Wendell could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
He had screamed for almost a full minute before Felicia opened the coffin lid.
"Oh Wendell, I'm so sorry. I was in the washroom and I couldn't get here right away. Are you alright?"
Wendell took a few moments to catch his breath. Ever since the transition to becoming undead, he hadn't actually needed to breathe. Nonetheless, Wendell wasn't the sort to let go of hyperventilation just because it was no longer a biological response. Wendell was a creature of habit.
After he had regained his composure, Wendell managed to give Felicia a watery smile and a weak thumbs up as he sat up in his coffin. "No problem," he said, insincerely. "I'll be fine."
Concern dominated Felicia's face. "Are you sure, Wendell?" She held out her wrist. "Here, have some breakfast to soothe yourself."
Wendell protested weakly and inaudibly while feebly pushing the girl's hand away. Felicia would have none of that.
"Now Wendell, you may be my undead lord and master whom I have sworn unswerving allegiance to, but I've been watching and you haven't had a bite to drink in two nights. You are going to drink my blood and you are going to like it, Mister!"
And with that, Felicia thrust her wrist forcefully into Wendell's face. Grumbling, Wendell sank his fangs into the girl and began to suck on the wounds.
Felicia cooed softly as the vampire administered his Kiss. Wendell just tried to keep the blood down and resist the urge to throw up. After only thirty seconds or so, he stopped his ministrations and licked the wounds closed.
"Oh Wendell." The disappointment in her voice was punctuated by the halfhearted sigh. "Why did you stop so soon?"
"I-I didn't want to hurt you. Drain you or anything." Wendell's stammering reply was made worse by the after-drink queasiness he always suffered.
Felicia looked at him, highly exasperated. "Wendell, how many times do we have to go over this? You can drink for several minutes-plural-before I'd be in any danger."
Wendell looked at her sheepishly. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Well. Try and remember next time. I'm off to bed. Wake me up when you're ready to go bed."
Yeah, it was going to be one of those nights.
Wendell could tell it was going to be one of those nights.
Well it looks like the Alchemist is going to take a short break. In the meantime I'll try and keep everyone entertained with at least one chapter of Wendell per week. That way you won't get out of the habit of checking the blog.
Well, I've decided to take some "time off" as it were from regular posting so I can do some plotting. I've been trying out the Stephen King writing method for some time (come up with a few events and charcters, and just start writing) and I'll admit it has turned up some suprises in the story for me, but its just not passing muster. I know I can tell better stories then this, even if I can't write them that well. So I'm going to go off with my notebook and work on the plots of a few of my short stories and two of my main stories. With any luck I'll have a post soon.
Thanks for your patience.
The Drewcifer will now attempt some comedy.
Wendell hated his name. In fact, he told everyone he met that his name was Chris. To him, Chris seemed like a much simpler, stronger, more American name. But no matter how many people called him Chris, one thing never changed.
Deep down inside, he was still a Wendell. Wendells were meek, wimpy, and British. Wendells were prey animals. This might not have been a problem had this particular Wendell not, in fact, been a predator.
You see Wendell was a vampire. A vampire who, each night, upon waking, screamed at the top of his lungs.
Wendell was both claustrophobic and nyctophobic, meaning he feared both tight spaces and the dark. This made a coffin a very uncomfortable place for him. Each morning his housekeeper watched him fall asleep, then gently closed the lid of the coffin.
Wendell's condition had instilled an intense fear of the sun (heliophobia). As a result, Wendell went to bed very early each night. And Wendell often went to bed hungry.
Wendell did not like drinking blood. He had been assured time and time again by his bevy of beautiful mortal concubines that the act was, indeed, very pleasurable for them.
Wendell found it icky.
Technically Wendell shared the concubines with his roommates, Jeff and His Dark Eminence the Dread Prince of the Night Markomanius Necrosian (whom everyone just called 'Mark').
No one in the house called Wendell "Chris."
Erick sat upon a horse at the top of a hill covered in trees, his face shadowed by the cowl drawn up over his head. He wore a thick wool cloak, once red but now faded to a rusty color. Beneath it the steel rings of his mail shirt glinted in the faint sunlight filtering down through the trees. His heavy leather gloves gripped the reigns tightly, and his scuffed leather boots rested upon his saddle’s stirrups.
After taking a look around Erick kicked his horse into a trot and started toward the next hill.
Aleksey’s message had come to him late at night as he had lain next to his camp fire, trying to sleep. He’d ridden hard the next day to close the distance, hoping Aleksey and Jacob were still alive.
The snow crunched beneath him as his horse mounted the next hill. At the top the walls of Shelborne Castle could be seen, the great wooden gate standing ajar, and Erick gently urged his horse towards it.
After passing through the gate Erick stopped his horse for a moment and surveyed the area. Other then the howling wind, the castle was eerily silent. Snow floated on the wind and the ragged Shelborne banners on either side of the door flapped lazily in the breeze. To Erick’s surprise the doors to the castle opened and Aleksey came out, his clothes were ragged, and dark with dried blood in places.
Erick jumped down off his horse and ran to him.
“Aleksey, are you alright? Where is Jacob?”
Aleksey was quiet for a moment, he looked tired.
“The wolves took him last night. There was nothing I could do.”
The older man’s stern mask wavered, and a tear ran down his cheek.
“Nothing I could do.”