A tiny droplet of ruby spilled down the victim’s neck. Coursing from the bite wound, it pooled near the shoulder cup where her throat joined her bare body. Dipping a middle finger in the miniature pool, Morgan slid the sticky moistness across her white shoulder drawing a red smudge. He closed his eyes. Her skin was smooth and flawless. He sensed the exciting arousal the vampire encountered sucking life’s blood from her jugular. With eyes still shut, Morgan skimmed his finger back to the two marks under her left jaw.
A sudden dampness surrounded Morgan and he slowly opened his eyes and nodded toward the vapor’s source.
“She was beautiful. Don’t you think, Morgan?” whispered a throaty hidden female in the murky shadow.
“Beautiful and stupid like most unfruitful girls who get close to you,” breathed Morgan venomous. His face was solemn yet his finger still circled on the dead youth’s smooth shoulder, “She was your usual sickness, a ‘virgin’ snack.”
“Now, now, Morgan. You sound so bitter. You need me to survive as much as I needed her,” said the sensuous voice, “Why don’t you get on with it and do your dirty work?”
“You vampire slut. You always enjoy taunting me but you are powerless. All I need is a lock of hair from your poor dead girl,” Morgan replied angrily, “Then I’m safe from you and your curse. If you were extinct, this all would be unnecessary.”
“Hah. You are a curse, Morgan. You are beyond morbid. When I enticed this lovely creature, she was alive. Afterwards, you visit her discarded corpse and consume a trophy from her dead body,” laughed the dark voiced she-creature, “You are even more demented.”
“It’s not cannibalism to dine on a dead woman’s hair, Lamia,” said Morgan tersely to his adversary.
“Listen to your voice, Morgan, eating deceased women’s hair? It’s repulsive. Much worse than cold blood,” the silky voice said, “Sickening. Foul. Do your work, Living Filth.”
Morgan placed a round wooden stake with squared-off sharp tip directly over the dead girl’s expired heart.
“Wait, Morgan, listen closely. Her heart is still alive. It is beating in her bosom,” said the womanly utterance. A young jeweled finger pointed from the darkness at the wood point’s soft target.
“You lie, Trickster,” shouted Morgan.
Morgan’s heavy hammer came smashing down. The stake splintered penetrating the girl’s ribcage and plunged through her throbbing heart. The girl’s eyes and mouth flew open simultaneously. A death shriek permeated the air. She fell back into silent nonexistence.
“I told you she was still alive,” the seductive voice smirked.
Morgan wiped a bloody hand across his beaded forehead. “She was the living dead and you know it. Now leave me or you’re next,” Morgan threatened.
“You won’t scratch me, Morgan. Besides I’ll watch the intimate fashion with which you style her hair before I depart.”
“You sinister cesspool. It is you, Lamia, compelling me to perform this ill ritual to protect myself from your poisonous bite. Someday, I shall destroy you.”
Morgan grasped the girl’s hair with a quick twist around his wrist and unceremoniously chopped it off.
“Morgan, you have no finesse with matters concerning the dead. Your methods are crude and vulgar. Look at the poor thing. A bloody stake in her breast and her mane butchered. You are crass.”
“Go to Hell!” Morgan barked striding off.
“You mean, ‘Until dinner.‘ don’t you?” The Vampiress mocked with a laugh.
Morgan’s footfall echoed and faded away.
Once safely in his concealed palace room, Morgan removed the dead virgin’s hair from his sweaty shirt pocket. He pulled a few dark strands aside. Rolling it around his finger he formed a small loop. Selecting a short thin ribbon, he tied the grisly souvenir into a locket. Opening the lid to an old black leather box, he deposited the little memorial into a tossed sea of wispy wreaths gathered over centuries.
“I’ll defend your memory,” he said stiffly and ritualistically.
The ringlet of hair honored a face, a body, a time, a place, and a feeling. The feeling was sick sadness and grief. Grief for wasted young lives destroyed sustaining one insatiable she-monster: the Dragoness Lamia.
This deceased girl reminded him disturbingly of a green youth named Anchor, an unforgettable special child, he had dragged off all those years ago. He sensed her deep eyes burning into him still. He shuddered. Morgan washed the remainder of the hair. Placing the soft fluff in a dissolving solution, he swished the tepid potion and gulped it. He cringed as his stomach gradually settled. He would continue to fight the destructive Lamia one more day. Yet in Morgan’s night dreams, he tossed restlessly knowing both he and she were devourers dancing to destruction and nothing could stop the morbid music. Save attractive Anchor, his half-sister.