There's a certain coldness I've noticed in this story. Got an idea where it's coming from; just don't know if it's counter-productive, but it's worked its way into the narrative. And is staying. This is the prelude before Léonidès sees the young cuirassier, who actually becomes the Prussian in the story.
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I sensed him before I saw him.
Felt him drawing me to him, silent in his demand.
Unquestionable.
Insistent as a stunning need welled up within and softly entwined itself around my neck, as one would a rope on a dog. It led me along a winding, rutted country lane in the east of France, twisting and curving through an area of forest thick with shadows. Dashes of sunlight barely sliced through the quiet gloom. This new demand upon my very being...this quiet scream that I must continue on this path despite the mud and horse shit and filth that layered it far too much...I could not have ignored it had I even wanted to.
Being a Blood Angel instead of a mere vampire, the sun mattered little to me. I could walk freely through the height of day with minimal discomfort, with even that minor issue cast aside by a fine hat and long cloak...or coat. Frock coat, to be precise. It being 1870, one should use the proper vernacular, and I prided myself on keeping up with the times...and fashion.
I cut a fine, healthy figure in a waistcoat and trousers, without pleats, done in the ditto style using a simple brushed wool. Plain white shirt with a pressed collar. Good walking boots. Were a bowler on my head instead of a wide-brim country hat, I could have been walking down the Champs-Elysées instead of a road near Mars-la-Tour.
It was late in the day, when the air grows soft and gentle and the world begins to settle. When peace tries to make herself known, even in the face of the best efforts of mankind. I was being drawn down this path by something far more demanding than mere hunger. That had been well-satiated not an hour earlier, thanks to a strong young man who had been in the process of deserting the Prussian forces. His face had been pleasant enough; his shoulders broad; chest full and dashed with hair; a fine form down to his hips, which were a bit wide; a belly trim but not flat. But also a nice round ass and solid legs promised to feed the needs of my dick as well as my belly, and seeing he had murdered an unwary peasant so he could swap the man's clothing with his own ragged uniform had merely sealed the deal.
That may seem odd, coming from one such as myself, but it had become my most sacred rule -- feed only on those deserving of punishment. Thieves. Murderers. Maniacal soldiers caught by bloodlust in the midst of a war or occupation of a populace. Those who would not be missed or whose absence could easily be explained away. We lived in a time where the regard for human life was at a minimum, so there was always some conflict underway where one could forage.
This rule also applied to my pack, all of whom were only vampires. And all of them male, thanks to the predilection of their maker. Six young men turned to be his companions over the course of a few centuries, all taken while still young and handsome. All focused on sexual encounters with other males. All kept hidden in his monastery. That I removed them from his limited sphere of influence was my first positive act.
Over the last eight-hundred years, we had been nothing but a troupe of seven young men traveling about the land. Hardly considered unusual. Especially as we were well-dressed, well-mannered, and most important of all -- well-monied. Gold in hand always brings forth the most proper of manners, even amongst inn-keepers...as well as men who foolishly thought they could remove it from us, along with our lives. Which gave us plenty to quietly feed upon, so no need to cause trouble or raise suspicion.
This made us an anomaly in the vampire world. Prevailing gossip had determined I was either the leader of a small sect, or a Padishah with his male concubines. Odd creatures unwilling to be proper monsters like they. I didn't care. All that mattered was the protection of my clan, and for these centuries we had passed through Europe unmolested while others had been caught out and destroyed by those they fed upon. Even the Oyim, the leaders of our kind, had come to see my care and caution made far more sense than feasting like wild animals.
The soldier who became my meal, that evening, was Helffing. I think that was his surname, but in these times, one could never be certain. He had just finished pulling on the dead man's pantaloons, which were nice and tight on him. When he squatted over the peasant's body the pantaloons scooted halfway off his ass, showing hair swirled across its cheeks and there was a tuft of it at the base of his spine. He was shoving the peasant into his Prussian uniform, which was odd. The dead man had been at least twice his age, with streaks of white hair across his head and around his chin, and much thinner. Also, his left leg was malformed and a crutch of a sort lay close by. On top of this, the way his head rolled on the dirt and how his clouded eyes stared up at the sky told me Helffing had snuck up and broken his neck, despite having a sharp-looking knife strapped to his belt. It would have been much easier to slit the old man's throat or stab him...
Oh, but Léonidès, think; this way there is no blood on his clothing. That was almost clever, though no one would believe for a moment that the dead man had been a Prussian soldier.
But then I noticed a tangle of sticks and twigs close by. The old man apparently had been gathering them. Did Helffing plan to put the body on it and set the wood alight? Most of it was green and wet, so that would be very difficult to do.
He rose to a crouch and began striking his flint, aiming the sparks against his old uniform. The material soon caught alight. He crouched over more to blow on it, revealing more of his ass, then a small flame danced up. He shifted the branches and twigs and wood to atop that. They began to crackle and burn.
Well...that's one way to hide a body. Destroy it. I had done that so many times, myself, when no other option was available. Helffing seemed to have had practice at this...except he kept his boots. Worn as they were, they had still once been well-made. Not smart; you could be accused of robbing corpses, my lad, and hanged.
Finally, he rose to his full height and I smiled. He struck a powerful figure. Stocky. Solid. Healthy. From his shoulders to his hips and that round ass still slightly revealed under the pantaloons. Except for a ragged beard, he was exactly what I wanted...and not merely to feast upon.
So I jumped him, from behind.
