Mitchell Livingston had been born during a time when the abacus still defined the technology of modern computing, in an era before cars and trains dotted the landscape of the country he was raised in. His short, black hair slicked back with a widow’s peak perched atop his forehead, he appeared to be the consummation of Count Dracula himself, sharp fangs slumbering in a sea of white. His dark, cunning eyes could cut through men with the simplest of scowls. Nobody liked to anger Mitch. The results often proved fatal.

The evening started as most did for him. After a shower and a fresh change of clothing, his fingers raked through the hair of the woman he kept as a pet. Her gaze met his expectantly – a pretty little blonde thing he picked up in Texas (fuck, but those women were feisty before they were broken) – and a sharp moan punctuated the prick of his fangs into her throat. Mitch only stole a few sips from her, but he knew the day was coming soon when he would have to end her. Her large, brown eyes indicated the lights were on, but the resident was vacating the building.

With a sigh, Mitch settled into his chair, noting how quickly it seemed those pets met their expiration date. The vampires of his bloodline – the Lamiae, according to the Supernatural Order – often supplemented kills with quick feeds and the keeping of pets. The problem being that feeding from a human too often eventually reduced them to a mindless zombie. Granted, he had held onto this one longer than her predecessor, but even the strongest of mortals could not avoid the inevitable. And Mitch had no desire to blood bond with her to keep her rational beyond a few additional feedings.

Other than that, things seemed to be quiet. Mitch reclined his leather office chair and oscillated from side to side on it, pivoting this way and that while his feet remained planted firm on the floor below. His eyes scanned across the pictures hanging on his study walls, seeing visual reminders of a long, accomplished life. A landscape of Britain reminded him of where he had been born and the painting of Austria served as a recollection of the first nest he oversaw. Prints of Romania, Hungary, and Germany each placed markers on one rung after the next up the political ladder. Mitch turned to face the large windows overlooking Portland, Oregon, seeing the lights of downtown from his posh penthouse. One step further, and he would be a king.

If the current one ever abdicated, that is. Read the rest of this entry

“The dog days are over,
The dog days are gone.
Can you hear the horses?
‘Cause here they come.”

- “Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + the Machine

The black, polished shoes produced a perfect squeak as they shuffled down the corridor, a single sound bouncing from one wall to the next in the empty thoroughfare. Where ordinarily, there would be scores of people walking this way and that, headed to the various departments of these hallowed halls, tonight was different. The body of people typically assembled were already in a meeting room, sweating over coffee and cigarettes and Mark Johansen was running late.

In their long history, the Supernatural Order had faced world-ending situations before. The splintering of bloodlines which formed the vampire faction they hunted in the first place almost provoked a giant cluster-fuck which ended life as they knew it from their very inception. That had been a millennium ago, roughly. Back when humanity still believed in magic. Sorcerers, witches, and warlocks dotted the landscape of the Dark Ages and one magician in particular drifted further into the darkness, looking for immortality. That was the first time vampires learned to wield magic themselves. The genesis of a war.

Not that they ever told anybody but those in their employ about the other bloodline which existed, the older one the Order never tangled with except on very rare occasions. Or that there was much of a difference between the vampires humanity still denied existed in its blanket of blissful unawareness. Ignorance an intoxicant with the populace drunk on its spell, oh vampires had been around for more than the millennium the Supernatural Order existed, but they hid the truth like they hid every other truth from mortals who no longer believed in magic.

The time for ignorance had ended, though. The war had entered Phase Two. Read the rest of this entry

soft, a melody plays
between two kindred souls and lovers.
depths yet to be plumbed,
fathomless, the mastery of composition
in a single word,
a single breath shared.
the symphony of souls united.

raise the bow to strings,
a harmony established, a sonnet of notes;
poetry in rhythm.

lift the instrument to lips,
the tale of passionate exchanges
in the simplicity of a song.

together, something beautiful conveyed
within each measure, something
inexplicable communicated.
duet of consequence,
and musicians of fate’s whims,
or could it be the music played
drawing one close to the other?

soft, the twilight beckons,
singing its own summons, the majestic
curtain call of ages.

whispered promises between
two lovers, depths yet to be plumbed
with each note they play.

unfolding my heart like the
petals of a rose in bloom,
i call to you in darkness
and see you in the light.

you, the fire burning through
my veins; the pulse within
which beats with sound and
fury each time we are together.

i cherish you, my lover.
far beyond the scope of
seas, depths of fathoms,
stretching for miles.

i need you more than
mortal lungs need breath
and hold onto you, desperate
never wishing to let go.

why do the stars appear
that much brighter when we
walk underneath their
celestial canopy?

why does the moon appear
to illuminate the entirety
of the world whenever we stand
hand in hand together?

i can only imagine such
inquiries are akin to asking
why the world revolves around
the sun, seasons turn to years.

i only know, i hope those
seasons, years, those eons stretch
beyond the scope of my
limited imagination.

because you are, and shall always be
the lifeblood of my soul,
feeding it rich with desire and
offering it a place to call home.

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did you know it, when i looked into your eyes?
spring time, turning into summer.
i kissed your lips and sensed myself
standing on the pathway to greener gardens,
cooler breezes and more pleasant evenings.

arms wrapped around bodies.
we explored the edge of temptation
and tasted of its fruits, while throwing caution
into the winds of change blowing past us.
we stood upon the precipice of eternity.

i dared myself into the realm of possibility,
and you took me by the hand.
gentle, the hold of fingers intertwining;
hearts blending, doors flung open, daring us
to take that step, that very next push.

reckless, or perhaps daring?
does the beating of two pulses in
simultaneous medley form courage in its wake?
heaven only knows which angels might have sung,
but i heard their symphony just the same.

inside the windows of your soul.
coaxed to the confines of your essence and here i am,
standing on the path to greener gardens,
grateful for the chance to savor
the sweetness of romance realized.

Posted via web from poeticimmortal’s posterous