He skated toward her swiftly, his feet and legs well acquainted with the rhythm of skating even though he had not worn a pair of skates in almost a year.

Magdalene's warm smile was a beacon of bright whiteness under the dark bridge and he had only to imagine how divine her lips would taste in the cold.

Samuel abruptly tilted his body to an angle and with both blades cut a sharp edge on the ice. He stopped inches from his wife. "Like stealing candy from a baby."

"My gorgeous boy," beamed Magdalene. "I heard the sirens and I saw the helicopter lights. I think you pulled the entire police force away from their posts to chase after you. You are such a devil."

"I'm the devil you know and love," said Samuel, pushing his pelvis into his wife's body. He planted an enthusiastic kiss on her lips. Desire raged like a fire inside Samuel's loins...

"Yet another myth, of which they abound... coffins and wood spikes and garlic cloves and coming out only at night, all nonsense, as though being blessed with immortality could be defiled by sunlight, nor do I have to subject myself to sleeping in the cramped quarters of a coffin. I do not sleep one wink, in truth. I meditate, which is as close to slumber as I come.

Myths perpetuated in pop culture are generally wrong, such as the demonstrative symbol dating back to Roman times when emperors executed Christians, criminals or gladiators... a thumb pointed upright in fact meant death, whereas a thumb pointed downward signified a sword being sheathed into the ground but of course the belief has been incorrectly re-used in film. It gives me a laugh... these enduring myths are far older than me," said Sir William.

"You don't sleep at all?" she asked.

"Never," he replied.

"Ever?" she asked again.

"You don't dream then," she surmised.

"Dreams I miss, I must confess. And what of your dreams?" he inquired.

"My dreams have crazy patters. I can't figure them out at all."

"You lose your shoes or purse quite a lot, do you not?" he asked.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Instinct," replied Sir William.

In that small passage of time, when she bit into chocolate and opened her mouth to describe to Sir William the joyous sensations within her, he leaned in and kissed her. He pressed himself hard against her, forcing the compression of his body to hers, not allowing her to pull back, and pushing her to the wall. His hand brushed across and rubbed one nipple ever so slightly. Into her mouth went his tongue to taste hers, covered in chocolate, sweet with flavour. He felt the intensity of her emotions overcome her; she did not resist his passion. Her body moved into his and opened as a pear would split to a sharp blade. And when her breath stopped short and he sensed she was near to passing out, he scooped up her light frame and brought her to the bed. Every part of his vampire body came alive; his hunger smouldered for her blood, for the taste of her lips, her skin, her armpits, her thighs, to explore and taste every sublime crevice wholly with mouth, eyes and hands. His senses would become one with her body.

Sir William withdrew to throw off his jacket. He stepped out of his trousers and tossed them to the floor. Next came his dress shirt followed by his under garment. His naked body, aroused and ready, remained above Catherine, letting her eyes prey on him, to see and believe that what was happening was actually happening. The man who would seduce her with his mere presence would change her life forever, as only a master could with a weapon of power.

Catherine lay before him with chocolate on her lips, her gaze focused on him. She wanted what every young lady wanted but was raised to refuse until marriage. She would take him into her deeply and completely, until all logical sense would cease to exist. She wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him, from toe to head, from lips to breast, from bum to...

He didn't have to touch her

to know her thighs were as smooth

as the hour long.

He didn't have to feel her skin,

to know his grasp would slip

in his hands

holding her firmly

he needed only,

to stroke her hair once,

its length longer than his fingers

wanting the nape of her neck,

he knew her.

The unusual choice of time ideally suits an unencumbered stroll in the enclave as the lazy streets roll up past the darker stage of twilight. And the windows and doors shut and lock and the very few, the few who walk alone are unaware of what fate awaits. Nighttime is the cloak shrouding the frightening dream that twists the day of sun and cloud into a disguised form of incubus, the ancient demon who extracts purity from between sumptuous, plump thighs and suffocating the cries of objection. Nighttime absorbs and swallows the life-giving sustenance. For at night, when all should be safe at home, anything and everything is possible, the least is unimaginable and few know enough to remain indoors.

Yet, he is entirely at ease during daytime and while his preference is for night roaming, in light he is calm and reserved for the unraveling of his eternal being moves in any sphere of time and space. He delights in the irony, knowing that she sleeps during the day in the rented home he had selected so very close to her own -- she sleeps next door.

Sir William's steps are characteristically silent and smooth. He moves in Sandy Hill, walking south on Chapel Street, and then onto Stewart before arriving at Augusta and Wilbrod. He begins his surveillance of blood potential.

It has been days since feeding and his hunger is intense but he utilizes a developed defence mechanism for quelling his desire without expending unnecessary effort; his mind produces detailed imagery of plates of solid foods, to satisfy the rabid lust of one-hundred men. He wants to feed before he speaks at length with Magdalene, before he leads her to enlightenment by revealing her ultimate purpose. He estimates there is less than two years remaining in the remarkable period of time that is his life, once the new offspring is thriving, born from the love of his hybrid son and human wife.

I stand knee-deep in water

so cold, and fall even lower

than imaginable, below the ground

where dreams are no longer believable.

I only want his body to take me home,

to show me the way, to needing,

to knowing that I want no other man,

to come inside me.

I tell him everything,

when the cock strikes havoc

around midnight.

I reveal to you

my nature and secrets

when you listen quietly

I tell you what I mean

when the blood is pumped into my veins.

I pursue your heart

and fall toward the day.

When last it arrives,

first to tremble

is the morning grass.

Where else will logic lead you to,

in my haunted cave, wet?

Will you paint your likeness

on my walls?

Magdalene believed if she had lived during the early years of Picasso she would have shamelessly offered her body to him as a model, a lover, a harlot, to share one kiss, a warm embrace, to copulate into late night until sun shattered the silence of naked morning.

Her train of thought was broken by a prominent man behind her who smelled intoxicating. Her nose deceived her. At first, she believed he smelled of cut grass, distinct and oddly alluring. She turned and locked eyes with his thousand-yard stare. He had at least five inches in height on her.

Instantly, she turned away and moved on to Between the Years covering Picasso's surrealistic period, the Graphic Alcove, the Garden of Delights, Mythologies: From the Centaur to the Minotaur. Magdalene was aroused by the images of the Minotaur over powering and ravaging women.

She saw herself in the images.

Samuel was alone. He hadn't anticipated the huge line-up and wished that he had come later in the day when the crowds would thin out. He was determined to see each pencil sketch as closely as possible. His height afforded him with the ability to gaze over the heads of those around. He watched with amusement as one particular, outstanding woman pushed with intensity and determination, moving her body into the crowd, inching closer, until it seemed that her nose would touch the glass. She was lost and enthralled in a five-minute examination of each sketch. Stepping into her, he smelled an unexpected scent he couldn't place his finger on, a subtle, bitter spice that reminded him of frankincense.

Her hair fell past her shoulders. The warm weather of Montreal had frizzed and curled the ends.

Magdalene: Even the smell of fruit made me salivate. I had taken a fresh kill in the morning and already my stomach growled. Sir William, at the height of his powers, could drain multiple women in one day. With my newly inherited memories, I brought up one particular memory of Sir William living in a cave, surrounded by dead and drained naked women, bodies strewn everywhere, their necks punctured and faces blue, absent of any life. Sir William had gorged himself until his stomach bloated round. I didn't know why he was forced to hide in a cave. I only knew he had escaped a hoard of angry men with clubs and pitchforks, hunting him down like a werewolf. But despite the death around him, the women offered themselves to him like sacrificial lambs. And one by one, they fell at his feet, worshiping his dark nature.

The very thought of such a scene of debauchery made me tingle. I was ready for more blood.

"All we know from his letter," I said to Kevin, "Is that Sir William wants us to visit this particular pub, which will apparently bring us to an extraordinary find, the likes of which have not been known by anyone in all of humanity."

"Fuck!" said Derek, "That sounds fucking ominous," he finished.

Auntie cuffed Derek on the head and he laughed in reaction. "I'm going to take the boot to that rear if you don't clean up that mouth."

"Yeah," mocked Kevin, "What kind of example is your setting for Finn?" he said, intentionally using 'is' instead of 'are'.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" mimicked Finn, excited about his new word.