The Vampire Sands and the Blood Brotherhood A continuing story by KazrenElf and Roosterroo What if Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was a vampire?

Sands Night1. It's a great night to be out. Kind of just what the doctor ordered really. For me. Halloween. Almost perfect, too. Full moon. Ragged clouds. If it wasn't for the fucking werewolves, it would be perfect. Then again, maybe they make it perfect. If they weren't here, I'd only have humans to hunt. What sort of fun is that?

When the wind rips down the concrete canyons, it feels almost like home in my old world of upper state New York a good four hundred years ago. Forests. Trees. That was then. Stony spires reaching to snag that big fat moon. That's now. And now is good.

I'm carrying tonight. Not the old stuff. No, the new liquid bullets. Silver nitrate or something the Blood Brotherhood thought up. I like to see them rip into a werewolve's furry hide and hear him shriek. Usually, I'm not the one pulling the trigger. I just arrange things then observe the pieces falling into place. But lately I've had a taste for the hunt myself. I enjoy sticking a pointed silver rod up ole wolfie's ass, just like the next guy. Good old Vlad, he had it right. Impale the motherfuckers.

Some of the young ones think 'cause I talk a lot that there's nothing between the ears. Let them think. It's part of my game. Most nights, I seem to play it all by myself. Tonight is not just most nights, though, is it? Tonight we're doing chess moves on the board of the city. Classic pincher. No cheating. On the clock. Trick or treat.

Here doggyboy.

They thought they got me in Mexico. They haven't read Stoker. We don't die in sunlight, crap, we just don't like it much. And we regenerate. Those dickheads who blinded me were surpassed when I haunted them, hunted them, paid them back. They don't regenerate. That's what makes life good. Plain, simple revenge. Eye for an eye. Literally.

I can smell the werewolves. They have a distinctive odor. Just like humans. It's easy to tell them apart. And they breathe different, too. You'd think the humans would smell them or notice how they breathe, but no. The wolvers move in their midst and are none the wiser. Poor dumb bastards.

My life's biggest joke has been the CIA. The stupid fuckheads didn't seem to notice I never grew older. Well, I don't have to play that game anymore. They think I died back in ole Mexico. Let them. I can play now. Hunt myself a werewolf or two. I'll drink werewolf blood tonight. That always pleases.

One of my co-hunters tonight is Stella. I know she'll get all sorts of high from the kill tonight and that will make her horny. Like she's not horny half the time. She's been dropping hints since my eyes grew back that she wanted to ride me. She's a young one, turned only a few years ago. She doesn't know about the stamina of those of us with a few hundred years under our belts. I think she's already heard about the List. Yeah, even vampires have lists about who has the biggest dick. I'm on it. She knows it. Tonight we play.

But first the hunt. Come on little werefuck. I'm ready. Always ready.

Victoria Night 1 The music echoed across Carnegie Hall. La Traviotta. I love this one. I looked through my opera glasses at the Tenor on stage and then scan the audience. The elite of the city are here this evening for the opening of the season. The blue hired women in their gowns and jewels, their pompous husbands who can't wait for the intermission so that they might be able to conduct a little business; barbarians. I hate them. Then there are the young ones who cast flirtatious glances at one another and preen like birds to attract attention. I don't have to preen. That hasn't changed in all these years the dance is still the same even if the cast of characters are constantly shifting.

The young man at my side doesn't know what I am, he thinks he is just lucky to have scored a ticket to opening night and to be seated in a private box next to a beautiful woman. I can smell the desire on him. This will be easy. Occasionally I glance his way and give a nod of approval for the performance. He smiles back, a little too much perhaps. I flutter my eyes and return my attentions to the performers. The Aria is about to begin. I let my fingers brush my neck, a dreamy look in my eyes as a listen to the woman on stage. The man next to me is watching I pretend to drop my playbill. I reach for it the same time that he does. Our hands brush. I let him touch me. I hear his heart beat. I smell the blood in his veins. Oh, how I love the hunt!

The opera is over and the young man asks if I would like to go for a drink, to become better acquainted. He knows a nice quiet restaurant on the upper east side. I agree and he escorts me down to the street level where we wait for a cab among the other opera patrons. He says his name is Charles Spencer and then asks my name. He is handsome for a mortal. But then any man looks a thousand times better in a tuxedo. I miss those days when all the men were so elegantly attired. now it's just blue jeans and t- shirts. "Victoria, Victoria Dupree." I reply softly. He offers me his arm while we wait. It is then I smell him. One of my kind is near by. He to is hunting, only in very different way. Perhaps he is hunting the humans, perhaps he is hunting the wolves. I don't smell there kind here. I look around slowly, I wonder if I know him.


I causally look around, remember to be interested in the insipid remarks my young admirer is making. There he is. He is very modern, he inclines his head to me, and I in turn exchange the same grace to him with a faint smile. The cab pulls up and Charles Spenser opens the door for me to enter. I step into the cab and he follows, informing our driver of our intended location. I think it is going to rain. Good I love the rain.

We are at is apartment now. It is nearly dawn so I must go. I reach for the ascot in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

"Thank you, for an enchanting evening Charles." I dab the corner of my lips with the small piece of white silk. His dead eyes look back at me. I smile and go.


Sands Night 2 My feet take me back to Carnegie. Tonight is the last performance of La Triviotta. I am across the street, on the roof, watching the Hall. The wind is up again. Though I don't really feel the cold, the thermometer in Times Square said it was almost freezing. For effect, and to look cool, I wear a long black leather coat I took off the body of a German tourist. He was hitting on me. Imagine that. Give the boy a cigar for stupid.

I sense werewolves not far away. I can't tell which ones from up here. They're mixing in with the humans. Desert mixing in with the main course.

I sense her. She's nearby. I stare down, looking, searching. My vision focuses in on her. She stands out. Why can't the dumb humans see that she doesn't move like one of them? Hers is a dance. They stumble in their short-lived clumsiness. Time to party.

Victoria Night 2 I couldn't sleep. That vampire was in my thoughts. Who was he? A hunter? He appeared as much. Perhaps he will return to the opera, it is afterall the last night of La Traviotta. I step out of the cab, in a swirl of silk and pull my fur about my shoulders to simulate that I am cold. I can't feel a thing actually. The street is crowded this evening. So many humans, and wolves too? An elderly couple bids me good evening and I incline my head to them.

He's here. Slowly I turn. He is very close, but where? The lights dim and then return to full brightness. A clue for the patrons to move inside and begin to find their seats.

Sands Night 2 The fastest way down is almost like flying, my black coat trailing out behind me. I land and go into a crouch. Then I'm up and moving faster than humans can follow. Across the street. Dashing through the slow- moving cabs. A blur to most of them. I have to get to her side. She's already gone into the building.

A man holds the door for a woman. Thanks, bud. I slip inside and move by instinct. By scent. She is there, near the doors. Hesitating. She knows I'm here. Slowly she turns to face me. Her skin is pearl-pale. Her gaze rakes over me. I like it. She's tall, not as tall as me, but tall. Or maybe it's the heels. I circle around and her eyes follow my trail.

When approaching another vampire, it's always safe t assume she's dangerous. Like another C.I.A. Agent. Like a well-armed Mexican whore. The silk. The jewels. The elegance is what tries to fool the eye. I must not lower my defenses just because she's gorgeous enough to stop a train. Stop a vampire.

I'm glad I wore a turtleneck tonight. One more layer to take off if things go right. Sheldon Jeffrey Sands zeroes in. I stand, looking innocent. I know they always think I look innocent. Just like a cobra.

Victoria 2: I enter slowly giving the vampire a chance to find me. I know he is near, i feel it in my blood. We can all feel the presence of one another. Sometimes the connection is very intense. I linger by the entrance hoping for at least a glance before taking my usual seat. A small gust of wind blows in through the door. The patrons shiver and comment on winters' hastening approach. I know it's not the wind. He's here and he's bold. I like that.

He circles around me slowly, as if I am his prey. A faint smile emerges; I am. He's giving me a chance to see him, to smell him. He's taller than I and his hair flows around his face and shoulders, like something from one of Botticelli's's paintings. I stand still allowing him the same courtesy. I hold the fur about my form and then allow it to slip exposing my neck and shoulders to him.

"Good evening," I say seductively. One of the ushers comes forward.

"Excuse me miss. Last call for your seats. If you don't go now, you'll have to wait an hour until the intermission." He is uneasy, he knows he is interrupting something between the two of us.

I turn my eyes back to the vampire in the black leather coat.

Sands 2: The question is, who is seducing whom here. I see her. I want her, but I don't know her. With her coloring she might be one of the Enemy. One of the Vascendi clan. Or a von Strom. Caution comes first, though my mouth waters at the sight of her. Sleek. Classy. Skin like satin, I imagine. And I can imagine what she might taste like, too.

Too late to put on my shy act. I smile back at her, imagining what she'll look like with the fur beneath her and the dress lost somewhere.

Training kicks in. Survival instinct and all that. Look at her rings, anything that will tell me her clan. Friend or foe, baby. What are you?

I haven't even heard her voice yet. I wonder what it sounds like. And her speech, is it accented? Curiosity can kill. I've learned patience. Especially after Mexico. Especially after Ajedrez. The bitch. Just the thought of her cools my libido. It's hard to get horney when someone's drilling your eyes out.

I have to force that memory out of my mind. It makes me crazy. Crazier. Fuck, this woman is beautiful. I want to play. I want to take a chance. Does she?

I move toward the door, pause and look back inviting her to follow. Now the ball's in her court.

Victoria 2: He's inviting me to follow. I've seen Traviotta before. Why not?

I nod my head and let my eyes speak for me. I hesitate once outside the door and raise my hand in a motion for him to wait. I saunter over to the stand-by line where the impatience wait and wonder if they'll ever be let in. I hand my ticket to a well dressed gentleman. He is surprised and thanks me profusely as he rushes inside the door. I turn hoping the hunter will still be there. I know he will be, something about the way he looks at me. Those dark, boyish eyes. Tempting, very tempting. The leather coat fits him well, not my style but good for him. I look him over carefully trying to see if he is one of my own, but he doesn't wear any symbol of his allegiance. That's smart, neither do I.

I walk over to him, the silk gently swaying with each step. "Where shall we go from here?" I asked formally a little bit of my old life slips through with the words. That sweet mixture of English sprinkled with those gentle Arcadian tones. Under the strong light of the marquee we can see each other more clearly. I run a hand against the side of my head, checking to see that my carefully up swept hair is still in place. I must be careful, you can never tell when you meet our kind what our intentions might be, he may wish to slit my throat and drink me dry for all I know. Then again he probably is wondering the same thing about me. Let's see where he takes this.

Sands 2: She knows she's beautiful. Her eyes are a very unusual shade of green. Pure. Emerald. She's got the coloring of a Celt. She raises a hand, signaling for me to wait. What's she up to?

I cast a cautious look around the city street. I don't sense others of our kind. Nowhere close, anyway. I like the way she moves. She's got the moves of a ballerina.

I wonder why she gave her ticket away. Was there some meaning? Or perhaps the human was a friend? Some of us have human friends. And lovers. When we can control ourselves. It took me years of practice. Practice makes perfect.

She turns to look at me again. I have to smile for her. On cue. I know my part. They all judge the book by its cover. This cover has no words, only leather. If she doesn't give the game away, I won't. I flash her a quick smile. Our eyes lock. We're both careful. She's smart. I watch her approach, wondering what it feels like to run my fingers through her hair. To pull those pins out. To help her out of that very fashionable dress. Not that I know much about fashion these days.

I'm still not sure about her. There's a touch of something foreign in her accent. A hint of Greek? I can't quite place it. I still don't know if she's friend or foe, but all the signs are . . . interesting.

"Why don't we take a walk?" I suggest. To show I have no intentions of harming her - at least until I know which clan she's with - I shove my hands in my coat pockets. Oh, I've got a big gun in the right one. I almost forgot. My werewolf special. I like guns. One can never have enough guns.

"So you like Opera?" I ask. Great opening line, shithead. Now I am embarrassed. I'm such a fuckup. I look down at my feet as we begin to walk, hoping my hair hides my chagrin.