Path of the Vampire forum

I stand by the printer, the machine humming innocently below me, the bright light slicing through the gap as the cogs turn, as the thing near-silently does what I bid it to do. I have selected the right tray, the right ink. I’ve adjusted the settings so that I get only the outlines, the bolder lines, the ones that I need. I don’t need the colour. I can fill that in last, and I can be a little more lenient with it. I have used this machine so many times that I don’t have to watch as it transfers the information from one part of the machine to another, as the ink prints on the paper and the paper slowly spits out the other end. It’s all so fluid, so neat, so clean. I close my eyes, my head rolling to the side as I submit, just for half a minute, to darkness. I calm all thoughts and emotions. I become the artist, rather than just the man, Jesse Fford. I settle my mind into stillness, honing the focus that I will require to get this job done tonight.

From the other room, Dulce’s voice calls out to me. She’s ready, she says. The machine has gone silent, the humming has stopped. The design is ready, too. I take it from the machine and double check, to make sure that all is right. I move to the sink and retrieve a clean cloth, which I wet, and wring out. When I return to my station, Dulce has settled into the chair as I had hoped she would. She has made herself comfortable, the skin of her back bare to me, no hindrances. She may as well be a woman sunbathing.

The skin is smooth and milky white. It is flawless, as all skin belonging to vampires seems to be. I still cannot get over it. The wonderment of it has not worn off. Gazing at her skin, at the canvas so open to my fingertips, I may as well be newborn again. A newborn vampire, fledgling to all that may overwhelm the senses. I do not caress her skin as I am urged to do. I touch it only so that I might align the design properly; when it is in place, I touch the damp cloth to the paper. I press it against the edges of the design, slowly moving in a circle inward, until the entirety of the paper is damp. Only then do I peel the paper away, the design clear and slick on the skin beneath. A mere shade of what it will finally be.

I toss the paper in the bin. Now I have to get the rest set up.

Over at my desk I retrieve my favoured ink gun from its case. I set the needle that I will need first. I set up the ink, just black for the moment, in a clean, tiny little tub. When it’s all set up and ready to go, I reach for the box of gloves. We vampires are not really susceptible to infection, but I won’t risk it. I am a man of habit, and whatever job I do, it will be done hygienically.

Normally, I make sure that my client is ready. I make sure they are completely comfortable. I remember the way Dulce shot me, though. When she was supposed to shoot Axel, she shot me instead. Not much of a slight, really, given that particular wound healed in a very short time. I don’t hold much of a grudge. Her only punishment, from me, will be this. I won’t ask her whether she’s ready. I won’t give her the time to prepare. I carry the ink gun over to the chair. I turn it on, the whirring like music to my ears. And I start, right on the spine—right in the most painful part of the back.

Dulce’s long pale fingers stretched and then splayed slowly over the sides of the chair. Her right hand met her left beneath the leather chair. There hidden from view they were alone to find the comfort of each other in their claiming but relaxed clasp. Her fingers weaved loosely and the process was complete. With her movements her shoulders would be prepared as well as the rest of her back for the significant time ahead that would be invested in the artwork of Jesse’s hand. The room temperature warmed her cool skin as she waited. Perhaps it was the lights as well. There was nothing unsettling about being there and waiting. She felt comfortable and was hoping that he would be as well when he returned to begin his work.

The sounds of a machine coming to attention then fading back into rest after use caught her attention momentarily. Her icy blues moved towards the direction where he disappeared as much as was possible without leaving where she was horizontal. Finding nothing to hold her attention her eyes drifted slowly back and forth across the space that was viewable to her. A calming exhale happened between her and the makeshift bed that may or may not find her sleeping upon it. She was not nervous. It was more anticipation building within her to begin something she wanted more as the time passed. For that moment she longed to feel contact to confirm this would finally begin. She was in no rush but it was the anticipation that was one thing that worked on her mind and body unlike anything else. Her fingers tightened more as her face finally turned to rest her cheek on the plastic lined pillow where her chin was perched before.

Sounds of approaching footsteps matched those of Jesse’s when he had left the room. She didn’t turn around to confirm it was him. She was sure it was. He was not empty handed and she was relieved. Her downward glance over her shoulder confirmed it as she saw the tools of his trade. There is a subtle hiss of the paper as it moves across her skin while his hands guide it to where the design will go. A light shiver works across her body and she holds still. The paper stays put and now the presence of a gentle pressure from his hand works to form the sensation of a light circular massage. She assumed this would be the setting of the temporary ink which would serve as his guide in transforming a permanent version of the piece chosen upon her back. Soon the paper is lifted and pulled away. The air is now cooler to the surface of her bare flesh and she believes this is credited to the anticipation that continued to increase as she refrained from moving.

Another glance over her shoulder offers only glimpses of what Jesse is doing. She can smell chemicals and decides that the ink is being prepared. Her head turns and her face resumes its rest with her cheek once again meeting the plastic over the pillow beneath her. She could make small talk, ask him questions to pass the time but that would mean he would have to pause and answer with a writing instrument and paper. That would compromise and delay his current task at hand. Still she wondered a lot about the one who was blending and clicking things she can’t fully see. Even the design she chose will be a mystery to her until she is able to stand and view it later upon completion. The sound of surgical gloves, or perhaps they are called something different for tattoo artists, is unmistakable as his hand makes contact with them. She appreciates the sound far more than for the fact he is choosing to use them while working on her. Those wonderful little tight fitting creations are an invention that serve so many creative uses. Again her mind releases her distracting thoughts and returns to where she is presently.

Dulce had barely closed her eyes when the sound of what maybe was the ink gun chosen for the beginning of the tattoo fired up into a buzzing that could not be ignored. She expected a warning the work would begin as was customary. It was with the last miniscule tattoos she had. That is when the contact of a sharp unexpected needle sinks into a place where it gets her undivided and total attention. Her hands release beneath the chair and each hand fixes at the side squeezing into the leather in their grip. It was a bite of the needle she didn’t expect but certainly deserved. A small hidden smirk formed on her lips. It was always those quiet ones you had to look out for. He and his ink gun just reminded her.

“Alrighty then…” She chuckled softly and eased her hands off the sides of the chair and returned them back to a folded clasp beneath. “I had that coming.”

Dulce’s physical reaction is not lost on me. I hit a nerve, both physically and metaphorically; her entire body is a frisson of barely contained energy. I know exactly how it feels, the way the needle digs into the skin. So many people say they don’t want to get a tattoo because they have a morbid and intense fear of needles. In my opinions, it’s a stupid thing to be afraid of. This needle moves so fast, it doesn’t feel like the kind of needle you’d get in a doctor’s surgery. No, it’s more like a burn, like someone is very slowly, very deliberately searing a brand into your skin. And sometimes, in the sensitive parts of your body—like directly over the spine, where plenty of the nerves live—the pain is that much more intense, as if that fire burns from that single nerve and spreads throughout your skin. The blood pumps as the adrenaline kicks in, your body trying to compensate for the pain. Trying to flinch away from it, because it’s unnatural. But because you’ve got some weird, sick need of it, you put yourself through it.

Hell, it’s not the pain I like so much, but the mask that I have created for myself through the pain. Suffering is part and parcel of becoming who I wanted to be—or who I wanted to appear to be. The pain helped me to create this shell, this protection against the world around me. But in the end, I started to enjoy the pain. It became an addiction, that sudden flush of adrenaline, the way the skin became cool, the way you might almost swoon…

… and from just one small needle.

I grin, pausing only to glance up at Dulce’s features; there’s a smirk resting on her lips, even as she admits to deserving that small, painful surprise. Anyone might tell her that she deserved a whole lot more than that, but I won’t be the one to do it, and nor will I dole out the damage. Luckily for Dulce, I’ve got bigger fish to focus my grudges on. And other than that one night, Dulce has never done anything to annoy me, or to harm me. I will do my job, and I will do it well. Now, she is no longer Dulce, but a canvas upon which I am painting. I need it to be perfect, like I need every other piece of art to be perfect.

I lose track of time as I knuckle down and do what needs to be done. In one hand I hold the ink gun, etching in all the outlines, making some bolder than others, and switching to a finer needle for the more intricate details. In the other hand I hold a constantly changing piece of tissue, wiping away excess ink and blood. There’s something intoxicating about the smell of ink and blood. It’s got to me my favourite scent, the one that will never grow old.

After an hour or two of perfecting the outlines—and I’ll probably return to them later—I give Dulce a bit of a break. I allow her to stretch and rearrange herself, if she needs to. I stand and stretch myself, before readying all the different colours that I will require to fill in the gaps—mostly blues and greens, though I also prepare a little bit of red. There’ll be a lot of blending, and I’ll need a near full palette.

The dance of the needle across the skin was her only thought beneath the lights that she counted on for that extra warmth while she stayed still beneath Jesse’s hands. Her mind followed the sweet burning march that trekked its way slowly over her flesh. It was as if the needle delivering the design beneath her skin was a miniature soldier of dull pain that would not surrender to fatigue. Onward it traveled from one side of her back to the other. Lower then back up her spine it went. Each tickling swipe of the tissue across her skin told her that there was no turning back. The commitment was made and she would bleed for what the design represented over and over if need be.

Pain. This type was as equally intoxicating as was the softest flutter of moist pairing fleshes across the unexpected skin like a kiss in the early mid-summer night. It was intense for the anticipation that preceded it. The dance of waiting and heightened wonder of how it would be finally confirmed by the first contact and then the heated refusal to stop. It was highly effective and powerful in its subtle but unmistakable ways. She was a true connoisseur of it all and appreciated its purpose as the probing point skated its way across her body. All of it combined was centering in its delivery as the work continued slow but sure.

Each little step the sharp invasive point hopped up and down a bloody tear formed at the surface beneath it. A joyous weeping of body and adventurous mind occurred on that chair in the tattoo shop. She couldn’t see what the effects were but she could feel the design slowly taking on its needed outline for the true work to begin. There was always a frame or foundation for masterpieces and this would indeed be one of them. Proudly she would wear it as her own expression of where she stood in the politics of those like her, the darkness dwellers and soldiers of the unthinkable.

A pause in the tango of skin and needle presented itself. Dulce gave the intermission enough time to prove that it was in fact a what she assumed would be a few minutes for Jesse to prepare more ink, change needles or to simply stretch for all the time he had to spend isolated in one position as she did. She was given the luxury of simply laying there while he had to bend over and hold a ink gun in his hand. When she felt it was safe she wiggled and stretched while staying flat against the leather chair while keeping the sheet he so respectfully offered around each side of her chest. The majority of her back felt extremely tight when she made the small movements she did. It was as if she was a piece of leather canvas stapled down to a wooden frame and the more work done the dryer and tighter it became. This was only a sensation though and in no way a deterrent to what she was thoroughly enjoying as the work continued.

Once she was sure Jesse was appearing to be refreshed and ready to star his work, Dulce settled back down and weaved her fingers back beneath her under the chair. If there was hours that passed she hardly noticed. The needle was her masseur and she the grateful client beneath its invigorating yet soothing massage. This she could feel head to toe and fade into the leather beneath her in serene surrender and never return.

The colour is my favourite part. The outline is a necessity, but the colour is what brings the design to life. I am aware of Dulce moving behind me. I do not look, I do not engage in any kind of one-sided conversation. Just as I assume she is being overwhelmed by the sensation of the needle dancing across her skin, I too am overwhelmed by the focus required to get the job done. With each stroke of the needle, that blemish-free surface of her skin will be forever changed. Skin is a canvas that cannot be painted over, or so I always believed. This is like a ritual for me, this etching of ink into living skin. A ritual that I cannot mess with, that I cannot disrespect. This is an epiphany that I had, not long after I started actual rituals—those I do in private, because of the fact that I cannot remember what goes on when I am doing them. Apparently, according to the red-head whose name I don’t ever want to acknowledge again, I speak during rituals. Maybe something that I ought to investigate, and share with someone else. But, as like everything else that pertains to the demons of my past, I’d prefer to ignore it.

Whatever the case, when I come out of that trance-like daze, I feel the same as I do now; as if all the edges of my brain have been sharpened and honed to their perfect versions, that I am somehow possessed. That my creativity is not my own, but a part of some greater scheme as dictated by the universe.

I return to Dulce, who resumes her former position without complaint or whisper. The store’s music plays overhead, on shuffle—a playlist that everyone adds to, which rarely repeats due to the variety and sheer number of songs added by each of Masterpiece’s employees and owners. It is mere background noise that I lose track of, that I can’t even hear much of as soon as the gun begins its vibrant hum beneath my near-numb fingertips.

The colour brings the owl to life. Where before it was constructed only of bones, now I am adding flesh. Within fifteen minutes, the eyes gain ferocity and determination. Within the next two hours, the wings unfurl, the feathers ruffle and twitch. Within three hours, the talons tighten, and the banner waves, proud and stolid in its single-word declaration.

Throughout, I do not lose focus. Even when I get that nagging feeling, deep down to the bone, that the sun is soon going to rise, I keep working. I am nearly finished, but I do not rush. One cannot rush perfection. By the time I am finished, I figure there’s perhaps half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, before the sun rears its ugly head. Not that it really matters. I’ve mastered the art of staying awake, and there’s that handy tome in my pocket that’ll take me straight back to the Eyrie, no sunburn required.

When I am finished, I clean the tattoo with antiseptic, wiping away all the gunk of excess ink and dried blood. Out of habit, I apply the salve that will help the wound to heal, without drying out too much. And before I allow Dulce her freedom, I remove my gloves, tossing them in the nearby trashcan, before I grab the little digital camera from the desk—it captures our image, because it is digital—and take a photo of the final product. I hand the camera to Dulce, so that she can see.

I watch Dulce’s reaction closely, curiously. I’m happy with the outcome of the design upon her previously flawless back. And, well, I’d argue that her skin is still flawless, because the ink that I have injected beneath it, in all its dips and swerves, with all its perfect blending—well, the tattoo is flawless, too. Oh, yeah, I know that I have an ego. No shocker, there. But it’s common courtesy to show the client the work that I have done. I do it out of professional habit, knowing that Dulce would be curious. One can’t properly and immediately see a tattoo done on their back. And vampires, generally, are unable to see themselves in mirrors to see for themselves. If Dulce can’t see herself in the mirror, then maybe this will be the only time she’ll actually be able to see it. A hidden totem.

Rather than realise I’m only showing her the image out of common courtesy, Dulce says that the tattoo is perfect, and that she is happy to wear the masterpiece. I’m not searching for commendations or compliments, but of course I accept them with good grace. I grin, and give a light bow in thanks. I then indicate that Dulce should turn back around—within seconds, I have her tattoo covered in cling wrap, attached to her skin with masking tape. It’ll help the healing process—not that the healing process will take long, anyway. It’s probably almost already healed.

I might have told Dulce that the piece is free. I worked on Karina for free, but Karina’s tattoos were completed in the hut, on the third floor of the Eyrie—with my own ink, in my own time. Given how generous Micah has been lately, I’m not sure that he would care if I give this time and ink away for free on a faction member. But I cannot assume the things that I cannot know for sure. My going rate, generally, was $150 up front, and $50 per hour. I glance at the clock. We’ve been here five hours, maybe a little more. A piece that might have taken double that time if both Dulce and I were human. I roll my shoulders as I consider. I write a number on the piece of paper on my desk, and swing it in Dulce’s direction:

”$300.”

I give her a hard look, then—one that tells her I will accept no arguments. Such a large intricate piece is worth at least $600. At least. Maybe Dulce doesn’t know the going rate of tattoos, anyway. Maybe $300 will appear fair to her.

After I write the price, I unhook the ink gun and retrieve the little tubs of ink, and the needles. I take them on a tray away from the station, sauntering into the back room where the sink is. I need to wash everything, and disinfect everything, and will disinfect the entire station once Dulce is gone. I know vampires can’t really spread diseases, but can’t risk an accidental turning, no matter how unlikely it would be. And anyway, old habits die hard. I assume that my absence from the front room will give Dulce time enough to get dressed again.

The muscles in my back and neck are tense. Even as an immortal creature of night, standing still, or stooped over for prolonged periods of time—I am still prone to tense limbs. I wonder whether, if we were to stand still long enough…would we turn to stone? Would all those muscles slowly freeze up due to disuse? And, the more time that passed, would we find it harder to move, to massage the lost time out of our systems? Or would we just crumble and whither, our muscles rusting away with lack of blood and sustenance?

I know that I will always need sustenance. Not just blood, as much as I crave every second, every minute, every unneeded breath that I take. Every hit of atmosphere that bleeds into my lungs reminds me of the humans that are around; those who have been here recently. The very scent of them, even if old and stale, lingers. And even the stalest scent ignites my hunger—and it’ll never go away. Beyond that, though, I will always need my ink. I’ll always need the paints and the brushes and the needles—I’ll always need the willing canvases, the skin that I can mark, the pain that I can inflict, given and taken upon contract. It’s not that I’m cruel, beyond reason. I don’t inflict the needle’s pain just because. Those receiving tattoos do so because they are determined to mark their skin forever. A symbol that can never be removed. As the artist, I feel as if I am privy to one of the most important turning points in these people’s lives. It’s hard to explain, the distinct pleasure I get from something so deeply profound.

Because it is profound. No matter if it is a person’s first tattoo or their hundredth, there’s still something profound in it. And because of that, because of the respected importance that I place upon the ritual, I will take care to make sure that everything remains perfect, clean and untainted. I will do nothing to ruin this, my second and only other form of sustenance, of inspiration. It is only via this art that I can, in a way, focus my mind—and ignore the physical thirst for blood.

When I return to Dulce, she has dressed—not completely, I can see, but the tattoo is still visible. She’s lingering where I left her; I return to my little corner to put away the clean utensils, all in their correct places, nothing out of order. From one of the shelves near the centre of the establishment I collect a tube of cream. It may not be needed, but it is to help with healing. I hold it out for Dulce.

Jesse returns and is thorough in where the tools of his talents are placed. Everything had its place. Dulce believed in this. Her properties and work space were examples that silent rule as well as her routine. She could deviate from such but she predictably returned eventually to the order she craved and that centered her. The inked fingers that held the tube of ointment extended out to capture her attention. It was to be a trade of sorts as her long fingers mirrored the same action extending towards him to pass the money to Jesse in turn. The money slid into his palm as her icy blues lifted up to find his own. A gentle smile formed at her lips briefly then faded.

The retreat of her hand had her fingers rolling the tube of ointment between them. Slowly she stood up taking the bolero overlay with her and draping it over her arm to settle in the crook of her elbow as it folded relaxed in front of her. The time spent had been as valuable as the work upon her skin that she left with. She had time to think beyond the surrender of her skin to the permanent ink. Her mind went deeper and a searching of sorts took place. It was what she needed and she was happy with the results outside and inside. Her free hand swept downward and smoothed out the small wrinkles that made the material imperfect. She caught herself and froze her hand as the repetition of her movement came to her notice. Wrinkles in her clothing represented something just as the ink across her skin. She surrendered her efforts at trying to iron out what she couldn't at that moment. Everything was flawed for a reason. There was wisdom in the acceptance and appreciation of why.

The click of her heels now broke the silence of her body being flat on a chair for hours. Business between them as far as the tattoo appeared to be finishing. She imagined he would be relieved to find his hands free and the restriction to holding an ink gun temporarily halted. She savored the feeling of her feet on the ground as she moved in the limited steps she took.

"Thank you, Jesse." She felt that something needed to be said. "It is beautiful."

Stepping towards the door of the shop she paused and turned looking him over one last time before she was to take her leave. Dulce would see him often and she didn't feel the need to say anything more. Another smile spread across her lips. It was rare but then again so was the exchange of ink to skin in the amount that she just had experienced. It was a masterpiece created by his hands and said more than either of them had to.

With a light push of the door the lethal blonde stepped outside and felt the fatigue of the daylight rising and making its presence known. She would use her ability to travel without risking the damage of the early morning rays. Her intent was to rest and later seek out Sada Abe to apply the ointment across her new masterpiece. With that thought her surroundings faded in a fast dispersing of her body and the subtle sound of the ground again beneath her heels as she stepped into her home to retire.