The Coven

When Chacon opened his eyes for the first time I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would he be horrified or grateful for his new life? Would I have to take it from him? Could I?

I had fed on him until his heart ceased, until he belonged more to death than life. Then I dripped blood from a self-inflicted wound into his mouth until his lips became moist with the dark liquid, until he returned and fed for his first time.

Now I sat in the basement of my house and observed my first as he opened his eyes and found his legs. There was a bewildered look on his face as he wiped blood from his face and licked it from his hand. His eyes widened as he watched the wounds on my wrists repair themselves.

“What are you?” He asked from a kneeling position.

I paused, unsure of how to respond at first.

“I am enduring.” I said finally. “Isn’t that what God promises us all, eternal life?”

He considered my words for a moment before he broke into a bloody, toothy smile.

“And I, am I now enduring?” He enquired.

I smiled, surprised by this response to his question.

“Yes.” I said simply.

He closed his eyes and rose to his feet, drawing a deep breath before opening them again.

“At what cost?”

“There is much for you to learn. Come, the night is still young.”

That night I tried to instruct my first pupil and temper his frenzied feeding. He was a willing apprentice, but could barely contain his craving. As dawn approached and his thirst weakened, he understood that the priesthood was no longer his future. I envied his moment of sorrow because I knew in time he would feel less.

I hired him as a financial aide and he became a son, confidant and friend. He had so many questions and although time was no longer significant his new abilities were. For a time, the company of another was enough but it also heightened the sense of what was absent from our lives as masculine beings. The hunger had awakened a powerful sensual desire in us both and where I had resisted the urge before, Chacon had begun his quest for a mate to be re-made in our image. The irony was not lost on either of us.

Elizabeth Brathwaite was a beautiful almond-skinned mulatto fathered by an Englishman who eventually chose country over a relationship with his daughter. She was not alone in this regard, and was not given the breaks by her mother that her society was prepared to give a beautiful woman of appropriate complexion.

I hired her as a daytime cook and housekeeper for a few days a week for which she was well compensated. She was ambitious and discreet and, I felt, very well suited to becoming much more. I was not quite ready to increase our numbers, but Chacon seemed bewitched by her beauty. His unsuccessful attempts at glamouring her seemed only to intensify his desire.

In my presence, she seemed inquisitive. I enjoyed our conversations and tried to give her the benefit of my immortal experience. Chacon and I were not as close during this period as he decided that I might be a competitor for her affections. I cautioned that he should be patient in this matter because of all that was patently at stake. He agreed to be discreet, but of course my counsel only served to confirm in his mind my true intentions.

I had gone into to town having left the estate in his charge for the day. When I returned near dusk I could smell the air heavy with death. I followed a light trail that darkened down our steps to the basement and found the ghastly sight of Elizabeth feeding on Chacon, who appeared near death himself.

“Enough!” I said startling her. She stopped and turned to me. Her eyes at once feral and then just as suddenly tranquil. She bowed her head in shame.

“That’s enough for now young one.” I said looking on her with contempt and remorse.

“I did it.” Chacon said breathlessly as his wounds healed.

“So you have.” I said simply, unaware at that moment of just how much she would affect our future.