These are the journal entries of a centuries old vampire, Nicolas Rider. Welcome to his world...

Friday, July 1, 2022

February 11, 1618 – Madrid

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The cobblestone street graciously allows the rain to pool into a dark little puddle between the stones. Barely bigger than my palm, it must suffice as a mirror as I assess my injury. The freshness of the burn on my cheek fill my nostrils with charred flesh. There will be no permanent damage to my skin but for now, the rawness of my exposed muscle and scorched tissue sizzles against the cool night air.
     Marcella will not be pleased. The most essential part of attacking a local is that they die. They can run; they will scream; but they must die. They do not pull a cross from their bag and smash it against my face. And they certainly do not escape, like this one did. My fingers rub over the unevenness of my otherwise flawless face. It is not the pain that causes me to groan but the situation I now find myself in. I supposed I will have to disappear for at least a few months, possibly longer. Perhaps, we will go to Cairo. Marcella has been wanting to visit Egypt anyway.

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