After supping on the fresh heart of my enemy, braised with oil over an open flame, I recline, dreaming of Corwin. Corwin, my weight, my bane, my weakness. Why Dark Father was I speared so maliciously through the heart by this lawful subject of the land? How I dream, hot dreams, of her moral ruin in my hands, tied down, struggling for release, struggling for her closely guarded ecstasy.
When she is near, I struggle for command, for order. I long to be the vampire of my own heart, take her into the woods, and sup on that pale neck. To taste that copper as it sluices down my tongue, oh, burning is what this is, Darth Father, burning for something I could so easily take like an apple on a tree.
And in my fantasies, Corwin’s eyes go red, and the air around us goes winter. We clutch at…
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