WIP Wednesday - The Font

I've finished the first draft of this vampire tale. Heriolf, the self-styled lord of southeast Georgia's vampires, has powers beyond those of his subjects.  He uses his enhanced abilities with terrifying results:

     A female vampire moved forward, her bobbed brunette hair and flapper-styled dress suggesting she last drew breath during the Roaring ‘20’s.  Her white kid gloves were spotless.  She took several steps forward, closing the distance to Heriolf.  He smiled at her, but Elisha noticed how sharp his ice-chip eyes became. 
     She offered a curtsey.  “Glorious Master Heriolf, I’m come to you in all humility to—”
     “To murder me and take my place.”  Heriolf laughed into the shocked silence.  “I hear your thoughts, fool.  Have you not been told of my powers?  Of my absolute omnipotence?”
     The vampire didn’t wait to hear more.  She sprang at Heriolf, a silver blade in her gloved hand.  She was fast.  Heriolf was faster.
     The Norseman seized the flapper in mid-air and ripped her in half at the waist as if tearing a sheet of paper before flinging the two parts to the marble floor.  Blood sprayed, and Naya ducked the splatter by crouching behind Heriolf’s chair. 
     His massive bare chest covered in the twitching corpse’s blood, Heriolf roared at the assembled.  “I am not only your master, I am your god!  Who else will challenge me?”
     No one spoke.  No one moved.  Elisha caught Sebastian’s gaze with his own.  Moving carefully, he knelt and bowed his head.  Everyone around him immediately followed suit, and less than a second later, every vampire, except the ones standing guard near Heriolf and Naya, had gone to their knees.
     There were a few moments of utter silence as the congregation awaited the tyrant’s next reaction.  Heriolf had been known to go into murderous rages, killing off a dozen vampires at one go just because they were unlucky enough to be at hand when he lost his temper.   
     Nothing can be as still as a vampire.  Even their hair was motionless, refusing to acknowledge the occasional errant breeze.
     Heriolf’s voice rolled through the room like distant thunder.  “Clean this up and resume the ceremony.”