Kazza’s Reviews > Escaping Exile > Status Update

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he says.
“Trying to sweet-talk me, Edmund?” He stares at me. “Are you frightened, now that you’ve seen me feed? I’m as bad as the cannibals, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think you might kill me,” he says.
“I will not.”
“A part of you wants to. I see it sometimes.”
Yes, the dark creature. Its sharp claws tap against my skull whenever Edmund gets too close, but I won’t let that part of myself touch him. Not unless he asks—and he might, if he’s out here long enough.

“You want to record all this?”
“It’s what I do.”
I have both of the items he requests—gifts from Michelle on one of her visits. Perhaps she wanted me to write about my guilt, but I don’t remember guilt right now. My entire lengthy memory has been wiped clean by the face of this man who looks so young when he laughs.

He’s talking to himself now. “No heartbeat. How has your brain not rotted out of your head?” Despite the morning he had, he’s willing to be close to me. I think of that poison dart frog that almost took his life and realize Edmund might be perfect.

“Shit. I couldn’t fight you off if I wanted to.”
“You will not need to fight me off.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. I don’t think I’ll accept no from him—not with the way his skin feels, the way he looks and laughs in the face of a murdering beast. He is a beguiling amalgam of brave and frightened, brilliant and insane.

I’ve often wondered if evil sours the blood. In New Orleans, I killed all sorts before my exile, but my favorite meals were innocents like Azrael. The tainted blood of street thugs and drunken thieves never tasted as good as that of a young manservant in a fine house or a male whore, new to the streets.

“Damn it, what are you, Andrew?”
“Something very old.”
“Christ, crocodiles are old!” He holds the small knife out in front of him. “Tell me.”
I sit on the edge of my bed. “My people called me upiór. In your modern English, I suppose the word would be vampire.”

They speak and whistle to each other, but they must be at least twenty feet away. Perhaps they fear coming any closer to the home of the dead thing that walks among them? God, I hope so. Starved of human blood, I’m weak—too weak even to defend my Edmund.

I swallowed his very soul. His death was a bright light between my eyes. My head soared as he finally went limp and I dropped his body on the ground. I wiped my mouth. “An angel indeed,” I said. I left his corpse to rot but at least pulled up his breeches and straightened his clothes.

He squints into the sun. “You said the natives might be fond of me, but would they not be fond of you, as well?”
“They haven’t bothered me so far.” I’ve been dead much too long.