Date: Wed, 18 Dec 2002 10:29:32 -0600
From: Michael Yost <myost@charter.net>
Subject: Re: Real World Chapter 12

Michael turned despondently to Brent.  Putting his tongue to one of his
fangs, Micheal cut himself a little.  A wet fall of blood tickled down
Michael's mouth.  He had a vision of Brent hanging upside down, bleeding
drop by drop into a wine glass.  In his vision he broke the wine glass,
letting the blood fall inside directly into his thirsty mouth, the young
boy struggling to free himself from the chains holding him fast.

The boy's blond hair became spikier.  Josh was hanging upside down his
mouth open into a scream when Michael thrust a searing, hot, red poker into
both of his eyes for daring to see Pete's naked body.

Red, bleeding, empty eyes becoming ravishing and haze.  Pete's arms open,
his neck slashed from ear to ear, a blood necklace on his pale, cold skin.
Michael imagined himself biting into the jagged wound.  Pete's blood
flowing willingly into his veins.  His arms and hands above Pete's head so
his bodily touch would not detract Pete from the sensual sensation of being
drained.

"Why is Michael looking at me like he wants to rip my clothes off.  I
didn't think he cared," Brent whispered to Ray.

Teasingly. Brent gave Michael his most flirtatious smile.

Putting a protective arm around Brent, Ray let Michael have a brief glimpse
of his own sharp fangs.

Scowling at the savage beastliness of his fantasy, Michael showed Ray a
glimpse of his own fangs in a gesture which was too fast for Brent to see.

Self righteous little hypocrite, Michael thought to himself, I wouldn't
dream of killing a mortal friend of Pete's. If I wanted to murder someone
Josh would be ashes somewhere floating on Bourbon Street.  Why do day
walkers always have to assume night walkers are incapable of having self
control?  It's madding.

"Fine," Michael said evenly to Ray, "Think whatever you want to think of
me.  As if I was some brain dead freak with no feelings or no sense of
loyalty."

"About sums you up," Ray snorted, still hovering protective next to Brent.

Thoroughly insulted and disgusted Michaiel said angrily, "I happen to care
about what happens to Pete.  I loved him far longer than that upstart Josh
had loved him.  If you can call when he feels for Pete love."

Armand watched as Michael left the boarding area.  He thought to himself,
Another poor soul who can't let go.

Closing his eyes, Armand thought briefly of Nicki till he felt defensively
both sad and cynical about being numbered as a so called immortal.

Christov being an observer of all this arguing on Michael and Ray's part,
and the sadness on Armand's face, thought happily to himself, Mincemeats.

Leaving and boarding on Armand's luxury jet, Christov sank happily into a
lush leather seat.

"The nicest thing about being immortal," Christov said critically to Pete,
"Is you don't have to buckle up."

Embarrassed, Pete unsnapped the chair's seat buckle.  Nervously watching
the plane talking off, Pete's hands played with the buckle.

"Go ahead and buckle up,' Christov said with a repressed sigh.

Gratefully, Pete buckled up.

"The bad thing about being undead is the lack of beverage choices.  I
always wondered what it would be like to drink a glass of champagne while
flying," Henri said.

"I tried it once," Christov said lazily, "I swished it around in my
mouth. It tasted like an explosion.  My mouth was frothing with all these
bubbles.  I spit it out before I could swallow any more of it.  It tickled.
I had to take a small drink of blood from the person sitting next to me to
get the sensation out of my mouth She was a nice lady. Tried to give me and
aspirin because she thought I wasn't feeling well."

"Josh can drink champagne as long as he puts a good dose of blood in it.
Otherwise he says it tastes foul," Pete said.

"Still foul or not. Even if I just could stick my tongue in a glass of
champagne it would be an event," Henri said wistfully, leaning his chin on
his antique walking stick.

The both of you are morbid," Christov said cheerfully, ready to burst on
the scene of Chicago, "Who cares about champagne?  Now blood, There's a
beverage."

Henri was more than ready to be in Chicago too.  Leaning over to Christov
he said, "Some kisses go to my head like a kick from a fine sip of slowly
draining blood."

"What an obnoxious thing to say," Christov said rudely.

I hate it when you look at me like I'm something special to you, Christov
thought both irritated and touched, Why can't I find you a guy as
sentimental and as soft hearted as you are? I was really hoping you and
Pete would connect.  I have to find you a young man.  Pining away for me
isn't gong to make you remotely happy.  You deserve to be happy.  You're
nice.  Your handsome.  Fun to talk to.  Gentle.

 Chrisotv quickly looked out of the window of the plane, I have to find
some mincemeat to take you off my hands, he thought nervously, I mean I'd
be happy if you were happy with someone who would treat you right.

Nearly jumping out of his seat, smacking his nose hard on the cold flat
surface of the window, Christov spin his head around, his lips just inches
from Henri's lips.  Henri was leaning into him to ask him a question.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!!" Christov yelped his heart pounding.

"Mon ami, I was going to ask you if your would rather stay at a hotel or a
cemetery for our first night," Henri said calmly unruffled.