* * * *

..I will survive this..

..I cannot die now..

..God, let me live..

..Please?.

Only an hour earlier, Malachi had never thought to use the word 'please' in any way, shape or form. He was twenty-one and the eldest son, though not the eldest child, of a very rich landowner. Having lived rather a cosseted life, the word 'please' just did not feature in his vocabulary.

Neither did the word 'God,' at least, not in his home and private life. He was an Atheist, though an Atheist in hiding, and it was an unfortunate circumstance then, that his parents were rather vehement Catholics and had named him after a little known Biblical character. His friends often called him on this fact. Even the local priests occasionally indulged themselves in a little comment or two.

On the particular night in which he used these two words, in a few seconds of each other, no less, he had been out celebrating his last night of 'freedom' with his best friend, Thomas. It was also his birthday. Both factors were playing a part in his eventual inebriation at Thomas' hands.

Malachi's father had arranged a marriage that would take place the next morning, between himself and a Lady Maria. He believed his father had done this simply as a means of keeping the family fortune in the family, while also securing that the family name would continue. He also though it was his father way of getting rid of the annoying, embarrassing son and his heretical beliefs. Which was why this was considered the last night of his freedom.

Thomas leaned forward over his drink, attempting to look him in the eye, "She cannot be that bad?"

Malachi gulped down the last of his drink and clunked the tankard back on the table before him, "You have not seen her portrait then? Even though the artist played on her good features, she is still disagreeable to my eye!"

His friend laughed, slopping ale down his chest, "it is not as she looks, your father has already made the arrangements. If I were you, I would rejoice in the knowledge that the artist found any good features at all, as you cannot now escape it!"

Malachi grimaced into his empty tankard for a moment, "Aye. There is no disobeying him."

When the Landlord called last service, Malachi was rather drunkenly denouncing arranged marriages, Lady Maria, his father and anything else that came to mind. Once done, he proclaimed, just as loudly, that he wished for at least one more liaison before his manhood was locked up for good.

He and Thomas left the Inn in far greater spirits than they had entered and, leaning on one another for support, went off in search of prostitutes.

* * * *

A mere two streets round the corner, they found a pair, standing in an alley mouth. Both women were wearing the red sash of their trade and were remarkably clean. One had long black hair, rippling over her shoulders, obscuring most of her face from view, the other seemed to be a shameless blond. Her hair was tied back in one of the fashionable knots favored by half the aristocratic women Malachi had occasionally been forced to meet.

He thought both were a little thin for his tastes, but the ale soon overrode any reservations he had on the subject. In a matter of moments the four of them were walking arm in arm into the shadowy recesses of the alley. Gold crossed hands and disappeared into the folds of linen the women were wearing and Malachi had the dark haired one up against the wall, rather drunkenly attempting to undo his own clothes as she hitched up her skirt.

Glancing briefly over his shoulder, he was reassured to see his friend with the other woman. Being less inebriated, Thomas was already at work, the girl's face burrowed into his neck. Malachi grinned and finally managed to unfasten himself. With a triumphant crow, he set about his business.

She was certainly talented, her hands were quick and nimble, he was ready in moments and then, of course, he was in her and his drunken mind disintegrated into bubbles of ecstasy. Her lips found his neck, and he groaned in pleasure.

After a moment, the pleasure dissipated and he sobered slightly, becoming aware of an uncomfortable, breaking feeling at the side of his neck. A second later, it had gone beyond uncomfortable and was beginning to actually hurt, beginning to get very painful indeed.

He tried to pull away, but prostitute had her arms and legs clamped round him, he staggered backwards, trying to push her away from him, but she wouldn't budge. He slipped, and for a moment it was like he was hanging in the air, only the limbs clamped round him reassuring him anything was real. What felt like millennia later, he landed heavily in a puddle, the weight of the woman pushing all the air from his lungs as his head went momentarily under the filthy water. He choked in his panic, breathing the water and coughing, tasting blood and causing the pain in his neck to intensify.

He struggled, again trying to push her off. Briefly, he managed to lift her and her head was pulled back from him with a terrible wrenching feeling. That was what the pain was! Her teeth were gouged into his flesh and as he pushed her away, she dragged the torn skin with her.

He tried to scream, but his voice wouldn't work, and his mouth filled with foul water. The Prostitute bent back down again, clamping her hands on his shoulders, keeping him pressed against the ground, almost forcing his face under the water again. He couldn't think, the pain, the pain now at his throat was immense, but his hands seemed to know what they were doing and he found that he had his dagger, the new one that his father had given him as an engagement present.

Working purely by instinct, Malachi worked his hand up and struggled once again, trying to throw her off balance. It worked. She reared up, taking half his neck with her and, using all his remaining strength, he plunged the dagger to the hilt in her left shoulder.

For a moment everything was still, and then she laughed. The blood was pouring down her chest, his flesh hanging from her teeth, but she just laughed, a full bodied, deep-throated laugh that sent shivers through his already cooling body.

"Foolish child! Did you truly think you could hurt me? Me?" She laughed again and re-pinned his arms, the blood still coursing down her chest, "But I like your strength, it adds flavor to the blood!" She leaned down again and Malachi felt, with a numbing shock, her teeth in his neck. He could feel his blood draining from his body, could feel his heart beating in his breast, growing louder, pounding harder.

'I will survive this!'

As she pressed against him, his mouth filled with her blood. The dagger was lodged in her shoulder, the wound still open and gushing, gushing right into his dry and choking mouth.

'I cannot die now!'

Fighting the revulsion and refusing to let the darkness envelope him, he simply swallowed, keeping his airway clear for as long as it took for Thomas or some passer by to hear what was going on.

'God, let me live.'

He was becoming desperate, his thinking was fracturing and fading to almost nothing, his body working on pure impulse, continuing to swallow the foul, warm, sticky liquid filling his mouth with every pulse of his attackers own heart. The pain in his neck was beginning to fade; in fact, his entire awareness of his body was fading, almost to nothing. All he had now was the feel of the weight holding him down, the glint of light on the dagger.

'Please?'

Involuntarily, he closed his eyes and was swept into the darkness, no longer able to fight it.

* * * *

Malachi awoke.

He had no idea where he was, had he been saved?

He sat up, realizing with a small jolt that his hands had been crossed on his chest, and smacked his head on solid stone.

"Ow!"

He hunkered down a little, rubbing the top of his head irritably, and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. After a moment he realized he could actually see. It was like the room was lit by a full moon, though he could see no window. Everything was in black a white; it looked almost ghostly. He frowned in confusion.

Slowly, his body began to register something else; there was an overwhelming stench of death in the air and it was not just his nose that told him this. Somehow his whole body was reacting to the realization, his stomach contracting and threatening to heave.

That was when it hit him. He was in the family mausoleum.

Fighting back the bile and in complete shock, he swung his legs off the compartment he had been lying in and dropped the few feet to the floor. He made absolutely no noise without even thinking about it. His body seemed to instinctually know how to move in such a way that he was silent, almost as if it didn't want him to be heard. He heart was racing in fear.

He stood still, trying to calm himself, and looked around. The bodies of his ancestors were arranged neatly around him, each lying in his, or her, own compartment, hands crossed over chest - in some cases inside ribcages.

He knew this place well; he had been here often enough, each time for a member of his immediate family. A younger brother, older sister, his grandfather, one of his uncles; all were lying in here. Why had he been? Surely not some macabre joke? No one in his family had a sense of humor. Perhaps a mistake?

No. His family employed some of the best physicians and alchemists money could buy, the would not mistake him for. Catching his breath, he tried to think.

Only one though kept pervading any explanations he could come up with. It didn't help that the explanations were completely unfounded in the first place. There was no explanation for his being here. None other than.

He had been killed. He had died.

Now he was a live again.

This went completely against everything that he believed, or, to be exact, didn't believe. He did not believe in the supernatural, in God or the Devil, ghosts or spirits, witches or magicians. He had no idea what could have happened to him, how he was back from the dead. Though some memory was beginning to niggle at the back of his mind, a name.

He felt a gnawing in his stomach and realized it had been there the whole time, swamped, at first, by the nausea. It began to spread, and was soon making its way through his limbs, inside his veins. He felt, for a moment, as if he were dying, as if his whole body was starved of something.

He recognised it as a kind of hunger, but he didn't know for what.

Fighting a fear the threatened to overwhelm him, he headed for the door. He couldn't remember whether it opened from the inside or not, but he didn't care, he would force it if he had too; he needed to get out, to know what had happened to him.

He reached the door. It was made of smooth stone, layered with grime that felt slimy under his fingertips as he smoothed them over it. He could probably push this open; all it would take was persistence.

He pressed his shoulder against the stone and began to push.

He stepped back in surprise when the whole thing moved in one go, grinding its way across the floor with a noise that vibrated up his legs. That had been a little too easy.

The memory tugged at his consciousness again and he stopped, dropping to the floor with a low keening wail. It made so much sense now! What that woman had done to him, his waking up here in the dark and cloying, night filled mausoleum.

Vampire.

Oh, God, this couldn't be true! But there was the very evidence, right in front of him, in his gut, in his mouth! His tongue explored and caught on one knife sharp canine, bringing blood to his mouth. He closed his eyes as the blood slid down his throat, bringing such pleasure and satisfaction. He couldn't believe this. But he had to.

He rubbed a hand over his face and stopped, looking at it. His skin was pearly, his nails perfect. He was wearing his best clothes, he now noticed, a sword hanging from his gold-laced belt. His breathing, which had been ragged, calmed and he stood, leaning on the now open door.

This threw all his beliefs to the wind. If this was real, then what of God? What of witches and demons? He couldn't think about it, not now, he had to get away.

He slipped through the door and into the night to live the new life the world had given him.

T.B.C