The Blood Gospel

What did he have to fear from this stranger who showed no threat?

Rhun bowed his head respectfully to the man. “You are in the Lord’s cemetery late, my friend.”

“I come to pay my respects to the dead,” he answered, and waved long pale fingers toward the grave. “As do you.”

Icy wind blew through the field of stone crosses and carved angels, rustling the last leaves of autumn and bringing with it the odor of death and decay.

“Then I leave you to your peace,” Rhun said, turning back to his sister’s resting place.

Oddly, the man knelt next to Rhun. He wore fine breeches and a studded leather tunic. Mud besmirched costly boots. In spite of his coarse accent, his finery betrayed his origin as a nobleman.

Growing irritated, Rhun turned to him, noting the long dark hair that fell back from a pale brow. The stranger’s full lips curved up in amusement, although Rhun could not fathom why.

Enough … it is late.

Rhun gathered his rough-spun robes together to stand.

Before he could rise, the man wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him to the wet ground, as if he were taking a lover. Rhun opened his mouth to yell, but the stranger pressed one cold hand on his face. Rhun tried to push the man away, but the other caught both of his wrists in one hand and held them as easily as if he were a small child.

Rhun struggled against him, but the man held him fast, leaning down. He used his rough cheek to tilt Rhun’s head to the side, exposing his neck.

Rhun suddenly understood, his heart galloping. He had heard legends of such monsters, but he had never believed them.

Until now.

Sharp fangs punctured his throat, taking away his innocence, leaving only pain. He screamed, but no sound escaped him. Slowly, the pain turned into something else, something darker: bliss.

Rhun’s blood pulsed out of him and into the stranger’s hungry mouth, those cold lips growing warmer with his hot blood.

He continued to struggle, but weakly now—for, in truth, he did not want the man to stop. His hand rose on its own and pulled that face tighter to his throat. He knew it was sinful to give in to such bliss, but he no longer cared. Sin had no meaning; only the aching desire for the probe of tongue into wound, the gnaw of sharp teeth into tender flesh, mattered now.

There was no room in him for holiness, only an ecstasy that promised release.

The man drew back at last.

Rhun lay there, spent, dying.

Strong fingers stroked his hair. “It is not yet time to sleep, pious one.”