Normal Sunday mornings usually didn’t begin with poking dead bodies.In the line of work as a vampire hunter, nothing was sacred and acting ignorant of that truth was a fool’s gambit. Fighting against the forces of the night for Eric sometimes felt like keeping a candle alight in a blizzard. The wax dwindled, the wick shriveled and the flame dimmed but the light was there and having a candle in a snowstorm was better than no candle at all.
Telling himself that doesn’t seem to matter as the corpse’s lifeless pupils penetrated through his shades, almost accusing. The surgical bay around them has been vacated under the pretense of a foot surgery and not for medical malpractice as Whistler flicks her penlight into the victim’s mouth as if she’s searching for treasure. The old vampire hunter’s last eye flicks back and forth in its socket with an unnerving energy.
The corpse was a grisly mess. The cheeks are sunken in like a mummy, lips flecked with dried blood and spit as the tongue is rolled out, askew to one side of his cheek. Their Nirvana band t-shirt is stained in the middle, a dark bloom of blood tinging the yellow fabric a ruddy brown. His crotch is mincemeat and the right knee is twisted like how a child would play with a barbie doll. It’s that type of crap that makes his blood boil. All that mighty vampire clan talk of honour and status didn’t matter in Eric’s eyes when all he saw them do was play with their food like some vindictive feral house cat. A tag was wrapped around his right foot with “Evan Langley” written on it hurriedly with a marker pen. It was no one that he’d never know in the short list of people that were willing to put up with him.
There was a burst of conversation outside the bay doors which momentarily made him freeze. Whistler paused in the middle of her medical examination, looking at Blade and putting two fingers on her lips. His hand was locked around the grip of the sliver parang in his belt scabbard whilst Whistler toyed with the derringer on her arm holster. The chatter faded and with that, the tension seeped out of both their frames and Whistler resumed her work.
“ So? What’s it look like?” He speaks up, leaning against a wall.
“ Well, satch, like I said before, if it walks like a duck, acts like a duck and talks like a duck, a duck is a duck.” Whistler glumly spoke, unconcerned with the human blood on his fingers and washing it off in the nearby sink as if she was a foreman at work. “ You didn’t need to call me all the way out here for my opinion. This is as textbook as it can get.”
“ You sure we never shot a few geese while duck hunting before?” Blade questioned, prodding the bite wound around the neck curiously with a finger.
“ Satch, I poked around every nook and cranny he had to offer. You know the signs. Miniscule puncture wounds on the right carotid. No abdominal swelling. Dried skin. Obvious as I’ve ever seen it. Who else could have done this?”
“ You forget the fact that it ain’t a complete exsanguination. Any vampire worth their salt would have drained the body dry as a husk.”
“ Minor detail, satch.” There was a skip in Whistler’s voice, either of amusement or doubt. He chose to believe it was the former. She began packing the various metal instruments she took out into a blanket before zipping it up into a toolbox. “ It doesn’t take a genius to put it together. This town has the largest vampire population in the south and everyone’s out drinking and having fun in the biggest festival this side of the bayou. Simple as 1 plus 1.”
“ Are we sure it ain’t a ghoul?”
“ Ghouls like ripping more than they like sipping, satch.”
“ Chupacabra.”
“ The South hasn’t seen them in decades and they don’t like coastal regions.”
“ Loup-garou.”
“ S-seriously?” There was a loud guffaw from Whistler followed by a hacking wheeze. She then zipped up the toolbox and shook her head, fixing him with a tired stare of derision.
“ Satch, ever heard of Occam’s razor? You’re making this a hell of a lot more complicated than it needs to be. We just have to figure out which vampire would be stupid enough to tweak the nose of every clan in this swamp and break a century old tradition. Hell, we’ve had some personal experience with a very well known independent in these parts….”
They didn’t even need to say the name as Eric rubbed his palm over the right side of his neck, hairs tingling, as he remembered those fateful words.....
I’m a dead man, vampire slayer, yet I embrace my fate. a man who is stuck between two savage worlds. “ It’s a possibility. He fled his ass up-state the last time we met, though. He’s gone.” Whistler’s raised eyebrow wasn’t giving him any confidence when he said that. Looking to change the subject, Eric pointed towards the body. “ Did you glean anything else from him?”
“ Oh yeah. I almost forgot.” Whistler fished a waspy square of yellow paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. “ Found this in the back of their jeans.” She paused before smiling sheepishly. “ And a roll of 20s.”
He took it from her and looked at it closer. The way it had been folded in the man’s pocket made it almost unreadable but he could make out one sentence on top of a image of a poured chalice of wine.
“ You are cordially invited to the Crimson Carnival. Purview exotic offerings and indulge in the finest of New Orleans culture at 8 PM on this Friday at Callan Contemporary.”
SHOW TICKET AT ENTRANCE
So, that was how he died. Eric crumpled it as he considered the new facts in front of him. The outline of a basic plan formed in his mind as he rubbed the remains of the paper in between his fingers, reducing it to shreds.
It would be fun to visit the Warehouse District after so long.
Once the rest of the humans had departed the gallery, the pristine white hallways and industrial concrete floors were for once absent of the conversations of rich investors and the chimes of champagne glasses. It was here that Dalton found a semblance of peace and something resembling sleep. It had been a full moon since he was turned and already, he found his former human falliabilities wanting. It was after the first day he turned when he realised he could no longer hear his heartbeat. It took weeks to realise that he no longer found the tastes of his favourite steakhouse appetising. Worst of all were the restless nights where he could no longer fall asleep.
But it was a small price to pay for immortality. His clan head reassured him that it would take time for him to transition as all newly Turned did. Thus, they had him currently acting as a glorified security guard. If that was what his clan head desired of him, he could not deny his request. Dalton couldn’t help but feel as thought it was a position unbefitting of his current. He should have been out on more pertinent missions with the clan, helping expanding their interests towards the northern states rather than assist with local recruitment.
His partner didn’t seem to mind, though. Eddie Baxter was a veteran of the clan, one who had found comfort in the hierarchy and had no ambition to move up the chain of command. They were in the midst of a conversation as they patrolled through an open area of a gallery where a bronze statue depicting the features of a man contorted in agony were illuminated by an overhead spotlight.
“ So, what did she taste like?”
“ Oh, fine. Had a bit of a fruity zest but I blame the swill the cattle put into their system.” Eddie stopped and then pulled out another box of cigars. He grabbed one with his teeth and then offered the box towards Dalton. “ Smoke?”
Dalton murmured a thanks as he took out two cigars and placed it in between his gums, letting Eddie flick open the lighter and char the tips. He took a lick of the aged tobacco, the warmth of the fumes suffusing his frigid blood. He and Eddie had gone through their fourth box this night out of pure boredom. Their lungs were probably full of tar by now but if there was one positive thing about being Turned, it was that vampires were nigh immune to intoxication and most drugs that humans were susceptible to.
Most new recruits learnt that the hard way when they were found trying to drink their sorrows at the nearest bar in the French Quarter.
They turned around into a right corridor that was still in the middle of construction, plaster walls and tarps thrown onto the ground with numerous oil paintings leaning onto the side of the walls. It was when Eddie grabbed him and then forcefully pushed him back from taking another step. His eyes looked at Eddie accusingly for an explanation but Eddie shook his head and then, slowly allowed him to peek over the corner.
There was a man in a trenchcoat. His brown hair was dressed in a bushy afro and he had a gangly figure where his arms seemed to grow off the side like tree branches.His back was currently turned towards them as he examined a watercolour canvas painting hanging on the wall. There was something off about him that made Dalton shiver.
Eddie’s eyes, however, were slitted and narrowed as his tongue flitted out and began licking his lips hungrily. Dalton placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder and Eddie looked back questioningly at him.
“ Eddie, don’t. “ He whispered. “ I know what you’re thinking. It’s Mardi Gras.”
“ Oh, come on. “ Eddie rolled his eyes. “ Just one little snack. You and me. We’ll hide the body and no one will be the wiser. Look at my face and tell me that you can go teetotal all week for tradition sake.”
“ You know our orders, Ed. If you don’t - “
“ Screw you, man. If you aren’t going to do it, then, I’ll get rid of this stupid human.” Eddie snarled and then, confusion furrowed his brow as he looked towards the spot where the human once occupied. It was empty.
“ Hey, where did the cattle go?”
“ Right behind you.”
Dalton has known Eddie for a month now to know how good of a hunter he is. He’s watched him snap the necks of a dozen humans in a dozen heartbeats and wrestle unruly vampires from their clan with one hand tied behind his back. Outside of a few members in his clan, Eddie’s strength has always been an assurance to him that they were indestructible. That nothing or no one could kill a vampire and get away with it.
His perceptions are destroyed in three seconds.
One.
Eddie’s fanged mouth closing onto the stranger’s throat.
Two.
A flash of sliver so bright that it could be mistaken for sunlight.
Three.
Blood.
An ocean of it.
His eyes blink and there’s an eight foot blade of holy sliver lodged into the surface of the concrete floor. A gout of blood stains his midnight security uniform and everything around him in a eight foot radius scarlet. Eddie’s torso and legs are twirling apart in opposite directions, the two halves steaming like roast meat from where the metal cut . The blade wasn’t even in the realm of being called a sword. It was more of a guillotine than a weapon, a piece of metal that had been bent and buckled over time and centuries into something that could contain its primeval strength.
The shock wears off when the stranger...no...monster lifts the blade up and whips away the blood which seems to boil off and slide off the lustre. He hefts it on his shoulder and underneath those shades, the monster looks at him with a lazy stare, as if waiting for him to make his move.
So, Dalton runs.
And then, his entire world is fire.
His nose is filled with the acrid stench of garlic and urine as a jar of something is thrown towards his back, cracking open and spilling its contents all over him. He writhes in pain as the achilles heel for generations of vampires over millennia leeches into his skin and burns his veins. He howls, screaming for help and yelling countless curses into the air.
“ FUCK. ED! You bastard! When my clan hears about this, you and all your loved ones will be hunted to the ends of the earth!”
“ Funny. I stopped taking that threat seriously after I removed the head of the 200th vampire that told me that.” He feels a foot flip him over on his back. “ Or was it the 415th? I lost count.”
Dalton blinks the scalding mixture of his bloodshot and then examines the figure more closely who killed Eddie. The shadows of the exhibit blots out most of his features but he can see a full-toothed grin glinting in the dark, fangs pointing out eerily. The gears in Dalton’s mind turned as he began processing what just happened.
A vampire who killed his own kind.
A vampire who was known for killing his own kind with swords.
There’s only one individual in New Orleans who fits into the mould of countless horror stories and legends told to him by his fellow vampires.
“ You’re - No, it can’t be you. You’re not real!”
The Blade replied by lifting up his foot and stomping down on his left ankle. The bone fragmented underneath the heel of his ironshod boots into a thousand pieces and Dalton could only make a whine of pain, head leaning back in surrender. He felt fingers dig into his throat and then, slam him against a nearby wall.
“ Was that real enough for you? I came here because one of you bloodsuckers got uppity and decided to buck tradition for once.” The vampire slayer took a photo out of his sleeve and waved it in front of him. Blinking through the pain, Dalton saw that it was a close up photo of one of the cattle, their faces dried to a husk. “ Take a real good look at this. His name was Evan Langley. He took a visit to this exact same art gallery before one of you guys decided to drink him dry. Who did it?”
“ I don’t know! No feedings are allowed during Mardi Gras per the Rosarius Agreement signed by all clan heads in 18 -” There was a tear of flesh and Dalton screamed once more, his throat hoarse, as a inch-wide oaken stake was planted into his belly. “You fuck! You - you staked me!”
“ Correction. I staked you in your pancreas. That’s just four inches below where your heart is. Now, you better hope my aim’s off cause I don’t plan on missing the next time.” “ I know all that crap you bloodsuckers spoon feed to your members. Just because you don’t feed doesn’t mean you can’t do other shit during Mardi Gras. You were planning on turning someone who was visiting this little gallery of yours, weren’t you? Someone rich. High profile. A real upstanding human who you could use to add some muscle to your clan.”
“ Fine. Fine! You got us! We were using this gallery to search for viable targets, cattle who had enough money to finance our trafficking operations in the south! But this?! “ Dalton’s panicked eyes flickered to the photo still in Blade’s hand. “We’d never feed. Please. I’m telling you the truth!”
“ You better hope so or …….” Blade paused as his head turned to the left.
Eric could hear it. It wasn’t a single voice. No, it was dozens or hundreds of voices in some obscene choir, an amalgam that was stitched together in a twisted symphony. He let go of the vampire, letting him slump to the floor in an incoherent mess of whimpers and whispers.
A hooded person had just turned around the corner of the hall and was now looking at him. He pulled out a stake and realised that today’s night was going to be a long one.
“ Shit.”
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