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- The Adventures of Horatio Bitemark by Michael - Issuu
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- "Sepher Sephiroth," Gematria Index of the English Dictionary
Ah, this is a picture much improved, Wolf thinks. A woman! He feels a tug in his groin at the sight of her full and kissable mouth, her luscious face framed in lurid curls and her skin, it was like. His fists clench in frustration and he begins to fear for his sanity. Who were these persons? They were not known to him. Has he finally gone mad, as so many of his own always claimed he would? He has been alone for so long that he can no longer tell man from myth, haunt from dream!
And then another face arrives to confound him -- that of a young boy.
Shouting, weeping, the freckle-faced child reaches toward him. The apparition is so authentic Wolf cries out, his deep voice echoing in the hollow room. Not only is he being afflicted by unfamiliar apparitions, but one of them even addresses him by name! Deeply disturbed, he bolts to his feet, stumbling backwards over his pallet. Shall I be followed and tormented in my own castle by a crew of shadows?
He fights to regain his balance, and then the vision abruptly ends.
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He beholds only the empty chamber before him and the bright belly of the moon through the open window. Sweating with relief, he steadied himself against the wall for a moment before dropping to the cold stone floor.
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This visitation has frightened him and his rapidly beating heart feels painfully large in his chest. He wonders how one might defend themselves against such phantoms. With living warriors he could do battle, oh, indeed, flesh has always yielded easily to his sword's hard edge, but against attacks of future even an immortal can do nothing. Visions were like weather, signalling an important change in one's personal atmosphere. Wolf suspects these people will somehow soon find their way into his private orbit.
He is afraid of what that will portend for his freedom. Humans always want something. Still, long experience had shown that relationships with mankind usually involved a deceitful veil of layered compromises over a corpulent body of demands. For the most part he could not bear them and the feeling was mutual.
In the Multiple Choice selections listed under the Categories of Creation he knew he was considered Other. The Humans had seemed desperately determined to deny his existence, even as they lay dying in his arms. Once, he could not have cared less, but lately he found their refusal to accept his species infuriating. And now Fate was coming -- he could hear it afar off, rumbling like summer thunder. Who composed this script?
I do not favor the author's sense of humor! Wolf O'bellod, abdicated leader of the Bloodfellows, arranges his legs lotus style upon the soft mound of assembled silks and brocades, satins and velvets. He loves these erotic fabrics, which he had stolen one evening from the factory of a renowned fashion designer in Milan.
Using a strip of floral silk he daubs at the carmine semen speckling his body. The Sumerian dancer has misted away with the attendant music of his illusion, he no longer requires her. Regrettably he has not copulated with a woman, vampire or human, in nearly seven hundred years. Very regrettable, in fact, because desire was encoded in his strain and Wolf ached for release within the mysterious crotch of woman no matter how he labored to abstain or how regularly he masturbated.
Clearly something important in his nature was not satisfied with clever dream dances. His dick, in fact, threatened to drive him insane and it surely would, if his hallucinations did not condemn him to the madhouse first. One evening he had forced himself to ejaculate until he could not bear to touch his raw genitals and still he craved a woman, the fever stirring occult and indecipherable from somewhere inside his virulent self.
His existence exhausted him utterly, yearning for blood, craving cunt, the body's wet work captivating his attention like saints to the Word. And were it not for his imagination, he would be forced to intersect with women a great deal more often than he did. He was grateful for small blessings.
A final surge of rain plays a staccato on the glass window panes, as if to call his attention to the world beyond these walls. Designed in the twelfth century by Frederick the Second of Swabia, the serene 'castle on the mountain' is a perfect octagon boasting eight octagonal towers.
Unoccupied save for Sunday mornings when the visiting masses were allowed a brief tour for a price, tourists often commented upon its austerity, its seamless emptiness. Not a lush carpet, vibrant tapestry, royal portrait or grand furniture in any of its sixteen trapezoidal rooms. Apparently never intended for defensive purposes, the castle conspicuously lacked both battlements and moat.
Theories suggested the eccentric King Frederick regarded it as a summer home or astrological laboratory.
The Adventures of Horatio Bitemark by Michael - Issuu
For Wolf and his forced need for secret quarters the Castel del Monte provided a most satisfactory refuge. After completing his ablutions, Wolf decides to embark on a leisurely stroll of his medieval motel. He first re-folded his seduction fabrics and set them lovingly in the empty fireplace. Then, still naked, he took off down the long stone hallway to his left.
His tread is light for a being of such robust physique.
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Even for an immortal he is an exceptionally handsome man. Possessed of the classic Italian physique historically beloved by women and sculptors, his long hair hints of romance and his nose of aristocracy.
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A shade under six feet tall, he has the muscular arms, thick chest and broad shoulders of a Roman soldier worthy to wear his armor. Covered in silky, white hair, like a polar creature, his was a body accustomed to war and sweat and pleasure, the animal's domain, but his innate refinement, revealed by his facility with language, was clearly manifested in his finely molded hands. They had forged and wielded swords, yet were sensitive enough to translate the world for him, to paint, to tinker with his inventions, to carve gems, to sculpt in paper, wood and stone.
The eyes of artists and the fingers of women burned to caress this man but the fierceness in Wolf's bearing intimidated and so they kept their flames a secret.
"Sepher Sephiroth," Gematria Index of the English Dictionary
And Wolf kept his secret, which was that he desired only the fire in their blood to keep him warm. He now felt a notch above despair. His climax had relieved the ever-distracting sexual burn and his evening kill had already been efficiently executed. His feeding experiences varied. Sometimes blood was a gift, other times an onus, and occasionally, if he and his chosen were in harmony, the blood-drinking became a rapture-sacrifice. Having given up genuine sexual transport, Wolf now lived for that rare event.
He had nothing else to console him and not a soul in his life that he loved. He fed from streams of veins and dreams and he could not remember the last time he had seen another of his own kind. That evening's victim had been an elderly woman from Trani, a quaint fishing village twenty miles to the east. Wolf enjoyed the old, their creases, the folding self in the process of contracting back to the spirit before death commenced. There was a dense moment, just as Wolf had nearly finished divesting a person of their blood, when their soul gathered power like a tornado, dwindled to a mystery and then departed with a rush towards a fresh destination.
At that second he felt himself seized by a nearly insufferable longing to fuse with his victim, to be torn, stripped and purified into that vast quasar future. To be distilled. To be forgiven. To be granted immunity against whatever it is that had condemned him to immortality and perpetual horniness. Old people. He could stare at them long enough to become entangled in their history. Those intricate webs of wrinkles! Little death nets, like the glistening snare of spiders, they drew him near, witless and willing as a fly.
He could not resist those aged humans, perhaps because they were so close to the grave he'd never known. This particular woman had been perched on her seventh decade, a good old-fashioned biblical age to die in Wolf's opinion. He had startled her as she knelt in prayer inside the church of St. Maria di Colonna. If possible, he did prefer a proper setting in which to receive his offering. The church, with its air of reverence would do nicely.