Moon Over Bourbon Street

This story is inspired by a photograph by Terry Richardson.

Rating: NC-17
Genre: Horror fiction

Note: Since English is not my native language; I guess there will be some mistakes in here. So please bear with me.

Special note: I dedicate this story to my favourite muse & to Anne Rice, who created the best vampire ever – Lestat de Lioncourt.

A warning: There will be blood
Author & Copyright: The Storyteller’s Garden

Moon Over Bourbon Street

Leisurely he walked in the pale light of the moon, near the All Saints’ Church through the nocturnal streets of Notting Hill, as the warm summer wind blew besides the sweet scent of roses from the cultivated gardens suddenly the well-familiar sounds of ‘Moon Over Bourbon Street’ towards him. That wonderful song; which Sting once wrote as homage to Anne Rice’s famous vampire Lestat de Lioncourt.

With an amused smile at the irony of the situation and giving way to an impulse and his suddenly awakened curiosity he changed spontaneously the direction of his steps, in order to follow the sound of the music. His path took him a few streets further to a property surrounded by high boxwood hedges. His dark eyes searched rapidly for a gap in the natural fence, but without success. Therefore he climbed over the low wall next to the wrought-iron gate, to reach the almost park-like garden on the other side.

After he had knocked the dirt from his clothes, he continued his way to the house, across the perfectly mowed English lawn. To his delight he found the terrace doors invitingly wide open so he was able to go inside the old Victorian building unnoticed. Following the jazzy sounds of the music led him to a painter Atelier, which was to his surprise lit with nothing but countless candles.

Fascinated he remained in the doorway and had his desirously sparkling eyes glide across the room to enjoy for a brief moment the impressive sight, that presented itself to him so unexpectedly. On a wooden easel stood a half-finished, mainly in royal blue and bloodred hues held oil painting in the style of Frida Kahlo. No doubt the work of a supremely talented artist, he recognized with his, through the centuries well-trained, expert’s eye.

Expectantly he licked his lips as he came closer, when the sweet scent of blood rose to his nostrils, like the scent of an exquisite perfume, while his fascinated gaze got caught at the graceful neck of his victim, who was lost in thought looking at his work with a painter’s palette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. In a heartbeat the instinct of the nightly hunter awoke in the gatecrasher and he struck without a warning.

Soundlessly he grabbed his victim from behind and struck his fangs so hard into the neck, right at the point where the neck goes over to the shoulder that the blood spurted out just like that, while he easily prevented the unskilful attempts of defence from his prey with a powerful grip.

His victim was way too shocked to scream, and so the vampire stilled with relish his first bloodlust in broad strokes, sip by sip a real pleasure. Finally, he changed his mind, when he felt how the restless heartbeat of the young painter increasingly slowed down.

Before the heart had stopped beating he let go of him completely, in a moment of sentimentality towards the creative arts, to spare the painters life. With his tongue he voluptuously licked up the bloody traces left behind by his attack on the skin of his victim, in order to avoid wasting a single drop of the precious life-blood.

Gently, almost lovingly, he let the limp body slowly slide to the ground. With a satisfied smile, he licked some drops of blood from his lips and undid the hair tie, which had held the hair of the young man together in a knot in his neck. Skilfully, he spread the silky shiny magnificent head of hair out over the neck to hide the traces of his bite from prying eyes and just as silently as he had come he went away – well fed and satisfied now.

~ The End ~

₪ ø ιιι •o.

Music: Sting – Moon Over Bourbon Street


About The Storyteller's Garden

Creature of the night ₪ ø ιιι ·o.
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