NightFall: Book One: Bloodlust Is the Cure for the Immortal Soul

Anastacia Kelley

Nightfall
18

Nightfall

A novel by:

Anastacia Kelley

“Bloodlust is the cure for the immortal soul.”

(c)2011 by Stacy S. Avary

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

First Printing

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATIONS

I thank God for giving me the gift of writing and the health to always to do so.

Thanks to my parents
, James and Debbie Avary for their unwavering support.
1 4 3.

To my siblings: Sonya, James Jr., Amanda.
1 4 3.

From the
Enigma
video, “
T.N.T.
for the Brain”: To the amber eyed man whose name I do not know: Thank you for inspiring Saldivar’s character.

Thank you all for believing in me and listening to me go on and on about my vampires.

The theme of ‘NightFall’ is “
Beyond the Invisible
” by Enigma.
Other songs for the book from
Enigma include: “
T.N.T. for the Brain
“, “
Touchness”
, “
Distorted Love
“, “
Seven
Lives
“,
Gravity of
Love(
Judgment Day remix)”,
“
Fata Morgana”
and “
I Love You….I’ll Kill
You.”

PROLOGUE

Pari
s

He watched……waited.
Just as he had waited for many nights before.

The timing had to be perfect or else everything would all be for nothing. All the time and energy he had put in would surely be a waste. He hated loose ends. This he had to tie up rather quickly. But, if he moved in too soon, he would lose him. And, by God, he could not let that happen. He had been patient all this time and to make a move impetuously would ruin his chances of ever saving this poor man from his terrible fate. He had waited over sixty years for him. He could afford a couple more hours, but not a second more.

He had felt this one’s presence so powerfully he knew he had to act. This poor young man was the one. But, his life force had begun to wane a little more each year. He was sure this poor fellow knew that something was terribly wrong with him.

It wouldn’t be too long before death would come knocking. After that, the young man would be lost to him forever.

Unfortunately, death was irreversible. But he had an opportunity to intervene before death could rear its ugly head.

So, he waited, sinking into the inky darkness of the shadows. He could see without being seen. Mortals could not afford to know who he was. He could not worry about such useless distractions.

He was able to observe freely the goings-on of the city. He was able to keep a watchful eye on the person of his concern. Then when the opportunity arose, he could make himself known.

All he had to do was have patience. Then the moment shall come whether the young man accepted it or not.

It had to be done. For time was growing short.

CHAPTER I

Paris, 1700.

Van Pirone
lay on filthy, shredded papers in an abandoned alley way that
surely
must have
seen better days than these. But i
t was the only place not occupi
ed by
other beggars,
such as him
. He had come upon this place five months ago, just on the outskirts of Boralle
. It was a small
and beautiful village and would have
likely to
remain
so if not for some people who saw fit to abuse the natural wonders of it. Only fiv
e months had passed and already
Van witnessed the chaos that the people
had
caused.

The lamps on the edge of the walkway were lit, illuminating the worn stone pathways and pointing out the various places to shop, if
you had the right amount of money
, that is. Some villagers were in small carriages being pulled by horses through the narrow, winding streets. Van caught the strong odor of horse sweat as their hooves clomped heavily on the stone road. Other villa
gers littered
the streets, strolling to and fro rather lazily in the cool night air to whatever dest
ination they had in mind. Even
t
he light fog that had rolled in did not discourage the
villagers from enjoying the night.

Van saw ladies
in delicate gowns
taking tea
, wine
or
caf
e
at a restaurant
called
Madames
enjoying
a bit of pastry stuffed with a fresh
from
a
ge
or fruit. Of course, that kind of indulgence was made for people who could
afford to throw down money
without worry. He saw men sauntering at an idle pace, smoking their pipes and nodding to passers-by, touching the tips of their hats or forehead as a common courtesy to the
mad
a
mes
or
mademoisell
e
s
, talking of
n
othing and
everything. Van’s gray eyes wandered
to another secluded alley where he
witnessed a
young
woman in questionable clothing secretly trying to entice a young man to join her for a certain number of coins. The young man
smiled and
reached in and
pulled money from his pocket and followed. This practice was outlawed many years ago, but
still,
some managed to get away with it.

Van turned his head and watched the finer dressed people converse with one another.

“Fine night, is it not,
mad
a
me
?”
one well dressed man commented, bowing his head in the
respectful manner.

“Indeed it is,
monsieur
,”
the lady in the dark blue dress acceded in a polished tone.

Van looked upon this exchange and sighed heavily. He observed the night life with utter disappointment. He was and never had been
a
part of their world. He lived in a completely different way. He wasn’t part of their bubb
ly laughter, their riches and
the
freedom to do whatever they pleased
. He couldn’t even share in their
good health.
He was always watching from the outside. He felt as if he were in a one-sided glass cage. He could see but could not be seen,
he
could not feel or do or be a part of this world. He could not
touch the wonders around him, nor
did it seem that
was he touched
by the same winds or the
same
rays of the sun;
t
he same problems.

Van looked upon the
women parading around in fancy gowns with costly baubles upon their white necks, smilin
g with adorned faces. Men were strolling about in expensive suits and hats.
They made merry as if th
ey had not a care in their high classed
world.

Van shifted in the papers and snorted childishly. If someone could be privy to his thoughts right now, they would think him to be resentful against the moneyed people.

It is not that I am envious,
he reasoned with himself silently.
It is just that I deserve much better than this cold, hard-packed earth I call a
resting place.
A lonely place.
I do not begrudge those people their
wealth. I just wish I had
wealth and power. I just wouldn’
t want to have to socialize with these certain people
…..e
ven if I did have it all.

Oh, he should not really be thinking so selfishly, for he was not the only one suffering this anguish. There was an excess of others in the same plight as he.
Young and old.
Men, women and the ones that suffered the most—the children.
He knew that some of the women living on the streets were with child. Unfortunately, almost all never entered the world, taking their mothers with them. They die long before birth because the mothers cannot afford to feed the growing child inside of them. The mothers cannot even sustain themselves much less another life in their bellies.

At least mother and child could be together in the after life. What a
tragedy that this happen
s
, but no one wanted to or cared
to help such people like street beggars.

Did any of the ‘others’ care?
Did anybody come by and show just a smidgen of compassion?
Sympathy?
Pity?
Anything to show they had a beating heart in their chests?

No!
Van shouted inwardly to himself angrily but abysmally, feeling the pity well up in his heart. His pity spread to the others like him. He did not know them but still could not help his sympathy overcoming him. There was
a crack in the dam of his heart-as much as he tried to deny it-
and the sympathy leaked out and he felt it in every cell of his body.

Van grieved somberly as his dismal gray eyes scanned the other morose faces about him. H
e
then took in the state of their dress. It made him study his own tattered rags that used to pass for clothing. He knew these garments w
ould not hold out much longer.

He felt his body would not hold out much longer, either. It was an odd feeling he has had for months now.
As much as he tried, he couldn’t fathom what was wrong with him. But that odd sen
sation came and went without any provocation from him.

Van’s stomach suddenly growled painfully. It was deep and loud in his hollow pit of a belly. It was like a caged beast demanding to be assuaged. Van closed his eyes and wished it to stop but knew it was worthless trying to stave off a ravenous beast. It was just odd that he would be hungry for food when food was the last thing he wanted to put passed his lips. Still, his belly craved sustenance even though he was physically and mentally drained. He was dirty and felt as if he had an eternity of grit upon his
emaciated frame. Sleep beckoned for him but hunger took the controls and pushed him to his unclad, blistered covered feet.

Life could not get any worse then it was right at this very moment. He knew what he had to do to get food into his stomach. He had to go out on the streets and beg piteously for money or food and drink. It did not really matter which he got just so he got it. He was weakened from the absence of food in his body. Right now, anything even slightly edible would do. He couldn’t afford to be picky. Beggars could not be choosers.

So, Van trudged to the street, eyes downcast, face burning with humiliation. It was terrible no matter how many times he did it or
how good he had become at begging. It would never get any better for him. Other beggars didn’t seem to care about how much they begged. Van was in a downward spiral heading towards destruction and despair.

Shoulders sagg
ed. Eyes focused on the ground, making sure n
ever to make eye contact with the rich people. Van knew this routine well.
The Beggar Pose.
It was a moniker Van heard frequently among the wealthy. It
was even less than a plebian
way of
life.

Van decided on a street near Cirel Road. It was less crowded by other beggars. So he stood there and began his humiliation.

Some people threw coins all the while looking down on him as if he were merely a sewer rat. As if he wasn’t human.
A nobody
to be laughed at, then cast aside.
Thrown away.
He heard what the ladies and the men said about him. They always made sure he heard every cruel word coming from their horrible mouths.

A lady, wrapped in what looked to be green velvet and smelling of an overabundance of perfume, walked by Van and gasped loudly as she seized her escort’s arm d
ramatically. “What are they?”
she asked disdainfully, making no effort to lower her voice. Van could see clearly the contempt and distaste in her cold blue eyes.

But what really irk
ed Van was the man’s response.
“Nobody,
cherie
.
Do not look at them.” They walked away, snickering at their own pathetic assumptions.

I am not a joke! I will be
a somebody
,
he thought vehemently.
Someday.
And
those snobbish excuses for
human being
s
will regret how they have treated me.

After a few hours of begging like a sick puppy-and how he despised it!-he managed to get enough coins for some old br
ead, a scrap of cheese and some wine. C
lean water was almost nonexistent. Right now he was too thirsty to care.