He wrapped his fingers over her throat, massaging her veins, a red-wet puzzle since long ripped open. His head bowed down to her, there was no other way to satisfy the urge; there was just no possible way. Lucian bent down further, licked the side of her temple. His tongue scraped over the dried smears of blood on her cheek; she’s been like this for three days and no change, he thought.

His hand entered her cranium, parted her hair and began working at the insides; he had been cutting bone for two days. She did not protest, but how could she? His workshop was silent, she was silent, moonrise was imminent and he’d have to have it done by then; he needed her clean and ready for the celebration.

At his side was a pink basin. Two white rags soaking in tepid water with shaving cream and cheap lotion. The combination of smells washed away any kind of grime the world could pile onto skin, even skin that had long been dead and festering.

As he entered her head he instantly felt her, really felt her. Memories ran along his fingertips like dripping velvet, nostalgia bit them and stung, crawled beneath his nails and butchered the sensitive white spot beneath it. He removed his hand, his nails scarlet beneath, just filled with blood, he thought.

I have to have her ready, bear the pain Lucian

He wrapped his dirty hand in the warm cloth. Blood sparkled atop it, even in the diminutive light of dusk, but he covered it before the urge came back. It wasn’t a problem though, he knew better than to worry about the little things, so he went back to work. His good had reached back into her head, this time he made sure to part away the skin good, it folded like tender deli meat; corn silk hair came away as if old cobwebs. And she was very, very cold.

Her blood covered his good hand like syrup over waffles; it snuck down his arm and dripped off of his elbow. The inside of her head was exciting. It was thick with thought, and stagnant with love. He could feel the old electric churning within her, the power she used to have over him broiling; Lucian knew it was better this way.

Go to sleep little bird…he used to whisper.

Lucian kept his hand in and explored the grooved junctures of her brain, sulci still somewhat warm, faintly beating; it was a sponge in his hand. He opened her eyes with his other, his ring finger throbbing in time with his aroused pulse, and made her watch him; two hazy eyeballs of a rare sienna. Crimson tears edged in the corners of her eyes as he fondled with her meat thinker. Then he closed the lids and the red downpour began. It drizzled down her face and he licked the chilly tears away to taste the innocence, the madness, the passion. She was meant to stay with him, even in death. But soon she’d rise.

Stalking was no easy task, especially when one wants something more than they can fathom. The need ruins your game, it ruptures the thin membrane between sanity and control, need mocks every step of your well thought out plan; but Lucian had ways to control himself. He knew that even with one tiny slit of argent from a dead sky, the transformation was his control. Lucian was not like the others, transformed or not, he kept all conscious control.

Then he let himself go, allowed seven inches of testosterone rise in his pants like a pipe of soft-hardened tissue and relieved himself with a couple of fluid motions; her cold blood a suitable lubricant, a small pearlescent splat stuck to his palm.

He didn’t know this made him go into heat, or have any pleasure at all, but he went with the flow. Lucian cleaned himself up, then went back to work on her. He parted brisk flesh, knowing it would just all heal back, licked her wounds, infesting her lifeless cells with soon to be animosity. There was a need to bequeath this curse, however one took it; she had to love him forever for this now, they were mates, a pack even.

An emollient shade of blood orange touched his skin, peach fuzz rose and his hard-on softened. Time was slowly marking him and waiting, teasing him with the day’s end and the night’s reprieve; the lady of the night would have him again, as she always had. Lucian propped her up, sat her upright and folded her fragile wrists together, she would wait as well.

Then the sun sank for the last time, taking all its heat with it. He felt the first thump in his chest, and then it sailed to his brain, rocked it back and forth. His face grew numb and his fingers began to bleed, to darken. Cells metamorphosed, muscles boiled and expanded and broke bones as if ancient ivory. He looked into the twilight of the sky and the first sliver of pale light came about in a crescent shape; the howls came after.

He was finished, his body smog black, his teeth yellow and white, razor sharp; they held the strength of diamonds. Honey-suckle eyes saw things in a better, closer perspective than any human could make up for. Then he sniffed at corpse in front of him, angry that it hadn’t changed. All he wanted was one signal, something. He wet her face until it glinted aqueous beneath the moon, gnawed on her fingers until they were down to the sinews, and panted, just panted.

He laid down next to her, whined with all his power, howled to the cowardly rock above him for not allowing its power unto her. A noise. Then his ears stiffened like inky triangles; he looked up. Her eyes were open wide, and they shone with the power of amber.

Copyright: © 2010 Daniel Fabiani

Daniel Fabiani is 22 years old and a semi-misanthrope who loves to drink wine while reading in the dark. Learning new languages is one of his true passions, as well as the written word. He is 3x published in SNM magazine and has credits in Drops of Crimson and Microhoror. He is featured in three print anthologies and is native to NYC.


  1. Dan the was absolutely beautiful and brutal! You did not hold back, nice. I loved the analogy of her skin folding like tender deli meat. Awesome, you are now my new God:) Love ya, Stacy Bolli

  2. Wow. I thought this was a serial killer story, but then the bomb was dropped and it was werewolves!!! Fucking awesome! I want to see more of this guy, very very very fucking unique!

  3. I liked this story alot. Sick. Keep it up. =]

  4. When a person ca write like this at 22, imagine how he will write at 52! What a way of utilizing prose! Too the fullest extent of brutality! Good shit!