From the stone bowels of Chateau de Chenonceaux a red mist seeps unnoticed into the night. Propelled by a gentle western breeze the crimson vapor floats across the French countryside, formless, but not mindless, for the mist is more than a macabre scarlet fog, much more. It has a will, and it has a name … and it has a hunger…….

The mist seeks warmth – not the warmth of a fire, or a running engine, but the warmth of a living soul and hot, life giving blood. As it passes
through a rural villa it feels such warmth and is irresistibly drawn to it.
The mist changes course; though still subject to the wind, its hunger will
not, indeed cannot, be denied.

***
Jean-Paul Goeddal struggled with his insomnia. All night he had lain awake, unable to sleep, and yet too tired to do anything productive. He needed a satellite television hook up so he could watch anything, anytime, like those damn Americans. In the dark silence of the night he had lost track of time and now wondered what hour it was. Of course, while he did wonder, he also feared knowing. If it was 1, or even 2, perhaps there was still hope of getting some rest. But what if it was 3 or 4? No hope. He would be tired the entire next day, a walking zombie.

Carefully, he rolled over just enough to make sure his plump wife was sound asleep – she was, so he rolled the other way and gently slipped out of bed. If he could not sleep, he could at least eat.

He made his way to the kitchen as silently as possible. No reason to wake the kids. Once one was awake, all four would be screaming with in minutes. He smiled to himself. Four kids. So much work. So much noise. So much chaos.

So much love.

He was still smiling as he opened the door of the refrigerator, pulled out
the left over venison, and then retrieved a carving knife from the rack. He was still smiling as he carved off a piece of gamy tasting meat and began to eat. He was still smiling as the red mist seeped along the floor behind him.

The more he ate, the hungrier he became. Strange. He kept eating but the craving only got worse. He looked down at the venison, almost all gone now. He wished it had been a bit rarer. Maybe even a lot rarer. Maybe even bloody.

A thought crossed his mind. A strange thought. A disturbing thought. He tried to shake it off, but it nagged at him, called to him, kicked in the
doors of his mind. Though the battle was fought in his head, the struggle
could be seen in his face. A smile, a frown, a smile, a look of shock, a
smile, a gape of fear, a smile, wide-eyed terror…..and then – just a smile.

Jean-Paul Goeddal was still smiling even after all four of his children were
dead. He was still smiling even after he had eviscerated his plump wife,
solving her weight problem once and for all. He was still smiling as the
red mist soaked up all the blood he spilled with that carving knife and
thickened into a gory scarlet rain cloud following the grinning madman
through the abattoir that had been his home only moments before.

Jean-Paul Goeddal only stopped smiling when that murderous mist released his mind just long enough for him to know what he had done and soak up the despair, the fear, the horror that shot through his soul – and then the mist consumed his vitae. It was a mercy. The only one the mist’s hunger would allow the Goeddals, and then only after it had satiated itself with their blood and their lives.

The Gendarmes would later rule the affair a murder-suicide. Family and
friends would never understand and the tragedy would pre-occupy the locals for years to come. Though a thousand theories would be advanced, and a thousand rumors told, none could ever truly explain why 44 year old Jean-Paul Goeddal slew his wife and children with a carving knife. Many claimed to understand, to see the unstable character or desperate straits Jean-Paul must have been in to do such a thing, but none saw the truth.

None saw the truth because none were there when the red mist, fortified with the blood of the Goeddals, coalesced. None were there as a form took shape on that dark, bloody night. None saw the lithe, perfectly formed female step from the unholy red rain like some sanguinary priestess from hell. The form was of common height, but of truly uncommon appearance. Her skin was as white as alabaster, and infinitely harder. Her long hair was jet black, and though streaked with blood, it shined like silk. Firm, round breasts swayed from a body that should have only existed in a sexual fantasy. The delicate features of her face, enhanced by her unnatural state, were incomparable.

None saw her form from the mist and none saw as she slowly raised her head for the first time in years. None saw those perfect, beautiful eyelids
withdraw to reveal two eyes as black as the pits of hell.

***

The form, the woman, knew she had a name. In her mind, a door to the past opened. Through it, she saw pyramids, forests, a great river, a great man, a god and a betrayal. Her black eyes turned green as she remembered that past. But this memory was too painful, too horrifying to allow back into her concious mind. She slammed the mental door shut with all her might even as the red-bearded man of her past slowly turned his eye towards her.

As one door closed, another opened. Behind this one was a life here, in
Europe. A past spent in the Alsace. A present spent in England. York,
where once she remembered she was Prince. Names and faces came. D’Arcson, Rhiannon, Valek, and others. Another. A face framed by red hair – a thrall, a mistress, a friend and her own murderer. A name? Eve perhaps? Eveshka?

Behind this door lay an identity, and she would take it – she would become Michelle Du Claire again, a vampire of the Ventrue, from the 17th century. With this life came much memory, of rape, of torture, of death – but also of love, power and, perhaps, happiness. Most importantly, it would allow her to bar that other door and keep it from opening. It would allow her to forget who she really was.

Even as she licked the blood off of her milky white skin she locked herself into this identity, into Michelle Du Claire. Mental locks, gates and bars dropped in self-protection across the door that lay to the memories of the red-bearded man, the deserts and a fate too horrible to recall. Her green eyes now changed to the blue of the ocean, and like the ocean, those eyes were breathtakingly beautiful, unfathomably deep …and as cold as death.

She shook it off. She had to go, find someplace to rest before dawn or use the earth. Either way, she was in no condition to see the sun’s light and feel its deadly kiss. She would need to find those that she had once traveled this unlife with again. Without another thought for the Goeddals, she turned and fled into the night.

***
On another continent, a swarthy, handsome man with dark curly hair winced in pain and almost fell from his café chair as he sipped his espresso. His companion, another swarthy man, though less handsome, man was so shocked he dropped his own coffee. Reaching across the café table, he gripped his handsome friend’s hand.

“What? What is it?”

The handsome man, now almost pale, looked back, a look of surprise on his own face. “She is back” he said, his surprise obvious in his tone.

The other man furrowed his brow. “Who? Who is back?”

The handsome man recovered himself, sat upright, looked his friend in the eye and answered.

“Kementiri”.