DARIEN VALENTINE
“Some say the world will end in fire, some ice, and still others claim humanity… If there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that Valentine will screw us all.”
~
Brothers and sisters one and all
There is one who would see us fall
Who would kill us in our beds
And part us forever from our heads
This violence cannot continue on
Until all that’s evil in life is gone
This is the monster you should fear
Kill ye Darien both far and near
~
A thick, pink tongue slips out between my lips, eager to taste the nectar of this monstrous creature in front of me.
Sweet, sweet wolves. I wanted to open my mouth, and suck them all up; I wanted to swallow their squirming, charming bodies; I wanted to ingest them beyond external recognition, so that they would be nothing but blank faces and mute light, prepared to obey, and sacrifice . . . themselves.
I loved chaos. I loved the way it was unpredictable, like the directionless wind on a stormy night, without a conscious, infecting everyone it touched with a filthy disease: The Will to Survive.
So strong, it could override our humanity and turn us into our own, hideous fear, turning us against one another.
I could see it in his eyes, beautifully equal to my own in so many ways. I could see the anarchy bedded so deeply under his transparent shell, could see the virtue I loved just as much as I’m sure he did. It only made him increasingly appetizing, and I wanted nothing more than to spill his blood, but, unfortunately, I needed nothing more than to keep his blood flowing.
Because this was the only perdition’s offspring I’ve ever seen who, eve at first glance, is hellish enough that he’d cause such an unfamiliar adoration of him and his smog of sins.
A man in wolf’s clothing, that’s what he was.
Every other mind, turning clockwise, becomes thoughtful to every other new scenario, creating solutions and rational explanations when the strain was too great and making split decisions effortlessly.
But, as I so often must remind myself, my mind is turning counterclockwise, it has numbed itself into a comatose stupor once it could no longer cope with the trauma, growing lax that I’d be able to act on impulse and be guilt free once the consequences play out, allowing me to become superior emotionally, physically, and mentally. And, until now, my sadism hasn’t ever found a solitary target. Usually it was a more general aspect I possessed (female, male, brown, grey, cat, dog), but something about this regal executionist, the way pleasure was so freely shining in his eyes when his paw came down on the free-spirited wretch beneath hell itself, had caused this shift of loyalties.
When he spoke, so directly, causing me to search for the receiver, persuading me to see them as individuals rather than a whole, and led me to a patchily iced boy, his age kept away from me by his ancient air that clashed with his eager expression—so ready to please. . . . I was saddened when I couldn’t yet pick up on any distinctive scent that I could place on this enthusiastic male, but by what I’d gathered, it was something along the lines of young meat.
His next songful words were gifted to Deadly Mamba—so he said—who came across as deceitfully clean. Her seers revealed her true colors with their forbidding jade complexion; a jovial slayer.
Then his prey, which I found strange- what’s the point in speaking to the dead? And finally, the clearing itself, praising us, welcoming us.
I’ve always liked to think that I possess a rational mindset, keen senses, and a strong will to survive, that what made me different were the gifts that I’d received to reach an obsessive goal, whatever it might be, whatever I may want.
Now, I wanted Kershov. I wanted him as my own, as my power head, leader figure, friend.
But as he turned to me, the flesh under his skin sliding over his bones and sinew, I wondered if it was okay for a friend to want another friend’s body.
I didn’t want to have sex with him; I wanted to eat him alive.
Insane wasn’t something I’d ever call myself, although murderer, sadist, cannibal and mad are only slightly acceptable, insane is not.
The thirst for your own race’s blood, the physical pain you feel when you can’t have their skin breaking under your power, that isn’t lunacy.
That’s a hobby.
Lastly, he came to me. Hard to resist, harder to give in, aptitude oozing from the baritone voice he addressed me with. I didn’t see the point in watching his gaze when his succulent teeth were so close, very nearly hypotonic, so, instead, I watched them. Words redundant, and, to a further extent unwanted, my response was more illusory and verbal. He had so much potential, I mused, the sides of my black orifices curved upward in the first, slightest, smallest and fondest smiles to grace my appearance in so long it was almost painful. Has it been so long that I’ve forgotten how to express anything but wicked, artful mollification? A shining white star amongst the uninterested blackness of my pelt, I stepped forward, placing us nose to nose and finally meeting his eyes as I reached, slowly, to brush my lips over his jaw—tasting him—simultaneously allowing him to, if he wished, dine upon my exposed neck.
I wasn’t afraid.
I trusted him.
And so god help me, he would be a sire, my sire.
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