The vampires finished their meal reluctantly. Van was in ecstasy. Never had he had blood so sweet and filling. He wished he could have kept the morsel, but Tiearyu needed to see this one dead as a reminder of what his life was costing those around him. The young man's life was over. His heart still beat slowly, but would stop soon enough. They always did. Humans were so fragile. So absolutely pathetic.

Van dropped the kid to the ground satisfied by the way he was sprawled on the dirty asphalt of the alley. The boy's eyes were open and unseeing. Van was kind of sad now that it was all over.

The kid was dead and he almost cared, how disgusting.

But he had relished in the killing. In the breaking of this little lamb's mind. The mind was so fragile. Especially the human mind. Yeah, it didn't take much to completely fuck the human mind over. And Van had fucked many. Minds that is...

And that blood. It had been calling to him from inside those beautiful veins. It was so sweet. Sweeter than any he had ever tasted. It confused him. Blood shouldn't taste like that. If their orders weren't to destroy anything associated with Tiearyu Van would have kept this one. But their master had to be obeyed at all cost. His words were absolute.

They had bitten the child in seven different places and used their saliva to keep the wounds open. There was no questioning it: the kid was going to bleed out. It had been enjoyable making this young artist into a canvas filled with the artistic marks of the vampire.

But now Van felt empty. The joy he felt had been fleeting and seemed cheep now. The kid had deserved better. "Let us take out leave, brother. We have taken everything this child could offer us."

Desoto nodded his agreement. He looked down at the kid, "So long turd. Too bad you made yourself out enemy. You would have been a great artist. Painter of things that should never be painted." Obviously Desoto felt just as saddened by the kid's death as Van. He didn't often spout poetry like that. And that definitely had been quite an eloquent speech for the dummy.

Both vampires left the alley quietly. They were deep in thought. How was the kid able to paint Tiearyu when a mere glimpse of him usually drove a person insane? This was a mystery they would never know the answer to with the artist now dead. The answer had died with the painter.

It was time to go see their master. Their gift to Tiearyu was left. Now they just needed to be around when he found it. And they knew he would. He always found them. It was as if the victims called out to him.

Van smirked. Tiearyu would know exactly who killed this innocent. Always seven wounds that seemed to bleed even after death. When Tiearyu found the boy they'd finish him. They'd get that unnatural being and send him to Hell where he belonged.

                                                            ~HS~

The man walked into the alley. His alley, he liked to think. He was always there when he needed to think. His mood was dark, as it often was, and all he wanted to do was sit on the fire escape steps and reminisce about happier days long passed. As soon as he smelled the putrid aroma coming from the alley, he knew his want was not going to happen that night. He should have turned around and left. Save himself the trouble of finding the source of the smell. But it was strange for so much of the stench to be coming from his alley.

The fumes wafted from the alley. Blood. Lots of blood. The blood smelled old and stale. At least a couple of hours had passed from it first being spilled. If he would have come through the area at his usual time, he might have witnessed something… unsettling. Better investigate the man decided grimly. He hoped it was an animal. A small animal. But judging by the amount of blood he smelled, that very thought was ludicrous. At the very least he could pick up the dead animal and give it peace. A proper burial was what the thing needed.

Most importantly, it needed to get out of his spot. This was his sanctuary. It might not have seemed like a great place, he knew it hadn't been before he started hanging around. There had been muggings and street fights, drug deals all kinds of explicit activities, but not since he had decided this was his area. People stayed away. They could barely look at him without going insane; why the Hell would they want to be in the same alley as him? He liked the solitude this allowed him to have.

When he saw the being responsible for the bloody stench his plans changed. It was human. A young man. Now all he wanted to do was leave the side street. This wasn't as simple as an animal burial. This was bad. When a human went missing others of its kind undoubtedly noticed. Maybe he should leave. If he just stayed clear of the alley for a few days the authorities would take care of the unsightly corpse. And his spot would be as good as new.

He started to turn, make his way out of the alley and made it all the way to the fire escape steps before something stopped him. Something he happened to catch out of the corner of his eyes. A silver frame. But the thing inside the frame is what had really held his attention. Amazing.

A painting.

His eyes were riveted to the painting. It was a portrait of a man walking down a deserted sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets and his hair damp from rain that must have just passed. The man had a dour expression on his face as he shuffled down the walkway. The picture took place at night and colors were muted, except the man, who was conveniently walking under an illuminated lamp. His colors were almost too intense, too bright, as if he was radiating some kind of ethereal light. The heavenly aura surrounding this being was almost palpable.

The painting was flawless. For that reason it was also the most frightening thing he had ever seen. How was this possible? A portrait of a man like that shouldn't exist. He knew the painting shouldn't exist for he was the man in it. Nobody could paint him. Well, no human. And the especially couldn't have ever known that he was that lone figure in the flesh. How could an artist capture him so fully on canvas. This person had even realized that there was something more to him than meets the eye.

That glow around the figure in the portrait was unsettling. That was what had him so scared. It was as if this person knew what he was. But he had absolutely no idea who had painted the picture.

He walked over to the painting and carefully picked it off of the ground. Searching for an artist's name was the next step. He had to figure out who painted it. They needed to be found and questioned. He glanced over at the dead guy. "Would it be too much to hope that you're not the painter?" He asked in a low weary voice. Unsurprisingly the corpse did not respond. He didn't expect it to. He wished it were that easy. But a part of him knew, without a doubt, that the reason this poor soul was dead was that painting. Even if the kid wasn't the artist, his pursuers would have killed the kid to try and lure him out. The people who were after him didn't care who they had to cut down in order to get to their main target.

There was no artist signature on the front of the painting, figured a shy painter would be the one who painted him. Who ever heard of an artist not signing their work? He flipped the painting over and scanned the back. There in the bottom right corner was scrawled what had to be the artist's name and the date. The writing was messy, reminded him of the scrawl of doctors. He quickly deciphered and read the artistic print and growled in frustration. The artist wasn't making this easy. The name on the back read A. Bruel. That initial. How was he supposed to know if it was the dead guy or not? There was nothing feminine or masculine about the letter A. "stupid artist," the guy muttered.

He then looked back to the kid. Yep, he was definitely dead. Hadn't moved since the man arrived. The lack of a heartbeat also pointed toward lack of being alive. He took a closer look at the kid. There were wounds exposed on his flesh that appeared to still be leaking blood. Then he realized what had happened to this kid. There were seven wounds. Bite marks. That still bled. They were behind this. The kid had died for no reason. Because of the painting he had been carrying.

He was saddened by the loss of another life but wondered why the vampires thought that killing countless young men would affect him. He felt no emotional attachment to this prone figure and knew he would not grieve over the death of the nameless corpse. The thing that bothered him the most was that he didn't know the painter of the portrait. A. Bruel, could it really be the kid? With his luck: probably.

He looked past the mangled flesh at the features of the body. Maybe something about the way he looked would clue him in on a name. Did the kid look like an A. Bruel? He decided it was impossible to tell. The kid had an average hair color, it was brown with a tuft of natural white that hung over his left eye. The length of it was rather long and he knew it would brush gently against the slender shoulders if the kid was standing.

If only those eyes were visible. That might have made this guessing game easier. After all it is said that eyes are the window to the soul. He didn't know who said it, but he thought they were close. They were more of a gateway to the mind. The man turned away from the corpse. There was no point in trying to seek answers from a dead person. He'd go to local galleries and art stores to see if any of them knew the painter. It would take a long time to get through all of those places, this was an artist's neighborhood, but he had nothing but time.

He decided he'd take the painting home with him. He was almost out of the alley when he heard a sound. It was quiet, but almost sounded like a moan or a cry. He looked for a person that could have made the noise and found none. The only person in the area was the dead kid. And obviously that wasn't...

The kid was shaking. Like seizure shaking.

He waited for the shakes to subside then quickly made his way to the prone figure. He set the painting down gently on the ground and scooped up the boy amazed that he wasn't dead. His heart beat was so faint it was almost inaudible, but he was alive. The boy was carried out of the alley. The painting lay on the ground left behind for now, but the man vowed he would return for it in order to figure out who painted it.

As he walked back to his apartment his mind raced. He still wanted to know who painted the picture. Right now though, the more pressing question was: who exactly was this kid? He had been attacked the same as all the other boys yet he was still alive. Van and Desoto never made mistakes like this. Furthermore, the kid had been dead when he entered the alley. He knew the kid was dead.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when the kid shouted. He only said one word but it seemed to be said with all the remaining strength he possessed. His eyes flew open wide and terrified and the man had enough time to realize they were a deep blue before the word made him falter. "Help" the kid wailed pathetically before falling into a deep slumber again. He very nearly dropped the kid when this word was spoken. It wasn't spoken in English. It wasn't spoken in any language that humans should know or be able to speak. It had been said in the language of the messenger.

He brought the boy into his apartment and rushed him to the couch. First thing's first, this boy's wounds need to be treated. Then when he's better I'll question him.

For two days he watched the boy. His condition never got any worse, but it didn't improve either. He would clean the wounds and disinfect them twice a day. He washed the kid every day too to keep him clean, in the hope that infection wouldn't set in. Bites were nasty. Especially human, almost human bites.

On the third day the kid woke up. The man watched was he showed no signs pain or discomfort. There wasn't even a sign that he had been bitten. All the gashes and cuts had disappeared without a trace. Interesting. The kid would definitely need to be questioned.