I'm flooded with life. It sweeps through me like liquid flame, searing through weakness, kindling my veins. The blood is storm-heated lightning jolting my body straight into my brain, electrifying me.
I press my mouth deeper into his thigh, careful not to pierce him with my teeth and pump him with my venom. My tongue reaches out, tasting, licking, loving. Pure pleasure floods me.
The tug of life comes. The final tether holding a soul to the world lies on the tip of my tongue. One long pull and I would hold it in my mouth and swallow to be reborn again.
It is the source.
The life force.
Immortality.
In a rush, my spirit knows itself and I remember everything.
YOU ARE READING
Anne Brontë Nightwalker
FantasyIn 1849, Anne Brontë died a devout and innocent virgin. Three days later, she rose from the dead. Now from the jagged wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains, to a glittering lair deep beneath the Biltmore Estate, a lonely Nightwalker fights her ete...
