The Last True Blood

By MP Sharma

Mallika has been cursed since before she existed, doomed to achieve victory in a battle predestined for her before her mortal body ever graced the planet, and she couldn’t be further from her natural place in society. An average orphan fisher girl roaming the streets of Delhi aimlessly scrounging for the bare necessities, it is on a catastrophic night in 1749 on the shipping docks that she realises something isn’t quite right. The original Dracula is on the hunt, but not on his daily rounds, for something far more sinister. Though Dracula has existed since the dawn of time, the Enchanted Texts have forewarned him of the need for The Vampire Queen to ensure his success.

Her brothers, Adrinius and Zacchaeus have decided to wage war in the place they first reared their venomous independence, in the ancient Puritan civilization, current day Boston Massachusetts. Now 2010, Mallika must defeat her brothers in their murderous rampage the way her father and uncle would have wanted. Although she has a compatriot in the most amazing form, a werewolf, neither she or the werewolf is aware of it. Dracula has warned his daughter of the dangers of werewolves, vampires’ natural predators, as being the only creatures on Earth that can annihilate a vampire within seconds. When in their natural forms, nothing is more imperative than obliterating the other.

Her brothers’ extreme power and their age make them formidable opponents. Along the way, she meets Levi, and they have an instant undeniable attraction. Mallika tries to control her dangerous urges at wanting to transform him, reprimanding herself on the dangers of mortal and vampire relations, but something is not quite human about Levi Hemming-Woods. Is Levi really on her side, or has he been placed in Mallika’s life for a more ominous purpose by her brothers?

The Last True Blood tracks Mallika’s fight for justice even when torn with family sentiments for her blood brothers, her undeniable spirit in completing her duty as set forth by her father, and her unquenchable desire for love with a boy called Levi, even when she believes it may be wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MP Sharma
• Release date: Apr 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311737090

MP Sharma

M.P. (Mituri Pradip) Sharma is a Writer, a Print Journalist, a Technical Writer, a Business Analyst, a Test Lead, and a Marketing & Communications/Public Relations Head for Nim-Véda Australia. Though she has a varied background, what has remained constant is her absolute obsessive love for writing, having written sporadically throughout the years. Mituri began her career as a print journalist while in school and continued to work as one while completing her university education in journalism, writing for a variety of local papers, university publications, online materials and glossy magazines. Even though a brief dissolution with the journalism world lead her down the path of Business Administration and Information Technology (with postgraduate degrees in both), she soon accepted the fact that writing was going to be plaguing her, happily or otherwise till she was no more. A previous recipient of the Australian based Michael Harrison Award for Print Journalism, Mituri’s forte and passion lies firmly in fiction writing. Armed with plenty of stories where as a child she would be lost in an imaginary world she had created for hours at an end, it turns out the habit never left. Mituri still finds that her imaginary acquaintances provide her with a source of entertainment whenever and wherever and she truly hopes that you will allow her to take you on the ride to some of these “worlds” as she sees it!

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The Last True Blood

By M.P. Sharma

Copyright 2010 M.P. Sharma

The moral rights of the author has been asserted

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents:

Start of The Last True Blood

About the Author

Connect with the Author

Prologue:

This country’s going to the dogs.

This is what was going through my mind in 1749, as I watched fires blazing all around me; smoke engulfed the primeval city of ancient Delhi. Hushed walkways, Mogul monuments and those pesky aristocrats shielding their supposed reputations under their dead mistresses’ veils as they rushed home to sleep in the comfort of their women’s bosoms promising never to revisit their evil ways to God. That is if he saved them one last time. Men…how little they change.

I remember a sense of calm as Delhi collapsed around me, as the Earth reared her angry head beneath me, and roared her impatience at the wrath of my species. I had an overwhelming sense of tranquillity. I knew I should be panicking, I knew I should be running, but I no longer cared. Maybe it was my youthful exuberance, but none of it seemed to matter. The one thing that resonated through my mind was the thought that my country was going to the dogs, my last mortal thought, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

Through the smoke I peered, till this day I still do not know what I searched for, as my people pushed and shoved me out of the way, my feet remained firmly planted on the floor. Some unfortunates even tried to help me, shake me out of my trance, yell at me to run away with them, but I remained unresponsive. They had to give up in the end, save themselves; after all self-preservation is the key to survival. Poor fools, how little they know.

Women screamed, children screamed, everyone screamed. But I was finding it all a distraction, an irritation overcame me, and I just wanted to yell at all of them to shut up. Instead I started walking to the lone ship on the pier, amongst the smoke I was the sole person ambling towards the river rather than away, the majestic Yamuna, Delhi’s very own spectacular version of, or at least as close as it was ever going to get to having a sea. As if in a trance, I stepped calmly at first, but the need was unbearable and I slowly increased my speed to a quick sprint. The ship was only a few meters away, but my hunger was so great it appeared to be a country away.

I scurried through the turmoil that encircled me, shoving passers-by as I drove myself through the crowds, only one thought banging in my brain. I have to get to that ship.

I scraped my way somehow onto the deck, the ship was unlike any other I had seen before. I was used to fishing on my wooden canoe like structure, waking up at the break of dawn, my favourite time of the day, before the rest of the World awoke. On the summer mornings amongst the calm, serene shores, I often pictured myself alone in this World, myself and my creator as one.

This vessel was a far cry from my creaky, humble sea mate. The architecture was unlike I had ever seen before, only years later when the British ransacked the shores of India did I come to understand and appreciate European architecture. But for now, however, I was spell bound by her beauty, her subtle curves and smooth marble. As the mineral sandstone glistened against the full moon’s light, I realised nothing so charming and sensual had ever surrounded me.

For a moment I was lost, but I was always aware of something more, in the same way a child is aware they need an extra piece of candy even though their stomach can barely bear another granule. But, I needed that candy. I momentarily peered out to the land that was Delhi, my beloved Delhi, a virus, a curse. Unlike any other city in the World, Delhi has always served to grasp and retain my interest. Even now, over two hundred years of living, and there is still no place like historic Delhi.

I used my mortal eyes to glance around one final time, had I known it would be my last; I would have taken my time. My eyes glazed over the tumult and distress and only saw the virus that entwined me. Delhi, a cancer that had risen through my primeval blood veins only to envelop my soul, but the craving was unbearable.

I tore my eyes off the misery on land and frantically darted back and forth on the ship’s deck, where would my thirst be quenched, when would I be fed for life? I stopped and heard nothing but my own quick, sharp breaths. I would have to get off the ship quickly if I were to survive my mortal life. How many nights since have been spent wondering what would have happened if I’d stepped off that ship, if I’d overcome my cravings and stepped back onto my beloved land, if I hadn’t been as weak as I once was.

It was not to be however, and at the end of each night, I succumb to the realisation that my life had been lost the very moment he had seen me, the very moment he had wanted me. I scurried amongst the darkness, the smog and fog combined to give an eerie sense of foreboding grief, but I didn’t care, I needed him without knowing who or what he was.

I was about to give up, rest my feelings of insecurity on a warped sense of reality. I could hardly be blamed; my city was being demolished in front of my eyes when I heard him, the voice of my future father.

Mallika, although whispered, my name echoed, hardly audible, but deafening at the same time. I turned around swiftly to find the owner of the voice, with agitation, looking to see if anyone else had heard it. Ridiculous in retrospect, considering the madness that was manifesting itself around me.

Mallika, come to me my child, I was startled and relaxed all at once. My name had been uttered by many, but never so seductively, never so alluringly. I ached to hear him repeat it again; I would have given up my life to listen to his voice one more time. Little did I know that my wish was about to be granted.

I remember little of what happened after, though what I do recall can never be forgotten. With complete clarity, but in a stupor I followed his smell, his voice, his being. My lucidity then can never allow me to completely forgive myself for pursuing him, the ultimate recognition that I allowed him to do what he did is the real reason I cannot look at myself in the mirror till this day. Mine and others of my kind alike.

I recall the face of my father with crystal clearness still, more than two hundred years on; I can even now call to mind his youthful fluid skin free of even the subtle most wrinkles. I still remember being shocked at the absence of laughter lines. As I drew my eyes to his, I recollect reeling backwards a little, losing my footing for a brief moment, being shocked at the deep blackness of his pupils; they seemed to be no white. Almost as if a single drop of the blackest ink had been released by the thinnest quill into each pupil, but I steadied myself by reassuring that the shadows of the heavily garbed drape he stood behind cloaked the windows to his soul.

He outstretched his skeletal fingers towards me, and with a single curl of his index finger, he seemed to pull my entire being towards him, my fear and clearness was too late, my fate had finally been sealed.

Piercingly gazing at me, he murmured in my ear I have sired so few, and yet been disappointed by so many. Then as he pushed my wild black hair out of my face and eyes he declared with a smirk, but none my dear, have been as beautiful as you.

I remember my body falling backwards as he held me by the neck going limp in his arms. For the first time that night I recall extreme agitation and dread at what was about to happen, as if a final defence of my soul was occurring, only to be dealt the ultimate blow of defeat.

He smiled, and I remember being drawn to the contrast of his white teeth against his paler skin. I recall trying to distinguish which was whiter, when he brought his lips to my throat. With a deep laugh he said in a low voice. So pure, so subtle. He curled a wisp of my hair between his fingers. Too young to be corrupted by the ways of the World no doubt.

A moan escaped my lips, a groan of fear, of ecstasy, when he buried his head in my hair breathing deeply. I have two sons already, a dual disappointment, but never a daughter. I have always longed for a daughter, you will take care of me won’t you my sweet one. Be my companion for the years to come will you not?

With this question he reeled his head back and I remember gasping at the sight of such fragile beauty being transformed into such frightful ugliness. He almost growled as he held his head back peering towards the sky but with his eyes shut, as if the metamorphosis was truly painful. He peered down at me with completely black shrouded eyes and curled his lips backwards exposing long fangs. The veins on his face were exaggerated, particularly near his eyes, as the black ink in them swirled in anticipation. The veins framing his eyes and on his face darkened as the blackness that twirled in his pupils overfilled to drip into their embellished forms.

My father held my neck back and thrust his teeth into my throat. I remember feeling extreme heat as my blood rushed towards my neck followed by an intense coldness that has plagued me since, as it no doubt will forever. I can recollect fainting, but still being completely conscious. After what seemed like an eternity of pleasure, my father lovingly held my lips to his wrist and said Drink my child, drink and be fed like you never have before.

I recall choking at first as my body expelled the foul taste and the smell, most of all I remember the sickly sweet perfume. Then, I grasped my father’s wrist and drank, almost sucking his entire being clean of all the blood he had. With every taste, my body rose higher and higher. After a time, he violently pushed me back onto the floor as he fell backwards exhausted by his effort. He crawled towards me menacingly, and took my face in his hands.

As my father held my head back firmly between his claw like hands, he peered into my glazed half-mast eyes, and with a glisten in his eyes and a snicker he whispered in a raspy voice licking his lips. Now Child, you are finally one, one with your new Creator.

Chapter One:

My father, the original Dracula has been misrepresented in the texts by the many authors throughout the ages that have been obsessed with his mystery. Most have got his story wrong, and his textual age couldn’t be further from the truth. I remember the first few days he nurtured me, a novelty. I revelled in his love and unbridled adoration after spending the years of my previous mortal life as an unwanted scrounger and orphan.

As I grew, he would rest my head on his lap during the lonely nights when it was just the two of us, stroking my black hair. How he loved my hair. He would run his long thin fingers through my scalp, massaging the thin shroud of taught skin pulled across muscle, jokingly telling me the blood needed to be circulated up there. The first few days after being turned had been hard, as it is for any mortal baby in their primary months. I was constantly hungry and my body reeled from the agony of transformation. My human blood was being expelled from my being slowly, and being replaced by my new vampire DNA. I would often wonder if this is how it felt for a human baby, but this burning rejuvenation would be remembered by me for the rest of time, unlike the memories that fade away after the passing of mortal childhood.

My father would often bring me my food at nights as I kept him awake most of the day, crying and howling from hunger, boredom and general dissatisfaction. Teething was the most excruciating though. The first day after being converted he brought me a newborn, and even in my hunger I recall being disgusted at the image of sucking the neck of an infant. I whirled across the room, huddling myself into the corner of the blackened space. My father walked towards me with the screaming child in his arms as I turned my face into the wall, trying to will my teeth away, my cursed immortal face away.

My father stroked my hair across from my pupils. My child, you need your strength. There is nothing more pure than the blood of an infant.

My eyes blackened and my teeth appeared in the same manner my fathers did that first night we met. About to bite, I pushed the child away as my Sire held the infant’s neck exposed in front of me. I remember that day especially; as it was the first and last time the great Dracula had ever been really cross with me. In the years that followed he would often state how it was impossible to be angry with his beloved daughter.

With a scowl, my father altered his appearance as he would often do in front of me to display how I appeared without having a mirror to look into. Not having a reflection is the biggest humbler ever. He held the baby’s neck in his hands ready to devour the child as I looked in horror and then his eyes caught my inherited vampire ones; it was often like looking into my own personal mirror.

Before he could feed, his pupils softened as he transformed back into his fake human appearance. Let it be known Child, for as long as I have lived since the beginning of time, never have I left a meal untouched. Daughter, you are pathological.

Abruptly he turned his back on me, picked up the screaming child and walked out into the night slamming the door behind him. Since that day forth, the elderly and children have been no go zones for me, that is if they’re healthy and have even the slightest chance of life beyond their ailments.

That evening he returned, and I huddled myself, afraid he would strike me in anger from the hours prior. As a peace offering he had bought me the body of a young man who was succumbing to his injuries. My father laid his lifeless body on the velvet divan in front of me as I crawled to him in unbearable famine.

My eyes blackened as I approached him, encircling his body the way a starved lioness does. I stroked his hair softening at his subtle features and his innocent face. My Sire dragged my hair away from my ear and bent down to my crouched position, whispering. He is breathing his last, help him end his misery.

As I pondered whether to drink or not, my father looked at me lovingly. So much sensitivity at such a young age. You will be troubled my Child, alas for forever, but at the same time you will make your father proud.

I drew my head back, altering in front of the male bending to look at him in all my dreaded, grotesque glory. The man’s fearful face angered me; his look of fright at my manifestation annoyed me and shamed me all at once. Wanting it to end, I sunk my teeth into his soft flesh and drank like there was no tomorrow.

Chapter Two:

My early years with my father had been occupied with education and the cultivation of the appreciation and understanding of my lineage.

Dracula had sired two sons before me, but he rarely spoke of them. When he did, his words often dripped with displeasure and defeat. My brothers had been turned early on during my sire’s life, and he often conceded that his immaturity in searing them may have led to their murderous rampages throughout the ages. Many of the vicious vampires that had existed since, and still do till this day, have been sired by my brothers Adrinius and Zacchaeus.

Both my elder siblings are of noble blood, their combined power extends well before their vampire days. Both were young mortal brothers in life, blood brothers now, hoodlums my father often states, from ancient Europe. On one of my father’s early trips away from Transylvania, he had fallen in love with two young noblemen from Ireland. My Sire himself was young then, and their brash bravado appealed to him, young sons to party with. Their money and reputations preceded them throughout Europe, women swooned over them wishing to betroth them, elder men envied them, and older women wished to own them.

As for my brothers, the one thing you can say assuredly about them was their acceptance of all women, older and younger. Up till this very moment, loyalty has never been a necessity with them, or at least I have so been told. I have never had the pleasure or displeasure as my father would say, of meeting my brothers. My sire has ensured successfully that our paths have never crossed till date.

As for Adrinius and Zacchaeus, I cannot say that I am not intrigued by their larger than life personas. I have tried to cajole my father into allowing our union as a family, but even in his better moods he remains unnerved. Admittedly, I have always been able to entice him into granting my every desire, but meeting my brothers has not been one of those wishes. My father has always brushed the topic away by stating They will ruin your innocence my lovely one, and left it at that. This was when I knew certain topics were not to be breached.

Dracula’s early life as a vampire and my brothers were topics we normally steered clear from. Even in my many history lessons and studies of languages, my sire ascertained that the learning’s of man were to be enjoyed and to relish in. I have had time to learn the majority of languages present in the World, including some of the newer ones, those that have been around for the last few hundred years. My father taught me much of the European tongues that were used in the ancient lands before I was reborn.

My lineage on the other hand have been few and far in between. My sire often proclaimed with great pride that I was and will be forever The Last True Blood, the third and final child of the very first Dracula trilogy. Adrinius and Zacchaeus were regretful errors of judgment on his part from a time when my father was far too young to have been concerned with siring in the first place. The large age difference between my brothers and myself were testament to his insecurity in siring another Child he could be proud of. I recall brooding for a few days in between my early lessons during a mid-afternoon when he awoke from his slumber.

You young vampires, so full of energy. Spend your days resting your eyes my child, you need your beauty sleep. He sighed and stretched his supple body, making his way to my books and I without the appearance of ever leaving his bed as I had become accustomed to. My sire twirled my hair in his fingers resting my unruly strand behind my ear the way only he could. Like every pore in my being, even my hair adhered to his every command whole heartedly.

I had inherited my father’s thirst for knowledge, cooped up with my books most of the day, willing sleep away as much as was vampirely possible. When I didn’t sleep I was safe, protected from the dreams that I dreamt in my mortal life, visions of hope and the future, dreams that had transformed into nightmares now as a vampire.

He crept his way across to our window located in our abode in those days in Old Delhi, situated in the bustling street of Chandni Chowk. My father liked the noise and the hustle of the World’s second largest population. Even then, India was packed. My father had never liked the daylight, contrary to popular belief, he could move around in the sun, but he would often tell me. Would you like to be seen by millions as you transform under the harsh realities of the blazing Indian sun. Transylvania had been cold and dark throughout most of the months, but Delhi was the opposite. Besides, the sun hurt his soft black eyes and his pale skin allowed him to sun burn easily. I was a little better off in that respect, even in my extreme paleness, my skin was the colour of milk chocolate.

His beautiful delicate mocha flower, my sire would call me, with a sharp sting when hungry, he would joke. Knowing how my mortal life had been spent in Delhi, my father had chosen to cover the window with sheer Indian chemise for me, so that I could spend my days reminiscing of how it felt to move among my people in the bustling streets of Old Delhi under our warm, inviting sun.

My sire turned to me examining my sulking face. What is it my child?

I looked up at him, and he was once again awe struck by my innocent beauty, I could see it in his loving expression. My Indian skin and features were made to become a vampire my father would often state. The vampirism had had the same effect on my body as it does on my European counterparts. But the paleness had only served to turn my dark skin into a Moroccan tan, and my already large black eyes into larger deer like pupils. My lips had turned into a faint ruby red lipstick that could never be removed. Laugh lines no longer existed, so my skin took on a smooth caramel look that shone in the glistening lights of the candles we vampires often use.

You will be unique, my child, my father would often proudly state. Everyone believes vampires to be of European descent. But you my child will shock all those who come before you, will you not? We vampires do not discriminate on the basis of skin colour, do we? he would jest. My beauty held no bounds my father would say. Be careful of who you sire with my child. Make sure my lineage remains mesmerising.

Why did you choose to sire me father? I am not of noble blood, I know not of my parents, my birth, or my descendants. Adrinius and Zacchaeus are both of dignified heritage, and here I am, your third and final child, a wild orphan descendant. Nothing more than a rogue, I once asked.

As I crossed the room to peer out to my beloved streets of Delhi from my window, it dawned on me that being a vampire will always be about subtle anomalies. I gazed at the familiar sites that had become alien to me now - the shawl sellers, the roadside food stalls, the poetry readers, and shoe cobblers, the women as they covered their faces out of respect carrying their mud made pots bursting with water while they dangerously zigzagged through the crowds. All were so near; close enough to touch, but unattainable now. As a vampire, I rarely love what I am, especially when my hunger pangs are finally satisfied, and at other times, I can hardly bear the thought of existing … just like humans.

I must confess, I hoped his answer would cure me of these uncertainties of existence; as if somehow the answer would justify my rebirth. Perhaps my mortal life had been so intolerable, that being of noble vampire blood would vindicate my father’s actions. Possibly his actions were purely selfless, solely conceived from love.

He looked at me … my Sire. As I gazed down onto the streets of Delhi, I could feel his eyes bore into my skin, so deeply that no sun in a land near the equator would suffice to the burning sensation I felt in my neck, where he had first tasted me.

I forced my eyes to him as his gleamed against the sun through the chemise. He was looking at me the way he only knew how to, finding something so deep inside, I was unaware of its existence in the first place.

Never hate what you are, he said. I have tried the noble route, two supposedly dignified sons who behave more like unworthy peasants. You will not fail the way they have done. I will live through you. The living undead, he grimaced.

Noble heritage may breed reputation, false though it may be, and spoilt children Adrinius and Zacchaeus have always been. Relentless in their thirst for blood they do not need, I am shamed every moment I think of them being two of the three the real Dracula has sired. But you, he paused here as he held my face in his hands. You are the true noble child of Dracula. You know what valour is, what courage is, what being undead holds. You know that blood thirsty slaying is not what a vampire is about. You will sire many, you will rejuvenate and uphold the fallen vampire status in the World, where once again people will utter our names in whispers, more out of respect and fear at our splendour than from the stupidity and wasteful sacrificing brought on by your older siblings.

You will avenge me of my son’s failures. You will ensure that our secret remains untold in this World because my sweet Mallika, our continued survival is in grave danger if these stupid mortals were to learn of us, he proclaimed as he swept his hand across the pane of our window alerting to my people. Those who were once known to me as my fellow countrymen and women, as my brothers and sisters.

You Mallika are my final hope, my ultimate attempt of taking vengeance against the blind insanity of my sons. You will rid the World of them and their children who are as irresponsible as their fathers in their quenching desire for murder. Mallika, Queen in your mortal language, and the Vampire Queen is who you shall be.

My eyes widened in disbelief. You wish me to kill my own brothers Father? I stuttered. But they are of the same, the same flesh and blood as me, how can I slaughter them and their offspring?

Don’t be foolish Mallika, he reprimanded me; Your brothers are reckless adolescents who have no thought of where they sow their seeds. Their children are thankless and as rash as them. You can no longer let your family insecurities cloud your purpose in life, the duty you were conceived for.

And what is that Father, I asked. Why did you really sire me?

To save your kind for the rest of time, he uttered.

Chapter Three:

So this is how it came to be Thanksgiving 2010.

After more than two hundred and fifty years, Thanksgiving celebrations can be quite a bore. It’s the same old ways of partying - drinking, smoking, fire crackers, loud inaudible boorish music … oh, and drinking. You’d think that people would find a new way of rejoicing, but then again humans have never been very innovative.

Most mortal ideas have been taken from us, but we let humans think that they thought of them. Fame has never been our strongpoint, probably something to do with all those fangs, disappearing, fast as lightning, blood sucking inconsistencies.

As I walked through the bustling streets of Boston, through the delicate greenery that was fast transforming into the yellows of autumn, trickling through the city of Massachusetts, I found myself reminiscing about the past. I strolled through Scollay Square, enjoying the cold breeze that had mortals tightening their coats around their waists. The place hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in the city in 1880, but then not much has in the world.

Those in drunken stupors stumbled around me, irritating me to no end. Once or twice I could feel myself unintentionally transforming. Their intoxication would have given them a false sense of bravery anyway; pursuing them wouldn’t have been half as much fun as it would be under normal circumstances. I shifted my attention away from the stupid fools celebrating tomorrow and the day after. As a vampire, days tend to blend into one another, and you realise that forever ain’t really that grand.

About a hundred years ago my father had sent me away from him. Parting with him after a hundred and fifty years had been traumatic to say the least. I knew no one else, no other friend, vampire or mortal. I dreaded life on my own and feared life as a vampire in the unknown. I couldn’t understand how I had done it as a mortal.

I can’t blame my father for abandoning me, he had no choice. He would have liked to have taught me more; even one hundred and fifty years aren’t enough to understand God’s creations. I still had so much to learn he had told me, and similar to any father, mine was apprehensive of letting his little girl out of his sights.

I had spent the last century of my life with him in his place of origin, Transylvania. After one hundred and a few years of living in my beloved Delhi, my father had started missing his home, and his friends. We had made none in Old Delhi; my father had searched, believe me, for those of the same species as us in India, but to no avail. I remember many nights where he would come home, defeated, awe struck of