate light. The light bounced off of the snowy walls and startled him slightly by its force. He glanced around avidly, checking that everything was as it should be.
Then a familiar fragrance wafted past his nose. It was an almost unnoticeable smell, no mortal would have been able to smell it but Mike could and it tickled his taste buds. It was the smell of blood, strong and beckoning. He spun around and tried desperately to find the cause. Chairs and the odd table were thrown across the pad as the prince searched avidly, tracing the smell.Soon he found it, a small pool lurking near the old armchair. Mike glanced around him to make sure no one was watching before dropping to his knees and breathing the smell in deep. A strong copper smell filled his lungs and
he couldn't resist getting a taste. The taste was familiar and immediately his heart skipped a beat, he tried again just to make sure and worry flickered in his eyes. The blood was that of Micky.
Chapter Five
Mike was hysterical, and he hated knowing it. Micky seemed to have vanished into thin air, and so had the others. Mike felt an overwhelming guilt, it gnawed at him from the inside, trying to break him down. Mike stalked through club after club, glided through one hippy flat to the next, neither were to his liking but at that point, he would have done anything to find Micky. He growled through the night on his motorbike, seeking out every place that Davy or Peter might be, but to no avail. Mike felt drained of hope and energy; his body still hadn't slept. By now he had ridden into the slum of the town and he decided that he didn't stand a chance of finding the drummer.
Mike pulled up by a run-down bar and strode inside, sending the bar into silence. He perched on a barstool and glanced wistfully around, the worry hidden from his face. He soon found himself besieged by prostitutes and he felt his anger rise. For the last three weeks he had been a cool customer, suave and sophisticated, but without Micky he found himself on the brink of despair. He gave up on the bar after one woman tried to steal a kiss and he disappeared into the night, his welcoming kingdom. He felt like he had just been thrown into a tacky horror movie, with dark alleyways and bad smells, coupled with the occasional drug addict and pervert. In fact, this was worse than fiction, this was reality. He left his bike and decided to walk along the street a little way, to clear his head. It was when he received the ninth smile that night from a prostitute that he realized that he was hungry. There were rich pickings, despite the fact that they were slightly worse for ware, but still good enough to settle his hunger.
She was young and quite flighty, ready to throw his clothes off and drag him down the nearest alleyway. "I'll take you where you've never been before my dear," Mike whispered in her ear, kissing it soothingly.
"Wh...where's that?” She gave a nervous smile,
"Hell!” He growled, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her up against the wall. She sucked in her breath and tried to claw her way to escape, lashing out at his face. She didn't stand a chance and he smiled almost lovingly at her. "Shhhh," He murmured, producing his fangs and tilting her head to the side slightly. She shook her head violently, but a scream didn't have time to reach her lips before a searing pain ripped through her, starting in her neck and working down to her chest. She felt her heart pump harder, but it was only pumping more blood into him. Mike drank greedily, drained from his day's excursions. She let out a meager whimper before falling limp in his arms, stone dead.
Mike wiped his mouth, satisfied, and allowed her to slump to the floor. He gave a wry smile and crept away, a newfound energy running through him.
The prince's eyes glowed in the night, hope, and energy surging through him full force. He pointed boots clicked menacingly along the pavement as he strode along, his body radiating with confidence.
All his senses seemed ten times more sensitive and he heard things that he had never heard before. He could hear the blood rushing around his veins, the purr of a cat hidden beneath a parked car and something that made a smile strike his face with intense speed. Mike darted into a dark alleyway and watched the buildings across the road.
"So where abouts in England are you from?” She asked, grasping his arm as he closed the back door behind him.
"Manchester, but I moved down to Aintree to become a jockey.” Davy gave an off-hand smile as he checked that the coast was clear. He couldn't bear staying in that flat any longer. Trust Peter to suggest a flat in one of the roughest areas of the city, right above a seedy off-license.
He gave several glances and gave another swift smile, before taking her hand in his and heading off into the night.
Mike couldn't help but grin as he sidestepped into the light and hurried across the road to the door.
"He just doesn't learn.” He muttered to himself as he barged through the door and stormed up an immediate flight of stairs. There was no light, but that didn't bother him. Occasionally he heard a meager squeak of a startled mouse or the creak of the stairs beneath his almost weightless frame.
There was a door directly before him now and he slowly pushed it open. Davy was getting careless, he thought as he realized that the door was so rotten, a lock was out of the question. A dim glow filled the room, which was littered with old wooden furniture, some of which was used as tables and chairs. There were candles everywhere and they spread an even dappled light on the prince's snowy white features. His eyes picked up every ray and reflected it back, making it look as if his eyes were supplying the light for the room. There was the sound of the occasional deep breath and Mike knew that he had found Peter. The blond was slouched in an old armchair that was missing a leg and was supported by a broken wooden box. The fabric was eaten through and Mike wasn't surprised to see the odd, curious, furry nose poke out from one of many holes. Peter was asleep or seemed it, a bottle of vodka nursed in his arms. Mike sneered slightly at his old friend's appearance. The bassist looked like the undead. His hair seemed to be closer to gray than it's friendly blond, his face drawn, and deathly pale. He had a day's worth of stubble around his face and his clothes looked, and probably smelt like they hadn't been cleaned in three years.
Mike winced and gazed around for any trace of Micky. There were only three rooms, the room he was now in which doubled as a living room and a bedroom, with its mattress on the floor. There was the kitchen, which was the size of a broom cupboard and there was the bathroom. The bathroom door was closed and Mike hesitated investigating, just in case he was confronted with a vulgar sight that might even make him sick. He was going to give up, no sign of Micky found, when his ears suddenly picked up something. He listened again; there it was again. The sound of a small splash of water, almost inaudible. Mike spun on his heels and bolted to the closed bathroom door, his heart racing and his eyes squinted through fear of what he might find.
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