Underneath Moonlight
Written by: Suze LeFey/ Suzette Lee

CHAPTER ONE: Misted Beginning

My mind was wandering into the darkness on that blustery, damned night. I could feel the distant auras of both man and the unknown; fracture one another with their mind-devastating blows. My skin crawled with the flesh that mingled with mine. It was not fair to be distinguishingly different.

I combed my fingers through my now-blue hair, and I watched my television screen with displeasure and without any ease. Underneath this soft-colored face, is a hardened stone of ages to come - especially since one of mine has been vanquished.

My blood burns with anger as I read the message on the wall of the crime scene and the hurt rubs deeper into my skin. I admired, fairly, that fledgling. You're next Katana. The blood of my tiny one has been wiped onto the wall as the police examine the now-human corpse. It hurts to see someone you birthed die before you. A parent should never have to bury their child.

His heart is spewed on the ground, and his pale skin is now ashen, for his heart has been removed for over three hours, and I can smell the paste of his blood with mine. He is my child, my fledgling, my creation - and I am his mother, his ruler, and his creator. I made him what he was, and now I feel my child's pain.

Who is this dimwitted creature that has planted his jagged knives into my beautiful Derek? Who is he to call me by my name, and offer me a challenge? A nonsensical man who is waiting his death, I hope.

As my hand runs softly over my pale cheek, I feel a tear dampen the softness. I usually do not cry, but for one of the few I have made, there is an exception - they are my beauties. I was never born like they were; with passion and kindness, the things most creators never offer, but I did. My blood-mother turned me at birth. And so I hate her for that, for making me what I am, but yet I praise her for her willingness to nurture me.

"Blasphemy," I hear myself cry with agony, and my tearstained face is now as deathly ashen as my beautiful Derek. He deserved no death, and certainly had no motives to kill. Why then? My beautiful young one, the youngest, why did he die? I felt my eyes turn a splintering red, and then I buried my head between my knees.

But I cannot cry forever, although I have eternity, for my own enemies will take that as a cue to behead me. I will avenge my young Derek. and my beautiful Nada - the first of them to die. Who is left? I begin to wonder. and then I remember, only one, and her name is Draida. My middle child, my strongest most passionate. I vow to kill the mortal.

My hands flip past the pillows, and reach for the leather-bound book that is hidden within one. There I keep my foes, my friends, and my magic. No one can open up the book, except for my blood-kin, and there are few left, especially since mother has passed. Nada would've learned the trick to be a surviving sorceress, with the blood of immortality - she had the ability. Derek would've learned quickly, but now I've only time to teach my Draida, and she cares not about magic anymore, just blood-kin and of the freedom she possesses.

Flipping, and cursing flagrantly, to a page that seemed half-embedded with symbols of death and else, I smiled. My grin reaches both ears within seconds, and I have yet to discover what Arius meant when she said I was different.

Arius, my blood-mother, was a cruel, but soft-spoken woman, whose only concerns were her beauty and well-being. But she proved herself wrong, when she took in a child she believed different - with her placid black hair, and her stinging amethyst eyes. She took me in, just before she met her death with the hunters.

Flippantly, my eyes skim the page for evidence of magic, for any spells that work. But I need no magic; I have the power of my kind, the power of an immortal. But I will not run after Derek's murderer, not without any proof, otherwise it's a free meal.

Putting the book away, I realize that I recognize the jaggedness in the penmanship the seeker has used; the crooked edges on the k and the a, and the precise spelling he took into consideration. Only one line of seekers has that keenness..

"Levieu." I hear myself spit the words out with disdain. I have learned to hate that family since my birth, two hundred years into the past. Arius told me of what they had done to my mother, who was a supposed half-breed of witch and Vampiric deeds. And that is why Arius took me away, for she knew my hate for the corrupted family of Levieus would heighten my capacity to kill them all.

My canines elongate with a passion, and I seek fresh blood, but I dare not run out into the night, for maybe by daybreak I will feed upon an animal. Human blood makes my own veins turn violet without passion; their tainted blood, and their immoral beliefs manifested within it, which is why their blood is disgusting. Maybe not to Arius, or the others, but for my fledglings and me.

The morning doesn't frighten my kind, as the human folklores have portrayed us - nocturnal and vicious monsters that feed to kill, and kill to feed. By my own terms, I would describe everyday humans as that kind of 'monster'.

Crosses do not affect us, for we once used crosses on our necks before our turn, and it does not leave a burn. Holy water may slightly blind us, but only because of the pollutants human poison it with - its once pure substance, defamed by seeker-use. Yes, stakes may kill us, if implanted in the perfected position that mankind has only mastered a few times. Otherwise, good luck with the hunt.

As I think about it, I laugh; the many ways vampires have been tortured. My kind has been graceful enough to step away from the acting business, and stay down to earth, at least my bloodline. We do not flee from garlic, for a fact; it tastes quite well with my daily intake of salad. Luna's bloodline cares not for mortal problems, and I've learned that well.

Tonight, I will sleep. I will let Derek's death make me toss and turn, and let Nada's demise make my dreams run cold. But I will not allow the mortal, or whatever the seeker may be, to enter my mind with a hardened welcome of pain. She, or he, will never see my pain. Levieus will never see them.