Angelic Injury
by
Ryan Cole
by
Ryan Cole
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I picked up Camille’s scent somewhere outside of Anniston. Her subtle trail of destruction
snaking its way down Alabama, towards the Gulf. I hadn’t been eating, purposefully fasting to
avoid attracting any attention, though she was causing trouble enough for us both.
Living your life between sundown and sun-up, it’s easy to lose track of the days. Time is
irrelevant when you’re resigned to living forever. Every other night, when the loneliness and
discomfort of my battered Camaro became too much; I would find myself huddled in some
hick-town diner. Sitting there, squinting behind dark glasses, scanning the local papers for
clues, any sign that I was on the right path.
I was getting close. Violent deaths and tragic “accidents”: a prostitute found hanged inside an
incinerated barn, the frat-boy found slumped in the back of his parent’s SUV; fly undone, head
almost severed from his neck. All of them desperate souls, longing, lusting for something only
she can provide. Taking comfort in someone without fear of rejection or restraint. Eager to
please and far too innocent to pose any kind of a threat. Camille perfected that false sense of
security – something I knew all too well.
My last meal was a pretty limp-wristed affair. Some homeless man I picked up outside of
Birmingham. Old, exhausted, barely scraps. Eating him was neither filling nor satisfying. The
hunger becomes unbearable, and even the slimmest of pickings will have to do.
I should have known she’d head for New Orleans. We’re young, and there’s still so much of
the world we haven’t seen. Most of our time spent holding court in every circle of decadence
and depravity in mainland Europe; entrenching ourselves in the hungers of others, to better sate
our own.
We came to what’s laughingly called “The New World” about a year ago, settling in New York.
‘Taking a big old bite out of the Big Apple’ as Edgar never tired of saying. America was
supposed to be a fresh start for us, but things were wrong before we set sail from Portugal.
She was distant, her eyes possessed of that same longing, typical of vampires far older than
either of us.
What’s driving you? Her brutality seemed to increase with every passing mile. We were a team:
she was the lure; petite, stunning, coquettish. I was the trap she sprung, darting from the
shadows, rip and tear. Now she was doing the work for us both.
Dawn was nearly on me when I came into the city. I was desperate, trying to find anywhere
dark to pull in. Fortunately, I came across a disused garage near North Claiborne. I was
hungry, and eager to begin my search. The idea of slumming it in a concrete oven with only the
cockroaches for company, made stepping outside an almost attractive proposition.
My sleep had become increasingly troubled. Contorted images of screaming faces and Camille,
standing there in the daylight. Her blood splattered gown catching fire, her demon’s grin
refusing to fade. That night in the Hamptons, gripped by frenzy, killing for the thrill of it. I had
to care, I haven’t completely abandoned my humanity, I played conscience for us both. I put
that little girl out of her misery.
Humans were no longer food for Camille, but mysteries of flesh and bone. I fed, but she was
making inquiries, exploring the limits of seduction and suffering. Even after she was turned, the
strength and the power was not enough. She was seeking a key; needing answers, desperate
for meaning. My empathy, my dependence on rules and restrictions, was holding her back.
There are other dreams. Ropes and cages and chains. Camille finally bound to me, barbed wire
between her lips, the rest wrapped around my eyes. She cannot speak, I cannot see; I’m alone
in the dark and not even night-vision can save me.
I woke to find a huge black rat watching me, almost as if it had played sentry while I slept. I
was hungry, but not that hungry; and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Rising from my rag-and-
planks cot, I stepped gingerly towards the rusting metal shutter. The seams and joins were well
stuffed with rags and pieces of old newspaper, but I knew the sun was still up. The threat
making my hands shake, and once again I fought the urge to raise the shutter, to let the sunlight
feast on me. It’s a sickening compulsion I’ve long had to fight, a morbid fascination. How
would it feel? Would my skin revel in the memory of warmth before the pain kicked in?
I pulled my hand away from the burning metal. We feel very little, extremes of heat and cold
mean little to us. My bodyguard sat watching me, as I slumped back down onto my makeshift
bed. I pulled my knees to my chest and waited for the day to end.
With the night came a strange affinity with the rhythms and geometry of New Orleans. My car
seemed to glide elegantly along the broken and uneven roads pock-marking the city. My senses,
always keen, took on a new, vigorous edge. I parked up on Canal, a stone’s throw from the
French Quarter. Everything I’d heard, everything I knew about Camille, told me she was here.
Everything seemed to carry her stain – a perfect blend of the sublime and unrestrained. People
flowing from bar to bar, club to club. I was drawn to one place, The Whirling Dervish; lured in
by pounding industrial sounds and the crush of PVC and leather.
I stepped inside, drawing glances from several figures huddling around the entrance. The place
was rammed, but I pushed my way past the bar towards the matte-black dancefloor in the
back. Several large mirrors hung from the back wall, extending the depth of the dancefloor,
multiplying the spectacle. I passed a cursory glance over the crowd, before grudgingly allowing
my eyes to settle on my own reflection. Christ you look old. The irony wasn’t lost on me. If
only that crap about mirrors were true.
The air wasn’t as close in here, not as humid. The A/C however, was fighting a losing battle –
so many bodies, moving one against the other, generating an intense heat and sensual charge. I
felt hands groping me; my buttocks, my upper arm, teasing backward glances. Such an array
of hungers, how could I tell where we ended and the humans began?
The scent of blood. I pushed through the dancers towards the miniscule men’s room. A single
neon bulb and the urinals full of ice. Reaching down, I began sifting around, drawing strange
looks from a girl passing by in the corridor outside. A pin-prick, my index finger finding a small
syringe at the bottom. It wasn’t fresh, and it wasn’t Camille.
My own blood on my tongue was thin and watered down, the flaccid taste reminding me that I
hadn’t eaten properly in days. Coming back out onto the street I began looking around, trying to
figure out my next move. Chasing shadows is harder when the shadows know you’re coming,
but even she couldn’t stay hidden in a place like this. Camille loves the attention, loves a scene,
the opportunity to play princess or goddess or monster.
Dejected, I crossed Lower Decatur, making my across the French Market, heading towards
Moon Walk. Motion for the sake of motion, trying to work my despair out through the soles of
my feet. I would have cried; I willed the tears to come rolling down my cheeks, but decades of
hunt and bloodlust have seared them shut.
A harsh wind blew across the Mississippi. Cold. I was so hungry. The drop from the needle
had been enough to excite my thirst. Almost on cue, I saw a slim figure up ahead, arms held
across the chest. A young woman, the smell of cloves and perfume; the scent of flesh.
Blood screaming in my veins, I surged forwards. Camille loved toying with her victims, but I
was in no mood to fuck around. It was dark around the Riverboat Docks, I would feed and
screw anyone who tried to stop me.
She gave no indication that she’d seen me. My feet, so sure, so determined, suddenly came out
from under me. My heart, still and cold as stone, leapt into my mouth. Same hair, silver, like
spider-silk; flowing in curls down her back. Same skin, white as lilies. She turned to face me,
eyes burning, sapphire-blue.
It wasn’t Camille.
The girl was wearing a white funeral shroud. She looked at me, her eyes stung with loss and
regret, and yearning. Her face was swathed in white powder, her eyes ringed with pink
mascara; which she had pulled down her cheeks to form crimson tears.
She took my hand, eyes focusing on my right forearm. I stood watching her, confused. No
tears followed the traces already painted on her face. Her delicate fingers followed the peaks
and troughs of nearly 20 years worth of scars. Dead flesh doesn’t heal – I carry the final fight
of everyone I ever killed, my tapestry of fear. But she wasn’t afraid, she was reading them like
Tarot cards, seeking to understand; desperate to know what the future held.
We made our way back towards Canal Place. Walking right past my Camaro, I followed her
over to a hulking black shadow of an SUV. She slipped into the driver’s side, popping the latch
so I could climb in after her. I can’t count how many stranger’s cars I’ve climbed into, helping
Camille into her seat like a true gentleman. So many vehicles I’ve sent sailing over cliffs or
burned in quarries, bodies broken and contorted in the trunk.
Tchoupitoulas sailed by. Making the right turn onto Poydras, my companion delicately
manoeuvered the SUV towards Magazine Street. She didn’t look at me, though her eyes made
passes over everything outside. Every couple walking arm in arm, boys and girls eager for the
night’s games to begin. I caught her looking wistfully at an old homeless woman picking
through a trash can.
I sat and remained my own dark centre of the world. My nerves were shredded, Camille should
be here, drawing attention away from me. Her escort, silent and brooding, cloaking himself in
shadows. My mask, my disguise. I can kill in a heartbeat, but I cannot stand to be known by
anyone but her.
Heat lightning ignited the immense clouds blanketing the night skyline. We glided past crowds
of people, spilling out onto the streets from an endless array of bars and restaurants. My driver
sighed, before pulling over to the sidewalk.
Climbing out, she marched around the SUV, drifting past me without locking the doors. She
headed towards a small wooden door set in the wall next to a laundromat. Struggling with the
lock, the door finally gave way with an ugly screech that made me wince. The stairs winding
through the building, up to her apartment, were old and rickety. There was the satisfying crack
and crunch of dead cockroaches beneath my heavy Doc Martin’s.
Another stubborn doorway, and we were inside. More shadows, broken only by the flickering
yellow glow of several small candles. Burnt to the nubs, sitting on top of a table, the mantel-
piece, an old piano; every available flat surface. Her place was a threadbare collusion of Art
Deco and clutter-chic. A statue of Athena rested against one piano leg, though I was drawn to a
jewelled Crucifix hanging over the couch.
The sweet scent of incense crept into the room. The stick was lit in the adjoining kitchenette.
She emerged from behind a set of beads holding a glass of wine out to me. I brought the glass
to my lips, angling my body towards her, but she slipped past; coming to rest by the window.
Pulling the curtain aside, she stared idly up and down Magazine Street, eyes passing back and
forth across the New Orleans skyline.
Resting my glass on the piano, I put my arms around her waist. She didn’t flinch as my mouth
drew close to her neck. I was so close, the smell of sweat breaching the patchouli scent
clinging to her skin. I moved in to kiss her, but she slipped out of my grasp, making for the
bedroom.
Her bedroom was the same gothic chic I’d seen a thousand times before. Mock Victorian
furnishings, an Art Deco bureau and mirror, four poster bed draped in velvet and lace, with
cool silk sheets. She settled in the middle of the large mattress, resting on her knees, hands
raised as if in prayer.
I made a delicate circuit round to the far side of the bed. I was a spectre, light as air, preying
for the kill. Killing can come as easily as breathing, but she was rare and I almost wanted to
leave her. Camille and I ate so many wannabes, kids clad in black, desperate to be turned.
Coming to understand far too late. But this one, she knew. Hunger and destruction. Being
turned changes nothing, oblivion is the only hope for both predator and prey.
Sinking into the thick mattress, I slowly crawled over to the supplicant figure in the centre of
the bed. She shook as I again came around behind her. My pale hands taking a hold of her hips,
my lips brushing the vein bulging at her neck.
I could hear her heart racing, could feel her pulse quickening. The Change tore into me – my
eyes narrowing to pin-pricks, irises flushed white like marble. Blood filling my mouth as my
canines forced themselves further through my gumline. The pain is horrific, unbearable.
Exquisite.
Her eyes never left the ceiling, never strayed from whatever rapture had seized her. ‘Please,
please’ she gasped, over and over; my teeth breaking her flesh, finally. The sweet blood mixing
with the salt-taste of sweat and tears streaming down her face. She took my right hand, digging
her nails into my skin. Five new crescent wounds added to my litany of scars.
I held her close as she slipped away, her hand never leaving mine, even after her heart had
stopped beating.
Cradling her head, I laid her down; gently arranging her on the bed. I left her eyes open,
marvelling at her rapt and awestruck expression. Folding her arms across her chest, I leaned in,
kissing her; leaving a delicate red stain on her cyanotic lips.
Dawn was only a few hours away. I fished a long black coat from the back of her door,
throwing it over my shoulders, feeling like a rockstar or superhero. Her blood, thundering
through my veins, ignited my heart with every beat. I was alive.
The taste of her, on my lips, was rare and invigorating. New Orleans was Camille’s city, every
stone set to challenge her, every street leading her between delights. New Orleans is Camille for
me, lust and hunger and beauty. The threat of something extraordinary. I’m coming for what is
mine.
(2524 words)
snaking its way down Alabama, towards the Gulf. I hadn’t been eating, purposefully fasting to
avoid attracting any attention, though she was causing trouble enough for us both.
Living your life between sundown and sun-up, it’s easy to lose track of the days. Time is
irrelevant when you’re resigned to living forever. Every other night, when the loneliness and
discomfort of my battered Camaro became too much; I would find myself huddled in some
hick-town diner. Sitting there, squinting behind dark glasses, scanning the local papers for
clues, any sign that I was on the right path.
I was getting close. Violent deaths and tragic “accidents”: a prostitute found hanged inside an
incinerated barn, the frat-boy found slumped in the back of his parent’s SUV; fly undone, head
almost severed from his neck. All of them desperate souls, longing, lusting for something only
she can provide. Taking comfort in someone without fear of rejection or restraint. Eager to
please and far too innocent to pose any kind of a threat. Camille perfected that false sense of
security – something I knew all too well.
My last meal was a pretty limp-wristed affair. Some homeless man I picked up outside of
Birmingham. Old, exhausted, barely scraps. Eating him was neither filling nor satisfying. The
hunger becomes unbearable, and even the slimmest of pickings will have to do.
I should have known she’d head for New Orleans. We’re young, and there’s still so much of
the world we haven’t seen. Most of our time spent holding court in every circle of decadence
and depravity in mainland Europe; entrenching ourselves in the hungers of others, to better sate
our own.
We came to what’s laughingly called “The New World” about a year ago, settling in New York.
‘Taking a big old bite out of the Big Apple’ as Edgar never tired of saying. America was
supposed to be a fresh start for us, but things were wrong before we set sail from Portugal.
She was distant, her eyes possessed of that same longing, typical of vampires far older than
either of us.
What’s driving you? Her brutality seemed to increase with every passing mile. We were a team:
she was the lure; petite, stunning, coquettish. I was the trap she sprung, darting from the
shadows, rip and tear. Now she was doing the work for us both.
Dawn was nearly on me when I came into the city. I was desperate, trying to find anywhere
dark to pull in. Fortunately, I came across a disused garage near North Claiborne. I was
hungry, and eager to begin my search. The idea of slumming it in a concrete oven with only the
cockroaches for company, made stepping outside an almost attractive proposition.
My sleep had become increasingly troubled. Contorted images of screaming faces and Camille,
standing there in the daylight. Her blood splattered gown catching fire, her demon’s grin
refusing to fade. That night in the Hamptons, gripped by frenzy, killing for the thrill of it. I had
to care, I haven’t completely abandoned my humanity, I played conscience for us both. I put
that little girl out of her misery.
Humans were no longer food for Camille, but mysteries of flesh and bone. I fed, but she was
making inquiries, exploring the limits of seduction and suffering. Even after she was turned, the
strength and the power was not enough. She was seeking a key; needing answers, desperate
for meaning. My empathy, my dependence on rules and restrictions, was holding her back.
There are other dreams. Ropes and cages and chains. Camille finally bound to me, barbed wire
between her lips, the rest wrapped around my eyes. She cannot speak, I cannot see; I’m alone
in the dark and not even night-vision can save me.
I woke to find a huge black rat watching me, almost as if it had played sentry while I slept. I
was hungry, but not that hungry; and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. Rising from my rag-and-
planks cot, I stepped gingerly towards the rusting metal shutter. The seams and joins were well
stuffed with rags and pieces of old newspaper, but I knew the sun was still up. The threat
making my hands shake, and once again I fought the urge to raise the shutter, to let the sunlight
feast on me. It’s a sickening compulsion I’ve long had to fight, a morbid fascination. How
would it feel? Would my skin revel in the memory of warmth before the pain kicked in?
I pulled my hand away from the burning metal. We feel very little, extremes of heat and cold
mean little to us. My bodyguard sat watching me, as I slumped back down onto my makeshift
bed. I pulled my knees to my chest and waited for the day to end.
With the night came a strange affinity with the rhythms and geometry of New Orleans. My car
seemed to glide elegantly along the broken and uneven roads pock-marking the city. My senses,
always keen, took on a new, vigorous edge. I parked up on Canal, a stone’s throw from the
French Quarter. Everything I’d heard, everything I knew about Camille, told me she was here.
Everything seemed to carry her stain – a perfect blend of the sublime and unrestrained. People
flowing from bar to bar, club to club. I was drawn to one place, The Whirling Dervish; lured in
by pounding industrial sounds and the crush of PVC and leather.
I stepped inside, drawing glances from several figures huddling around the entrance. The place
was rammed, but I pushed my way past the bar towards the matte-black dancefloor in the
back. Several large mirrors hung from the back wall, extending the depth of the dancefloor,
multiplying the spectacle. I passed a cursory glance over the crowd, before grudgingly allowing
my eyes to settle on my own reflection. Christ you look old. The irony wasn’t lost on me. If
only that crap about mirrors were true.
The air wasn’t as close in here, not as humid. The A/C however, was fighting a losing battle –
so many bodies, moving one against the other, generating an intense heat and sensual charge. I
felt hands groping me; my buttocks, my upper arm, teasing backward glances. Such an array
of hungers, how could I tell where we ended and the humans began?
The scent of blood. I pushed through the dancers towards the miniscule men’s room. A single
neon bulb and the urinals full of ice. Reaching down, I began sifting around, drawing strange
looks from a girl passing by in the corridor outside. A pin-prick, my index finger finding a small
syringe at the bottom. It wasn’t fresh, and it wasn’t Camille.
My own blood on my tongue was thin and watered down, the flaccid taste reminding me that I
hadn’t eaten properly in days. Coming back out onto the street I began looking around, trying to
figure out my next move. Chasing shadows is harder when the shadows know you’re coming,
but even she couldn’t stay hidden in a place like this. Camille loves the attention, loves a scene,
the opportunity to play princess or goddess or monster.
Dejected, I crossed Lower Decatur, making my across the French Market, heading towards
Moon Walk. Motion for the sake of motion, trying to work my despair out through the soles of
my feet. I would have cried; I willed the tears to come rolling down my cheeks, but decades of
hunt and bloodlust have seared them shut.
A harsh wind blew across the Mississippi. Cold. I was so hungry. The drop from the needle
had been enough to excite my thirst. Almost on cue, I saw a slim figure up ahead, arms held
across the chest. A young woman, the smell of cloves and perfume; the scent of flesh.
Blood screaming in my veins, I surged forwards. Camille loved toying with her victims, but I
was in no mood to fuck around. It was dark around the Riverboat Docks, I would feed and
screw anyone who tried to stop me.
She gave no indication that she’d seen me. My feet, so sure, so determined, suddenly came out
from under me. My heart, still and cold as stone, leapt into my mouth. Same hair, silver, like
spider-silk; flowing in curls down her back. Same skin, white as lilies. She turned to face me,
eyes burning, sapphire-blue.
It wasn’t Camille.
The girl was wearing a white funeral shroud. She looked at me, her eyes stung with loss and
regret, and yearning. Her face was swathed in white powder, her eyes ringed with pink
mascara; which she had pulled down her cheeks to form crimson tears.
She took my hand, eyes focusing on my right forearm. I stood watching her, confused. No
tears followed the traces already painted on her face. Her delicate fingers followed the peaks
and troughs of nearly 20 years worth of scars. Dead flesh doesn’t heal – I carry the final fight
of everyone I ever killed, my tapestry of fear. But she wasn’t afraid, she was reading them like
Tarot cards, seeking to understand; desperate to know what the future held.
We made our way back towards Canal Place. Walking right past my Camaro, I followed her
over to a hulking black shadow of an SUV. She slipped into the driver’s side, popping the latch
so I could climb in after her. I can’t count how many stranger’s cars I’ve climbed into, helping
Camille into her seat like a true gentleman. So many vehicles I’ve sent sailing over cliffs or
burned in quarries, bodies broken and contorted in the trunk.
Tchoupitoulas sailed by. Making the right turn onto Poydras, my companion delicately
manoeuvered the SUV towards Magazine Street. She didn’t look at me, though her eyes made
passes over everything outside. Every couple walking arm in arm, boys and girls eager for the
night’s games to begin. I caught her looking wistfully at an old homeless woman picking
through a trash can.
I sat and remained my own dark centre of the world. My nerves were shredded, Camille should
be here, drawing attention away from me. Her escort, silent and brooding, cloaking himself in
shadows. My mask, my disguise. I can kill in a heartbeat, but I cannot stand to be known by
anyone but her.
Heat lightning ignited the immense clouds blanketing the night skyline. We glided past crowds
of people, spilling out onto the streets from an endless array of bars and restaurants. My driver
sighed, before pulling over to the sidewalk.
Climbing out, she marched around the SUV, drifting past me without locking the doors. She
headed towards a small wooden door set in the wall next to a laundromat. Struggling with the
lock, the door finally gave way with an ugly screech that made me wince. The stairs winding
through the building, up to her apartment, were old and rickety. There was the satisfying crack
and crunch of dead cockroaches beneath my heavy Doc Martin’s.
Another stubborn doorway, and we were inside. More shadows, broken only by the flickering
yellow glow of several small candles. Burnt to the nubs, sitting on top of a table, the mantel-
piece, an old piano; every available flat surface. Her place was a threadbare collusion of Art
Deco and clutter-chic. A statue of Athena rested against one piano leg, though I was drawn to a
jewelled Crucifix hanging over the couch.
The sweet scent of incense crept into the room. The stick was lit in the adjoining kitchenette.
She emerged from behind a set of beads holding a glass of wine out to me. I brought the glass
to my lips, angling my body towards her, but she slipped past; coming to rest by the window.
Pulling the curtain aside, she stared idly up and down Magazine Street, eyes passing back and
forth across the New Orleans skyline.
Resting my glass on the piano, I put my arms around her waist. She didn’t flinch as my mouth
drew close to her neck. I was so close, the smell of sweat breaching the patchouli scent
clinging to her skin. I moved in to kiss her, but she slipped out of my grasp, making for the
bedroom.
Her bedroom was the same gothic chic I’d seen a thousand times before. Mock Victorian
furnishings, an Art Deco bureau and mirror, four poster bed draped in velvet and lace, with
cool silk sheets. She settled in the middle of the large mattress, resting on her knees, hands
raised as if in prayer.
I made a delicate circuit round to the far side of the bed. I was a spectre, light as air, preying
for the kill. Killing can come as easily as breathing, but she was rare and I almost wanted to
leave her. Camille and I ate so many wannabes, kids clad in black, desperate to be turned.
Coming to understand far too late. But this one, she knew. Hunger and destruction. Being
turned changes nothing, oblivion is the only hope for both predator and prey.
Sinking into the thick mattress, I slowly crawled over to the supplicant figure in the centre of
the bed. She shook as I again came around behind her. My pale hands taking a hold of her hips,
my lips brushing the vein bulging at her neck.
I could hear her heart racing, could feel her pulse quickening. The Change tore into me – my
eyes narrowing to pin-pricks, irises flushed white like marble. Blood filling my mouth as my
canines forced themselves further through my gumline. The pain is horrific, unbearable.
Exquisite.
Her eyes never left the ceiling, never strayed from whatever rapture had seized her. ‘Please,
please’ she gasped, over and over; my teeth breaking her flesh, finally. The sweet blood mixing
with the salt-taste of sweat and tears streaming down her face. She took my right hand, digging
her nails into my skin. Five new crescent wounds added to my litany of scars.
I held her close as she slipped away, her hand never leaving mine, even after her heart had
stopped beating.
Cradling her head, I laid her down; gently arranging her on the bed. I left her eyes open,
marvelling at her rapt and awestruck expression. Folding her arms across her chest, I leaned in,
kissing her; leaving a delicate red stain on her cyanotic lips.
Dawn was only a few hours away. I fished a long black coat from the back of her door,
throwing it over my shoulders, feeling like a rockstar or superhero. Her blood, thundering
through my veins, ignited my heart with every beat. I was alive.
The taste of her, on my lips, was rare and invigorating. New Orleans was Camille’s city, every
stone set to challenge her, every street leading her between delights. New Orleans is Camille for
me, lust and hunger and beauty. The threat of something extraordinary. I’m coming for what is
mine.
(2524 words)