Free The Violet Hour by C.K. Farrell Page B

desperately seeking castigation for all the lives he took, for all the innocence he plundered, for all the honour he poached, for all the dignity he raided, and for all the mirthful pleasure he took in doing such acts. Nathaniel was thoroughly glad that the morbid well of iniquity that he so often pulled from in the past was after running dry, leaving the dark side of his soul as empty and fruitless as a dust bowl.
    Nathaniel was as much one of them as he wasn’t. He was stuck betwixt and between both worlds and he could do nothing to change that fact. He was a vampyre suffering from divergent thinking on an immeasurable scale. One of the main reasons as to how Nathaniel had survived so long unscathed in a dæmonical milieu that has gone (and continues to go) unseen by a majority of its living and breathing inhabitants who walk the Earth was because of both his viciousness and his scruples. The latter was the foremost cause as to why he was unable to truly enjoy the life of the immortal and puissant Vampyre . But to last as long as he without being terminated by a fellow comrade in darkness (or worse, meet the sharp end of a dæmon hunter’s weapon) took cunning, guile, and at times, a cutthroat mentality.
    Within and without the tavern Nathaniel was highly respected, in addition to being highly feared among his fellow soldiers of gloom. He had a reputation that preceded him. Nathaniel was a living (well, un-living) legend amongst a breed that had a rather quick turnover. He was seen as a shadowy knight — an antihero of mythic proportions who gaily painted victories with the spilt blood of the runner-ups.
    Some of his past battles and dastardly deeds were marvelled upon and much celebrated within the vampyre community, and as a result he had carved his name into the lore of the wicked. His past thirst for destruction and obliteration made him a standard-bearer for all others of his genre. But in spite of all that, Nathaniel did not view those bloody times as his halcyon days in the canon of his roving existence. Instead, he saw them a necessary evil along the scorched, serpentine road to tribulation—his very own Via Dolorosa.
    Yet still, the remnants of humanity and the shards of empathy that remained within him, that refused to give up the good fight, cloaked his sinful achievements in a silken fabric of remorse. It was a feeling that no other vampyre he knew of had to endure. Nathaniel was genuinely rueful about all he had done, but that was his secret that nobody else knew, especially none of the sycophants and die-hard admirers who he nightly dined amongst. They all would steal glances at their idol, but dared not be bold enough to approach the great man’s table, and especially never dared to cast aspersions on his allegiance to evil. To be in his retinue would be but a dream for any of them, but Nathaniel was the type of potentate vampyre who liked to fly solo. He refused any sort of entourage outright.
    In recent years, Nathaniel discovered that he could no longer ignore the sharp pangs of guilt. His eternal hangover (a result of a little bit too much heartache followed by a series of sorrow chasers) that he was suffering from seemed to have no intentions whatsoever of relinquishing its unyielding grip on his soul. But Nathaniel needed such a pain to let him know that he was still alive, per se. It made him hopeful that he could one day fully overcome the quelled darkness that resided inside him, and perchance atone for all the sins that he had committed during his omnibus of terror that some others would call a charmed afterlife.
    Unsuccessful fearless and fearsome missions to liberate his soul from behind the barbwire fences of his dæmonic internment camp had become the norm. But no matter how much he tried, Nathaniel found his efforts were in vain and ultimately futile. He was an auxiliary member of The Lonely Hearts Club Band and wore a crown of thorns for his troubles. Even so, he wasn’t ready to kiss the