Part One

"We are making history my dear."
Her hand slides slowly over the nape of his neck, long delicate fingers baring sharp dangerous, talon-like nails stroke cautiously. Slowly she raises them up as if to display them to some heathen god, then delicately inserts her forefinger into the back of his scull. So delicately that he hardly flinches.

From her finger leaks a fluid, deep red and viscous, withdrawing it she brings it close to her mouth, inhales and takes her finger slowly into her mouth. Her eyes draw closed like guilty curtains; she is sated for now. Passing her hand back over his neck the wound closes, with a bit of a schlepping noise. No longer was the fear in his eyes, although it had turned into a morose knowledge of what he was now destined for.
You see this is how she plants her seed. Quietly, delicately and without folly. He is now hers; irrevocably, and eternally.

He wakes; instinctually he touches the back of his head, in the same manner you would check your pockets after a dream where you were given huge amounts of money. With a tragic kind of desperation. Nothing. Just like when you wake from those dreams. Relieved and almost disappointed he rolled out of bed.

He stood and the ceiling seemed to grow and stretch into heights well above 50 feet. Stricken with immediate vertigo he collapses to the floor. As the room came back into focus, they are still the same vaulted ceilings with exposed cantilever detail that he has always viewed upon the coming of the morning. There's a strange flutter in his heart though, as if he were nervous about the meeting of a lover.