Free Eternal Darkness, Blood King by Gadriel Demartinos Page A

“Perhaps.”
     
    His answer made me smile. I liked to see him reclaim some respect, even if he had no ground on which to stand strong. Then he tried again to reach for my thoughts. That was Frank, always a bastard.
     
    “Stop trying to read my thoughts, old wizard.” I said, letting him know that his efforts were futile, again.
     
    “Isn’t that what you do with mine?” He replied.
     
    “There’s a presence that I have been feeling lately.” I began to explain.
     
    The old man reached for the scotch bottle.
     
    “¿Uno de los tuyos?” he asked. “One of yours?”
     
    “No, this is a presence like nothing I have felt before.” I said, walking toward him.
     
    Suddenly, I wanted a taste of his blood. I stopped next to him, grabbed his left arm, and made a thin cut on his wrist with my nails. I saw the dark red liquid flowing freely, and I dived into it, swallowing it slowly, savoring it. I felt the warmth growing in the center of my chest. My heart started to beat faster, stronger. The euphoria began to build up, and I knew had to stop, or I would kill him. I felt his pleasure in the small pain I caused him. His mind opened for me, and I saw disturbing images of death and pain, children screaming pleading for their lives, human flesh being eaten by the one I was feeding from. I walked away, torn between the taste of life and the sickness provoked by all the mental images I had access to.
     
    “¡Oh monstruo!” I said out loud. “Oh, you monster! The things you have done to so many of them!”
     
    I closed my eyes, trying to clear my own thoughts; and when I opened them, the old man was holding a handkerchief against the cut on his wrist, looking at me in silence.
     
    “I need you to scan this presence.” I said.
     
    “What makes you believe this is a spirit?” He asked.
     
    I considered my answer for a moment.
     
    “I don’t know, but once you begin hearing strange voices, my guess is that it’s time to try a different approach.” I said, realizing that I was thinking out loud more than replying to his question.
     
    The old man looked at me in silence for a moment, trying to read me.
     
    “I hope you can guess my name.” I said with a smile.
     
    “I beg your pardon?” Frank said.
     
    “You were trying to read my thoughts, trying to find out what the voice said. Well, it said,” ‘I hope you can guess my name.’ I added.
     
    The old man shook his head in disapproval. “I hate it when you read my mind,” he confessed, grabbing his pen and writing something down in his notebook. “How do you feel when you are in his presence?” He then asked me.
     
    “I can’t say because I have never been in front of it. But when I feel it, my arms and legs get numb; and out of the blue, I feel weak.” I said, trying to be as honest as possible.
     
    Frank stopped writing and looked up. “Weak? Dizzy?” He asked.
     
    The Sonate reached its climax, making me close my eyes. I was in love with that piece long before Frank was born. It took me to a different time, a specific place—to her, when we were us, when eternal life was bliss. Eternal life was Kamille.
     
    “Amo esta pieza,” I said out loud, letting myself get carried away by the violins. “I love this piece.”
     
    “Perhaps you’re coming down with something, or perhaps you’re losing your mind.” Frank said, breaking the magic of the moment forever.
     
    I opened my eyes and looked at him with a severe expression on my face. “Don’t be ridiculous, old man. I don’t get sick.” I said.
     
    “How long since you have been feeling this presence?” Frank asked, continuing his interrogation.
     
    “Months. But in the last several weeks, I have been feeling it growing stronger, closer.” I explained.
     
    The old man put the pen down on the table and reached for his scotch.
     
    “There are entities—spirits or demons, if you will. Sometimes they get reckless. Other times, they’re sent by others for a