Fic: Slayer Of The Damned (1/?)

[ladyvyxen@xxxxxxxxxxxxx]

Slayer of the Damned, Part One.
Comments/Criticism/Etc. to: ladyvyxen@xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Anne-Lise peers at you from atop her horn-rimmed reading-
glasses. "In an attempt to reduce the malaise of my heart, and the 
general apathy to my pensive scribbling, I'm making an especial 
effort to try a homoerotically gothic writing style based heavily on 
the works of Anne Rice. Feel free to slate it, as you will. Shy, 
thank you for your kind words. Sometimes we simply need a reminder of 
how long the path can be." Anne-Lise offers Shyfox a melancholy smile.

--

The Talamasca; Investigators of the Paranormal.
We watch, and we are always here.
London Amsterdam Rome Sunnydale

*

"I'm the Vampire Lestat. Remember me? The vampire who became a rock 
star, the one who wrote the autobiography? The one with the blond 
hair and the grey eyes, and the insatiable desire for visibility and 
fame? You remember. I wanted to be a symbol of evil in a shining 
century that didn't have any place for the literal evil that I am. I 
even figured I'd do some good in that fashion - playing the devil on 
the painted stage.
Then something utterly unforeseen took place. Well, at least I 
hadn't seen it coming. It's all over now - what followed. I've 
survived once more, obviously. I wouldn't be talking to you now if I 
hadn't. The cosmic dust has finally settled; and the small rift in 
the world's fabric of rational beliefs has been mended, or at least 
closed. For awhile.
The blood thirst? Still insatiable. Although now I have more to 
consider than that annoying order of Watchers, the Talamasca. For the 
first time in centuries I've been made to feel a blade of fear as 
precarious as the sword of Damocles, and as equally deadly. 
The Slayer; A vixen of fury who fought as though the whole world's 
population were her cubs. She of the hazel eyes and delicious blonde 
tresses, apple-pie features which, I think, are rather fetchingly 
accentuated by her lithe, supple figure. Of all the forms vengeance 
had taken in my past, she is by far the most beautiful I've had the 
pleasure to witness.
Yet even the healthy vigour of the Slayer, whom I find so 
delectable, is diminished by the wonder of her consort; Willow.
Let me say now that I had no knowledge of her origins before I met 
the girl. To me, she was just another thread in the rich tapestry of 
sensual experience that forms my damnable existence. But as I stole 
from her fount, what I saw and felt thereafter was to change my 
immortal life forever.
To paraphrase David Copperfield, I know not whether I'm the hero or 
victim of this tale. I'm the same devil I always was, the young man 
who wishes for nothing more than to amuse you, to enthrall you, to 
make you forgive me everything... But I fear the story that unfolds 
before you now will break the chain that bonds your heart to mine. 
For in my final salvation, surely my redemption held a greater price 
than any I should have paid. I lay before you now the tale, and as 
always, await your judgement."

*

Willow stared in wonder at the world map that lay impossibly before 
her on the screen. What had started out as an innocent query into her 
roots had led to a database that went further back in time than she 
could believe, and yet here it was. A press of a key, and the screen 
altered to form a matrilineal genealogical view, and Willow gasped as 
she saw her name at the tip of a branch of a great tree of names, 
names that flowed into a contracting simplicity the further back she 
scrolled. Until, after what seemed an age, she arrived at names 
without surnames, names that reached out to her, names she knew.
"Aunt Maharet?" she puzzled. She opened a small drawer in her 
dresser and withdrew a bundled collection of letters. Ever since she 
was a little girl, she'd received letters from her elusive aunt. And 
then, when she was sixteen, she'd been invited to spend a hazy summer 
at her aunt's compound in Sonoma. Vague recollections of those summer 
nights filtered welcomely into her thoughts. Nights of dancing, 
aptly, beneath the Willow trees with Maharet and Mael. White roses; O 
how the scent of roses even now brought to her mind in total clarity 
the night Maharet had come to her, taken her in her arms, and kissed 
her. Such a lovely warm kiss that had sent a low throbbing sensation 
throughout her entire body.
She'd awoken by the humming creek. Maharet had found her there as 
sunset streamed its lilac caress upon the world. Perfect nights, she 
remembered fondly. But only now did she realise that nights were all 
she could remember of those times. Frowning, she opened a fading 
letter, the last she'd received shortly after that fateful visit:

My darling Willow,
The truth is that I love you too much to keep you near me. For if we 
are not separated, my life will engulf yours, and you must have your 
freedom. Your life is still so very much before you, with plans, 
ambitions and dreams unrealised. I hope you will forgive me for 
sending you away, but believe me when I say that it broke my heart 
too.
I love you,
Maharet.

Tears sprang unbidden into Willow's eyes, as now, stripped of all 
illusion, she knew she'd spent a summer in the sweet caress of a 
vampire. Albeit a vampire that'd watched over her whole family from 
its humble beginnings. The spell that had locked that particular 
facet of her aunt from her conscious mind released its hold, and the 
events of that summer once more flooded her mind with images of 
sensual indulgence. Blushing, Willow remembered entering a long hall 
crude in its medieval grandeur. Mayan objets d'art, Etruscan cups and 
Hittite statues subtly altered the ambience of the room, and at the 
far end of the hall was a map. The Great Map, showing the homes and 
placements of all Maharet's living female relatives. Tiny blinking 
lights flooded the continents. She'd stood there, awestruck, for how 
long she didn't know. And that was how Maharet had found her. 
They'd kissed, they'd talked for hours, they'd made love on a bed 
of white roses that had felt so sinfully luxuriant against her skin, 
and she'd remembered nothing of that night. Nothing, until now.

*

They day Willow had left her home, Maharet had been heartbroken. 
How she despised herself, her lack of will; Unendurable it had been, 
to have had Willow in her arms and not to drink of her fount. Mael, 
stoic Mael, had counselled against inviting the girl here. But the 
pictures she'd had taken of her descendant had looked so much like 
her sister, Mekare, her first true love, that she'd been given no 
choice but to see the girl for herself.
Indeed, Mekare incarnate! Willow had been a vision to behold and 
Maharet had been unable to stop herself from eliciting sensual 
indulgence from the young woman. In her desires, she'd almost 
destroyed the very thing she found most precious, and stricken, she'd 
been forced to send Willow away with only a letter of apology for 
consolation.
To prevent the girl remembering the strange events of that Summer, 
Maharet had cast a powerful spell to ward Willow from harm, blurring 
her memories and diverting the fate of the Slayer. The power of 
Maharet's blood passed down from each generation in matrilineal 
progression held such potent power; Willow was the key to their 
salvation. It was Maharet's duty to protect the girl at all costs, 
even from herself. How better to hide the Key than to ensure the 
Slayer would protect her from harm, to love her, to cherish her...
Maharet closed her eyes and wept blood tears for a love that would 
never be fulfilled.

*

End Part 1.