Dole of Saint Bonnot

7:45 pm

He looked over at Aniyah, watching the rain bounce off her corpse. From his spine to his rectum and toes, he felt a tingling sensation. He knew from years past what would follow. So, he closed his eyes and inclined his ears to hear. Although the gales blew with a chill, dropping the temperature thirteen degrees, the sensation of hot breath hit his neck and face.

Her voice was disembodied, and she called to him like the gwrach y Rhibyn.

Yet, unlike the ancient Gaelic and Welsh folklore, her lamentation didn't foretell a family member's death. Though they sounded the same, this voice was from his November Witch.

His face turned red with cuts and pricks on his skin from the debris caught in the gusts. Yet, he was undaunted by his surroundings.

His cheeks lifted, eyes squinting with shades of satisfaction. He leaned and kissed Aniyah's head.

"You did well," he said. "You are the first of my liter, and I thank you."

He crouched with his arms between his legs, laying his palms flat against the sand. He looked over her petite, lifeless body, his head tilting sideways. His half-smile clenched before a gentle caress of Aniyah's chin.

"Let me take you to safety, my young one."

He picked her up from the sand with little effort, his adrenaline bringing herculean strength. With the wind howling at his back, he was undeterred as he walked almost one hundred yards toward the boards.

Wind and weeds from the ocean flattened the cattails and punk stalks. He stopped for a moment and considered the dune grass vanishing from the piles of sand.

"Yes, Captain," he said. "This will do fine. A proper tomb for a proper hero."

With ease, he laid Aniyah on the saturated sand. The dune decayed as he butted her against its base.

He took her hair into his fingers, careful when pushing it behind her ear. With her neck exposed, he scoffed.

"No, young one, I am not a vampire. I am Dole. Yes, that is who I am, Dole of Saint Bonnot."

The Dole of Saint Bonnot's hunger pangs dripped from the sides of his mouth. His teeth bared, and his eyes rolled. With hands flexed and wide for a moment, they curled. His neck muscles strained as he positioned himself for the reckoning. His fingers interlocked with Aniyah's coat. In one steady motion, he tore her jacket open, breaking through the zipper. He smiled when he exposed her faded Master and Commander T-shirt.

"Oh, young one."

He sang out. "Was there ever chummies, now, such as you and I?"

Dole of Saint Bonnot laughed in merriment. Trained as a classic choral singer, his countertenor's voice was strong and attractive.

"Long we've tossed on the rolling main, now we're safe ashore. Don't forget yer old shipmates, faldee raldee raldee raldee rye-eye-doe."

All at once, his laughter stopped. His mind undergoing a transformation. His ragged breathing and heightened arousal accented his tingling spine with ecstasy. With his eyes rolling white, he gazed at the sky. He let go of a guttural roll before his tongue parted his tightened lips.

He tore her shirt and bra, exposing her bare flesh.

Dole of Saint Bonnot was patient until his arousal was at its height. That was his signal. It was time to feed. He ripped through her sternum with his black steel blade, his forehead the first to touch her innocent flesh.

Frozen rain and the stronger winds carried a demon's breath of rage. The noreaster had come with the fury of a ravenous banshee. The winds whistled and grabbed anything it could. Trees buckled, and boardwalk rails split in half. Like javelins hurled by Greek and Roman Demigods, they smashed through doors, windows, and metal roll gates. And in the blackness of the unrelenting storm, Dole of Saint Bonnot fed. And he ate until his belly was full. Then, when finished, with his hands stretched outward, he celebrated his euphoric kill.

"I feel you, my queen," he said and panted. "I feel your touch. My rapture is from your breath, my witch." He moaned into the November gales. "In both spirit and flesh, yes—yes, I am vargúlfr."

For the next hour, he excavated a burrow on his hands and knees. It was their secret place, his hiding place, and her resting place. Aided by the wet sand and the witch's voice, he dug with his bare fingers until his nails were all but spent.

His indomitable strength fading, he panted near exhaustion. Dole of Saint Bonnot lifted his head. The ocean waves were furious as the November winds reached their height. Then, an arc flash and blast turned the sky into a monstrous shade of white and yellow. Followed by a resounding crack came blackness. The only light he saw was from offshore tankers braving the storm on the seas.

He lay flat on the sand beside her, steam rising from her burrowed chest. Then, holding her, he pulled her close and snuggled into her cheek and ear.

"It is my gift, and, alas, it is time for me to bid my goodbye. I must bury you now, young one."

Rolling her body toward the opening, he cleared his throat.

"I will return to this spot when families are picnicking and children are playing. When the hot summer sun brings visitors and sunbathers, I will return. And I will sit, and you will know I am here. And I will never forget you."

A calm smile returned, accented by the wind-dried blood on his face. He leaned over and kissed Aniyah's head.

"Goodnight, young one. I will miss you."

And with great care, he took her and stepped into the burrow. Then, laying Aniyah on her side, he tucked her knees against what remained of her belly.

Dole of Saint Bonnot lunged, his feet digging into the sand walls. With three steps, he leaped from the grave. For the first time, he felt the nor-easterly winds shoving him.

"I will be quick," he said.

He dropped to his knees, and with bloody fingertips, Dole of Saint Bonnot buried young Aniyah Smith in the sand near the dunes and cattails.