Eternal Darkness, Blood King Read Free Page A

and yang, a perfect balance.
     
    Always on the move, I avoided the big hotels; I also avoided buying properties in exclusive places. However, I was tempted to go for a top-floor unit in one of the new condominiums over on Collins Avenue. I loved the view from the balcony; I could see the casual cruise liner in the horizon, sailing alone in the middle of the black ocean, flashing its dim lights as if they were a congregation of artificial stars. I love cruises. There was a time when I went on one every other year—until the high percentage of missing passengers started to draw too much attention and made me reconsider my habits. Now having a place in such a great location was more than convenient, because it meant I would just jump on a ship, do my hunting, and the ocean would take care of the rest. That was my version of a drive-through.
     
    Soon I was facing the inescapable fact that I had to move on, and it was on such a night, in such moment when I found my reason to stay. I was selecting my kill of the evening, scanning people’s thoughts, searching through memories and mental images, looking for the one who would fire me up, the one who was dirty, weak and, guilty enough to motivate my inner animal, the true killer in me.
     
    Killing with vice is the best.
     
    Suddenly, my search was interrupted when I picked the thoughts of a young woman. I was on top of a nearby building on Ocean Drive when I felt her hunger, her despair, and her sadness.
     
    My eyes scanned the beach for the source of such essence, and there she was: She had her back to me; she was talking to a couple, a fat woman and a short lanky man. I intensified my senses to pick up their conversation, and I heard the couple tell her that they would not pay the $15 fee for the pencil portrait she had just drawn of them. They were claiming that they thought it was for free, that they didn’t hear her telling them anything about a fee.
     
    I looked at the fat woman talking to the young girl and smiled to myself. I knew she had heard the girl say something about a fee, only to change her mind halfway through the portrait; and now she was making excuses. I smiled to myself, knowing that I had just found my kill, and she was a juicy one.
     
    I watched the couple return the portrait and then walk away. I was about to follow them, but I couldn’t stop looking at the girl. She was exhausted and mad. I saw her expression, and there was fire in her eyes. Anger, pure and silent—the type of anger I could relate to.
     
    In moments, I was standing next to her as she was putting away her tools, stuffing them into a long black nylon bag. It was then when she noticed my presence.
     
    “I’m done for the night,” she said without even turning to face me.
     
    I could hear her Southern accent. Like most of Miami, she was not from there. I did not move; I stood there in silence, my face half turned toward the beach.
     
    “That’s a shame,” I said, “because I truly love pencil portraits.”
     
    This is true.
     
    “I have been waiting for you to finish with that other couple, so I could come and ask you to do mine,” I added.
     
    She turned and looked at me as I stared out at the distant ocean. I slowly turned to face  her. Her dirty blonde hair fell over her forehead, giving her a boyish aura; she looked very fresh and young. Her brown eyes move quickly, sizing me up, like women do. I gave her my best smile, fangs and all. She noticed and smiled back at me. In one quick resolution, she unpacked her tools and prepared to do my portrait.
     
    I stood there and chatted with this young creature, being casual as I watched her, studying her. I was delighted with her, admiring her tenacity as she pressed the pencil in a fluid motion against a clean sheet of paper, depicting my features, not faithfully but according to her own interpretation, like true artists do. We talked about the weather, about music and places I could visit while in town. Afterward, when