The Vampire Medea

She'd been a priestess of the goddess Hecate in antiquity and princess of Colchis, on the eastern edge of the Greek world, in modern day Georgia. She'd been a spurned mistress, who'd committed a terrible atrocity in her bitterness and rage, this much of her story was true, as written by Euripides in the 5th century, BCE.

But myth and legend had diverged from her path here. She'd been cursed of the ancient gods for her crime, to walk the earth forever in darkness, forever with an unquenchable thirst, driven to endless murder, never to know a moment of peace or happiness again.

She stood at the back of the rave in the ancient catacombs, music pulsing, mortals dancing and partaking of various forms of vice. She smiled, her eyes glowing in the darkness. The ancient world was gone, but the curse was unbroken.

The sun and stars would burn out, leaving the universe as black and lightless as her heart, and she would remain. She would grind the dust of the forgotten gods underneath her heel.