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Psalm 23:4


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The Reverend

Tonight was the night. He’d had his eye on this mark for quite some time, and all of his planning had culminated to this evening. Everything had been coordinated and planned for; there was no reason for him to fail.

Tonight, the hunter would become the hunted.

It had taken time, but he had learned her feeding habits and routines now that she seemed to have settled into New York. He had to strike now, before she uprooted again and he lost another chance. This wouldn’t be like London. He was ready this time, and she wouldn’t slip through his fingers.

He had people stationed in all of her choicest hunting grounds in case she decided to pull a fast one, though he was completely certain of where she would be this evening. There was a rock concert being held on the great lawn in Central Park that evening, and the hunting would be excellent. It would be nothing for her to make her choice and move just out of reach of the concert’s floodlights. People would be drinking, it would be loud… nobody would suspect a thing to find a lone individual passed out on the lawns.

She would come.

Night had already fallen over the city, and the concert was well underway. Throngs of bodies stretched across the great lawn, drawn in by the pounding of the music. He hovered along the outskirts of the crowd, close enough to be a part of it, but far enough away to keep a sharp eye out for anyone skirting the crowds like himself. It was the best strategy to snag a quick feed.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he lifted it to his ear. “Go ahead.”

A voice spoke, and his bright, ghoulish eyes roamed the crowd as he was informed. “And where is she now?” A moment passed, and he turned toward the west side of the park, pocketing his phone. He began to walk.

The surest way to draw her attention was to separate himself from the throngs of people. Make himself an easy target.

Time to go fishing.

He wandered just far enough away for it to believable that perhaps he was heading off to take a piss, toward the tree line and just out of the direct range of the lights. There were a few people moving around here and there, sneaking off to make out in the woods or actually taking a piss, but the pickings were slim.

He found his spot, just around a tree, and “tripped” over a root. Toppling heavily to the ground with a grunt, he dropped the glass of beer he’d been carrying and it shattered audibly. To put the cherry on top, he reached for one of the shards and cleanly nicked the thin skin of his wrist. A fresh welling of blood formed, warm and enticing.

Her move.
September 15, 2017 12:00 pm


She really should go home. Mackenzie knows that her constant outings are a red flag, but something is simply eating at her. Her appetite is growing out of control, and as a result she is forced to withdraw from the home she opened. In the back of her mind, her conscience bites at her, snapping it's warnings that Solomon must be suspicious. He must have an idea of what is happening. It is impossible to ignore, and every day she allows this to continue without being honest with the man and begging his help, she further becomes a danger to him and their relationship.

Swallowing as her throat dries with thirst, she pushes the thoughts to the back of her mind.

It is always obvious when the petite woman feels dangerous. There is never much of a difference in her attire, but at home her hair is almost always pulled back from her face, and boots accompany her usual outfits that are comprised of form fitting jeans and t-shirts. When hunting, however, her hair is wilder. Untamed, waves allowed to do as they please. Instead of boots, she wears heels. Tall, and bringing her just that much closer to God.

What a laugh.

Currently, she is slipping through the crowd in Central Park, occassionally stopping to feel the energy and dancing right along with them as she considers her mood. Being the picky eater that she is, Mackenzie also understands that she must be careful in these venues. Since she is alone at the current moment and still waiting for her partner to come out for a meal, she must be doubly wary of garnering attention.

Slowly, she moves west, pushing through the bodies that bounce and sway.

That is when she sees him.

And icy, indifferent gaze watches the man that walks off alone. He trips, and hits the ground like a ton of bricks, accompanied by the shatter of glass. If she weren't so damned thirsty, she might have noticed how practiced it was. Careless, she smiles as the scent of spilt beer and blood hits her. There is no stopping her as she closes the distance with a confident step.

"Hey! You alright?" A cheerful brogue carries through the air as she finds herself crouching beside his toppled form, and one quick glance over him tells her that this one will be easy. Lifting her gaze, she looks around before meeting his eyes, offering a helping hand.

Her sights latch onto the open wound, and she tsk's.

"You're bleeding. Let me help you."
September 15, 2017 09:33 pm

The Reverend

The sable haired man slowly gathered himself together, pushing up onto his knees and taking stock of the damage he’d done to his arm, and then his beer soaked t-shirt. The air was ripe with the strong scent of hops, and he began to mutter irritatedly to himself as he more closely inspected the weeping slice upon his inner arm.

“Hey! You alright?”

Steel blue eyes sharpened at the unmistakable brogue, and he willed his pulse to remain steady. He looked to his right, gaze alighting on a svelte woman with striking blue eyes and flattering attentiveness. He’d seen her face a hundred times, but it was different up close. In pictures, she merely seemed to be a beautiful young woman. But now…

Now, he could feel the prickling at the back of his neck. The chill down his spine. He was in the presence of a murderer.

Inwardly, he could feel the heat of adrenaline coursing through his body. Outwardly, he kept to his facade. A self deprecating chuckle left his lips, and he shook his head at himself. “Oh, I’ve seen better days.” A Southern British accent smoothed his words, very different from the native New Yorkers that populated the area.

He took her offered hand and stood to his full height, head and shoulders above the petite woman. Somehow this didn’t lessen his feeling of mortal danger even slightly. He thanked her and set about brushing the grass from his jeans, though he stopped momentarily and hissed quietly at the sting on his arm.

“You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”


He eyed her quizzically, a grin touching his features. “It’s not that bad… but if you’ve got some bandages tucked away somewhere, I wouldn’t turn you down.”

He could feel blood beginning to drip from his fingertips. He flicked the drops away, in the opposite direction, and grabbed the bottom of his shirt with his other hand to press it against the wound, permeating the material with his blood.
September 15, 2017 11:00 pm


How could it possibly be this easy?

Mackenzie tears her sights from the bloody mess only when he presses it into his shirt. Her senses are getting the better of her, and she knows Victor would be chastising her for this. A lack of control is control, he would tell her, but that doesn't mean you get to be a careless f-cking idiot. She can hear his voice in her head, beckoning to her better judgment that is long lost.

A quick glance around is had before she settles upon the man. Everything will be fine. He's a normal guy, drenched in beer, that has wandered away from a cheap rock concert in the park.

His handling of his wound is getting to her, and it should be a red flag. The way he flairs it, sending blood flying into the through the air and soaks it into his beer-drenched shirt. It is obvious that he is working it. It just doesn't matter. Mackenzie is had. She's thirsty, and alone, and just wants her f-cking meal.

She's hungry.

"I don't, but I'm sure the first aid station does. What a mess..." The last words are murmured, and she allows herself to look at the wound once more. Fixated, Mackenzie does not worry about his wondering at her level of concern. He will not live long enough to do anything about it, anyway.

A cool hand reaches, supporting the back of his bloodied hand to bring it away from himself and upward for her own inspection. A quiet 'Shhh' escapes her, different in it's tone. It is a subtle command, a quiet compulsion to ensure she gets what she wants.

Blood drips from his hand to hers, and with a quick glance upward, she lifts his pale wrist to her lips. A single touch is had, a taste. This poor f-cking idiot does not stand a chance in her care. Returning to the tiny cut, she firms up her grip upon the man and allows herself this sweet treasure.

Without breaking skin further, Mackenzie enjoys the slow feed.
September 16, 2017 11:21 am

The Reverend

“Well, it was worth a shot. Do you know where it is?”

She didn’t answer, but instead reached for his hand, bringing it closer to herself. It was here that he noticed the otherworldly chill of her skin against the warmth of his. The moment was fast approaching, and he steeled himself against the innate, primitive urge to run.

This was a war. He would sacrifice his body again and again to gain the upper hand. Whatever it took.

Their eyes met, and she uttered a quiet command. Shhh.. He was highly experienced with Vampires, and the man knew compulsion when it saw it. The dilated pupils, the intent behind the flash of eye contact. She didn’t want him to scream. And he wouldn’t. But not because the compulsion worked. He had simply found a way to resist.

Immediately, he fell silent, his mouth closing firmly though he remained watchful. She wouldn’t kill him immediately; Vampires tended to have a deep distaste for feeding from the dead. Mackenzie’s M.O. had changed over the years, to be sure. Morphing into something more deadly. However, one thing was always the same. She fed before she killed. He was counting on it.

Her lips descended on the slice upon his arm, thin but deep. It still bled freely, and she had no need to open it further.

He waited, stone still beneath the pull of his blood leaving his body.

It wouldn’t take long. First, her mouth and throat would begin to burn. She would grow dizzy. Weak. And then, she would drop.
September 16, 2017 12:55 pm


Mackenzie finds herself groan into the sweet taste of coppery blood.

He is fresh, and sugary, reminding her of springtime mornings better spent in bed with a cup of tea with too much honey. The lack of alcohol in his system does not deter her, for she rationalizes that the beer spilt must have been his first. Humans are naturally clumsy creatures. Even those that consider themselves graceful are a simple mess.

Just two minutes in, everything changes. A heat creeps up her throat, leading her to wonder if he'd enjoyed something spicy from a nearby food truck. It is as it intensifies that the panic builds, and finds herself feeling as though she is on fire.

Hands beginning to shake, she lifts her lips from the wound, blinking away the sensation. She is burning, and Mackenzie does not know what to make of it. Everything was fine. The scent of his blood lingers, and there is nothing to lead her to believe there would be foul play.

She coughs, giving the man a sidelong glance as she stands up straight and drops his hand.

"What did you do..."

Her voice quiets to nothing as the world begins to spin. She can feel herself screaming for Victor, but it comes out as nothing but a desperate whisper.

It is the last thing she remember before her body crumbles.
September 16, 2017 01:45 pm

The Reverend

The sight of a Vampire leeching the blood from his body is a sight he’d seen more times than he could count. He never got used to it. It was simply the best way to disarm them. He had to make them feel like they were in control of the situation; that he was just another faceless victim. It was their weakest moment.

He could feel the chill of his hands beginning to tingle when she finally lifted her lips from the wellspring of his life. Confusion and the first surge of panic colored her expression. She released his hand, which he allowed to slowly drop to his side, his eyes hardening into an unforgiving steel glare.

Panic really setting in now, she coughed as though to relieve the fire in her throat. “What did you do…”

The small woman began to teeter on the spot, eyes glazing over. Her lips moved as if she were speaking, though nothing came out.

He let her hit the ground.

The Reverend took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly before looking around. There was nobody immediately in the vicinity, and those that moved around the fringes were distracted. He took out his phone and hit a number on his speed dial before lifting the device to his ear.

“She’s down. Meet me at the extraction point in five.”

Confirmation was spoken, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket before approaching Mackenzie’s still form. He bent and lifted her, slinging her over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes.


Some time later, Mackenzie would awaken in the middle of a room. The floor and walls would look like that of a normal low-end New York apartment, though there would be no furniture and no decorations to speak of save the solid steel chair she would be strapped to. Reinforced leather and metal restraints would encircle her wrists, ankles, and chest. In her left arm would be an IV attached to a pint of blood. The tubing was currently clamped off.

Perched atop a low stool a few feet from Mackenzie sat the Reverend, patiently waiting for her to regain consciousness. A large black duffel bag was on the floor near his booted feet, clearly full. He had changed his shirt into a plain black button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The slice upon his wrist was tightly bandaged in fresh white gauze.

The only windows on the wall were boarded up, allowing no light inside. The lighting inside the room was provided by recessed bulbs in the ceiling. Across the room from them was a video recorder, perched atop a tripod stand. The little red light was on, indicating that it was recording.

She began to stir, and the man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, waiting.
September 16, 2017 02:55 pm


It is dreamless and dark in her mind, full of nothingness that demands her presence. It is when she comes to that it goes to sh-t. Her throat is dry, and Mackenzie is parched. The heat had burned through, and as she opens her mouth to speak, she stops quickly as she moves to lift a hand to her head and finds it restrained. Opening her eyes, she looks down.

"F-ck... f-ck..."

How could you be so stupid, his voice echoes through her head, berating her poor judgment. Maybe if he had been there, things would have been different.

She was just trying to cope.

Lifting her head, she smacks it back against the headrest with a resounding crack before her eyes land on him. Sitting there, poised and comfortable with his gaze trained on her. This isn't friendly, nor is it subtle. Mackenzie knows the rules.

She is his captive.

"What the f-ck do you want."

Her words are a hoarse growl in his direction, and Mackenzie struggles against the restraints but finds no give. She is weak from whatever he imposed upon her, and the chair is beyond sturdy. Gaze tilting downward to the bag, she lets out a quiet, remorseful laugh.

"Is that it?"

Whatever this is, it isn't good. She knows it. He knows it. She would never resolve anything. Solomon would wonder what happened to her, Victor would think she'd defected, and the world would eventually forget her.
September 16, 2017 03:32 pm

The Reverend

As she regained consciousness and began to realize the gravity of her situation, The Reverend watched her every move. She began to test the integrity of her restraints, but in her weakened state, her inhuman strength was out of reach. He intended to keep it that way.

Finally, she meets his gaze. He can see it in her eyes. The fear. She’s smart. She understands the kind of situation she’s in. That made things easier.

“What the f-ck do you want.”

Her voice is hoarse from his poisoned blood. She’s parched and in distress. He says nothing.

Mackenzie’s eyes travel downward, to his black duffel bag. She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Is that it?”

Again, he declines to respond to her line of questioning. He merely watched with his bright, iron stare.

“Mackenzie, who sired you?”

His voice pierced the silence with its quiet clarity, smooth and not unkind.
September 16, 2017 03:59 pm


Her gaze lifts sharply to his face from the bag, and Mackenzie could spit. She would, too, if she could find the strength and ability. His question causes her pause, and she squints.

"F-ck off."

What does he think this is? Does he honestly believe that he can turn the tables on her, steal her away, and ask questions as if everything is just fine?

Once more, her gaze shifts down to the bag before lifting to his steeled eyes once more. She studies his face, taking it all in. If she made it out of this alive, she would see him dead one day.

Her temper is getting the better of her, and despite the pain and weakness, she decides to keep asking her questions.

"What do you want."

Or demands, as the case may be.

"You've been following me, haven't you."

Her mind is reeling. He to know what she is, otherwise he never would have known to be in such a crowded place, within her hunting grounds. He must know her strength, otherwise there would be no need to restrain her in such a way. And so, it gives her grounds to resist. If he knows this much, he knows where her priorities lie.

"What are you doing."
September 16, 2017 05:43 pm

The Reverend

He hadn’t expected her to be compliant. Not in the least. He was ready for the long haul.

“What do you want.”

“I want to know who sired you.”

“You’ve been following me, haven’t you.”

“For quite a long time, yes.”

What are you doing.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

He answered each question evenly, without a hint of angry inflection. He was very matter-of-fact about it all. Clasping his hands in front of him, he sighed calmly. “No matter whether you answer my questions or not, you will die when I am finished. However, the quicker you answer them, the less drawn out your death will be.” He nudged the large black bag with a foot. Something metal clanked heavily within. “If you know what I mean.”

“If you continue to not answer my questions, I’ll have to resort to other measures. We don’t want that, do we.” He smiled ruefully at her.

“So. Who sired you?”
September 16, 2017 08:23 pm


His answers do not surprise her. Mackenzie, despite her state, manages to stare at the man evenly. The threat in her gaze is undeniable, and in her head she thinks of all the ways she will see him end. It would be slow, and painful, and she could go on for days, months, and even years.

But she also is forced to consider other things. People. Those who depend on her.

She made Victor a promise, and it is one she intends to keep. One way or another, she would find a way out of this.

Leaning her head back, her gaze lifts upward to the ceiling. A low sigh escapes her, and she decides to play along for now.

"I don't know who he is. English. He came. He left. The end."

This line of questioning has no harm. There is no loyalty to the man who ended her life. Mackenzie would tell anything, but never would she ever give him anything to endanger the lives of those she holds dear to her heart.

"Why does it matter? He's probably dead by now."
September 16, 2017 08:51 pm

The Reverend

The ease with which she spoke of her creator wasn’t surprising. In his experience, Vampires that sired others didn’t tend to hang around for very long. It was just the power trip that they were interested in. He nodded at her answer, although he wasn’t entirely satisfied.

He stood and moved to her side, releasing the clamp on the IV tubing. A steady stream of blood - his blood - began to slip through the tube and through the needle into her bloodstream.

She had to remain weakened.

“Do you remember his name?”
September 16, 2017 09:39 pm


He nods, and she believes herself to be free of this. Instead, he stands, walking toward her and letting the blood flow into her veins. Instantly, she tries to free her arm, trying to shake the needle free from her flesh.

It doesn't work.

A whine escapes her as she fights against the heat of fire spreading up her arm, and Mackenzie presses her head further back against the chair.

"He didn't tell me his f-cking name. Stop it. STOP!" Mackenzie can feel it spreading, as though it threatens to split her in two. Instead, her body slackens, weaken against whatever poison he pumps through her veins.

"He never said his name. He never said it. I don't know who he is." She repeats herself, desperate to end the war he wages upon her body, voice quiet.
September 16, 2017 09:55 pm

The Reverend

The man watched her struggle against the relentless flow of poisoned blood, eyes cold to her suffering. The Vampire, eternally young and beautiful, could have cracked the resolve of a lesser man with her begging. To her misfortune, she would find no such mercy within him.

He only ceased the flow once he’d delivered enough to keep her weakened, but conscious.

Clamping off the IV tubing, he stepped away from her slackened body and returned to his perch upon the stool, resting his frigid gaze upon her weakened form. He tended to be pretty decent at spotting a liar, and he felt as though she wasn’t being deceitful about her creator. That was fine. With a Vampire like Mackenzie, whose age hadn’t yet been pinpointed, the sire was never easy to find.

“Alright, then let’s move on.”

Leaning over, he reached down to unzip the large black bag, retrieving a manila envelope from within. He opened the top and slid a small stack of papers from the file. They were glossy, like photo paper.

He shuffled through them until he found the one he wanted. Clearing his throat, he lifted it up for her to see.

It was an image of Victor Lockheed. Clearly taken from a distance with a high-zoom lens, but it was him.

“Do you know who this is?”
September 30, 2017 05:32 pm
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