Vladimir stood by the window on the third floor of the small Victorian styled house overlooking the town as swarms of green overwhelmed the buildings and streets below. It seemed as though Lincoln was burning with fiery green disease of misfortune and Vlad, the only one with immunity, was helpless to do anything. Stuck alone, a small ways away from the edge of town, his place was a sanctuary of sorts...no, it was a grave yard. Vlad sighed, grey eyes heavy as he gazed out the glass. His house was not much better than anyone of the ones down there now, infested with the bats. For all he knew, his house was even worse.
He tore his view away, too cold hearted to care about what would happen to the citizens. He stopped caring for people back before cell phones and telephones, before gunpowder and before the Reformation of the Church. Not that it mattered. People don’t change. They are still selfish, self pleasing, pain loving animals. The dark interior of the room threw cold shadows on the floor except the large, slightly stretched out rectangle shimmering green, the light coming from the outside. Time seemed so long once, and then it was so short. It flashed by and he didn’t notice. Fate was deceiving, decisions full of lies. Vlad hated it. He sat down in the expensive leather chair near the dead fireplace, the fear from the night floating into his ice cold veins. A drink, that’s what he needed. Beside the chair, rather carved out of ice than glass, stood a goblet on the mahogany side table, a half full flask of wine beside it.
He should order for another bottle, perhaps open up the sacred store of Renaissance dated kegs. The stronger the wine, the easier it was to forget all that happened, to forget Anne and the kids. This wine was fresher, the times of the American War of Independence or so. Disgusting. The massive wooden door creaked on its hinges and the young man, if you could say that about him, looked up. An ash black borzoi soundlessly plotted in, tail wagging. Vladimir followed him with his eyes as the mutt sniffed the air and with a huff, lowered himself on the black bear carpet near the fire, snout resting on Vlad’s converse. Yes Grom, how little you know and how fast you’re going to go. Life is as quick as a simple breath, Vlad mused as he sipped the wine. Grom was perhaps the best dog he has had in a while. Pure black, a large specimen of the Hortaya borzoi breed with unnerving black eyes and a loyalty Vlad had only seen in past centuries, he dreaded the day he got the dog. In his way of living, any dog was a one day amusement.
“Oh black raven, oh over me, oh over my head,” Vlad’s voice, a pleasing baritone flowed through the darkness like a drape, covering the fear with sadness, remorse almost. Self-pity. The old Russian tongue rippled through the place as though it lived here since the beginning of time although Vlad had acquired this house only a few years ago. “But you will not wait out your prey.....Oh black raven, I’m not yours.”
The song, why did he start singing it? The simple, melancholy verses resonated through his mind, giving energy to the long forgotten memories. He tried to suppress them but he couldn’t. His heart sped up, his hand holding the glass started to shake. No, no, no! He couldn’t fall back into the past! He couldn’t! Time slowed down, time that he barely felt anymore as night replaced day in never ending cycles. He felt short of breath, his eyes glazed over, his heart pounded with the ferocity of a lion’s roar. No...his last weak attempt then darkness.
