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the end he had refused the dark, horrified to discover that his sister, now a full-fledged servant of the night, had stalked and killed their parents in her first bloodletting.
Now, all that he had to remind himself of the woman that she had been, that he had known and loved, was a frayed, faded, red ribbon.
So he had left the caravans of the traveling folk that had been his home. He had gone to a monastery, become a priest, and later, much later, a warden of the faith. A watchman.

"My Illyana, my sweet, sweet Illyana..." his silent tears fell on the pale, drawn face of the boy that had followed him into disaster.
He had been shocked beyond all reason when he had recognized the face of his little sister tonight. Recognized her despite Ian's blood that coated her chin.
"I have spent too many years looking over my shoulder," wondering when she would come for him. "It is past time to end it," he whispered.
Ian moaned and reached feebly for Lochinvar. "No," he breathed.
Lochinvar unwound the ribbon from the hilt of his short sword, placed it on Ian's chest. "Say a prayer for my sister, boy." He climbed to his feet. "I go to her now, sword in my hand." He walked out of the circle of protection, into the darkness, to face his death.

*

The tired, older, grayer watchman looked up as he finished his story. His fingers were entangled in a length of frayed, faded ribbon. He smiled with sad, weary resignation. He looked as though he would cry, if he could only remember how. He stood up slowly, throwing the bit of ribbon into what was left of the fire.
He buckled his long sword around his narrow hips, raked his fingers through his hair, looking down at the woman all the while.
"So tell me, Illyana," he said, "do you believe in vampires?"
The traveling folk smiled, then, and their fangs were long and sharp. It had been too long since they had feasted on hot, thick blood.
The dark haired woman, Illyana, licked her sensuous lips and smiled. Sadly, sweetly. She glanced down at the ribbon burning in the fire. "Yes, Ian. I do."
The fire went out with a faint whoomph of displaced air.
The watchman was smothered in sudden darkness.
His hand streaked for his sword.
But, even as his fingers grasped the leather wrapped hilt of his weapon, he knew he was years too slow.
He sucked in his breath and dragged the blade, inch by weary inch, from its sheath. Squinting his eyes and snarling with unrestrained rage as the blade blazed into his fist.

*

Into the darkness...came pain.

Learn more about this author, Lucien Rene Nanton.
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