Eternal Darkness, Blood King

by Gadriel Demartinos

  He was faster and stronger than most men; and with his expertise, he was a true lethal weapon.

  I was intrigued when I found out not only what he was planning but also his motivation. I guess that I took him on as my pet project. He was in his midthirties, white, athletic, and not too good-looking, which served him well, as he could ease his way into places without standing out; and that’s something any killer would appreciate. You could tell by his posture that he was a man who wouldn’t back down from anything or anyone.

  He had been taking pictures of and following a group of Russian mobsters all over town; apparently, the Cubans no longer ruled the underworld in Miami. The Russians were going to meet up with a group of Dominicans to discuss some bad blood between them. No pun intended.

  I had witnessed how Hunter was the architect for the entire scheme, setting everything up for an ambush. I admit feeling jealous as I watched him operate. His plan was diabolical, and it bothered me that it was not my idea. It was simple, really. The same game. He set them up to a meeting in a specific place. Once there, he would cause havoc. With a little luck, they would take each other out while he watched. Taken from the pages of Sun Tzu, no doubt; and as the ancient Asian general would have said, “There’s no such thing as luck.”

  Now a traitor, a fugitive, and a criminal, he had to declare war on others. But why?

  Many nights I contemplated the possibility of turning him. What a great vampire he would have made!

  But this night was the night I had been waiting for, for the last couples of weeks. Tonight Hunter was on.

  I opened my eyes at 5:15 p.m. and waited for the end of the twilight, watching the news. Flying too early would put me on the spot. Then the stories would spread of a mysterious flying object over the Miami skyline, but I had no choice because, to my despair, my vigilante had set the time of the meeting for 6:00 p.m. The fact that this was March and nighttime would arrive perhaps ten minutes before 6:00 p.m. worked in my favor, but still, I would have only about ten minutes before the show. I knew my thirst would be unbearable and I would be eager for a kill after having invested so much energy covering such a long distance in such a short time. But that was fine with me, because tonight, Hunter and I would get acquainted; so I thought it was only right that he had a chance to see what a real killer can do.

  *******

  It was past 8:00 p.m. when I got back to the apartment. I had to hurry to go meet up with Lucy at the museum. She had finally finished her collection, and I had helped her get an opening for an exhibit.

  It was a success. She sold one of her paintings, The Southern Pearl, for over $200,000 to an anonymous buyer.

  Not bad for her first time.

  Tonight we got to celebrate that success. I had other reasons to celebrate: My trip to the beach and my encounter with Hunter were exactly as I expected.

  I arrived at the empty lot near the beach shortly after 6:00 p.m., and they were at it. I kept my distance for a few moments, watching the mobsters kill each other. Hunter, however, had a surprise coming. A girl, from out of nowhere, decided just then to make a sudden stop at the exact moment and right in the spot where the meeting was going to take place.

  Hunter didn’t disappoint me. I saw him set the mobsters up before considering the life of the girl. I had to intervene; otherwise, my chance would have been spoiled by the police. I took eleven of them. Hunter took three. I made sure he saw me. I even called him vigilante to his face. He didn’t try to attack me or run away. Again, I felt his odd, alien scent, as well as his fear and his anger. Before he could react, and without containing myself, I took the girl. Not the frenzy from all the killing or from all the blood, or the fact that I was satisfied could have stopped me from taking her, in a fluid movement, shooting up to the heavens, leaving my vigilante behind.

  *******

  Moments later, after I got rid of my victim, I had another episode. Once again, I felt weak; and again, I heard the damn voice. By then, this had been happening more frequently, almost every night, and the voice had grown stronger. I couldn’t hide my annoyance; but whatever it might be, it wouldn’t show itself.

  I still considered the possibility that it might be Kamille or Amorgos trying to communicate with me, but why like this?

  Why was it that neither invoked me with the voice of silence?

  Why was it that they didn’t just use the phone?

  I had all these questions, but no explanation; and I knew I needed a third opinion.

  I landed in the backyard of Frank’s house. The smell of flowers and his scent were all over the yard—a repulsive combination.

  I saw a dim light inside and decided to invite myself in.

  Chapter 53

  The God and the Monster

  March 7, 2005, 6:45 p.m.

  Miami

  It happened right after I took the girl, the same girl whom my vigilante tried unsuccessfully to save.

  I was flying over the sea, falling in love with the night all over again when “the voice” talked to me; but this time, the message was different, very familiar and personal. It made me suspend my body in midair for a moment, so I could digest it. It called me in a way that I hadn’t heard in more than a lifetime, a way that only the few who knew me well used to do; but they were long gone now, dead, all of them.

  I kept looking, waiting, but then it kept its silence.

  I was not imagining things. I knew what I heard was true. That voice, no longer a whisper, clearly called me “the thief of all thieves.”

  In my disappointment, I ended up at an empty highway bridge near the sea. Feeling dizzy and mad, I screamed for the voice to show itself but got no reply. Finally, I had had enough.

  I need to see the old man, I said to myself.

  It had been years since we last saw each other, not because of lack of time—if there’s something I have, it’s time—but for lack of interest. I don’t like the old man. I can’t quite say what it is about him that I can’t tolerate, there are so many awful things; but I guess it’s because I believe he’s a monster of the worst kind. The kind who never realizes that he is a monster.

  I had stopped for over a decade in the West Coast, visiting. I thought he had died, until a couple of years back when I picked up his scent. Somehow, he had followed me to Florida, and even bought a property in Miami-Dade County.

  There’s almost an obvious unwritten rule about those we choose to turn. They need to have certain qualities; experiences; and, above all else, the stamina and courage for immortality.

  The old man didn’t want to admit it, but I knew he was seeking the opportunity to become immortal. Our “friendship” has always been one-sided. He always waits for my call, and I would seek him out only as a last resort. That’s fine with him, but it bothers me. I will admit that beyond all the things we have disagreed on throughout the decades, he has proven himself by assisting me on more than one occasion. Still, I can’t forget the things he has done. There are minds that I should never get inside, because the dark secrets they keep are too horrible, even for someone like me.

  I will also never forget that he once saved my life. I don’t owe him anything. We are not friends. We are two dark forces that use each other from time to time. At that moment, though, I needed him. I needed his uncanny skills as a spirit master, or as people nowadays call his kind, a necromancer.

  I found him in the semidarkness of his living room. How appropriate, I thought. He almost had a heart attack when I emerged from the shadows of his modest living space. Beethoven was playing, Sonate Für Klavier und Violine N.3 Es-Dur Op.12, the melody was king inside the room. For all his flaws, the old man has exquisite taste when it comes down to the arts.

  My ears picked a marked missed palpitation in his cardiac rhythm. I smiled, knowing that his end was finally near. He stared at me in silence for a while. I felt him trying to get inside my mind. For the longest time, that had been his life’s mission; and every time, I rejected him.

  In this game calle
d life, there are individuals born with certain abilities. These same skills can be developed in all of us. When I was turned, parts of my brain were awakened, parts that most people never get to use. The ability to control people’s will, to move matter from point A to point B, or to read minds is not beyond us if only we learn to use the part of our brain that controls and manages our core energy. That same core energy is what some call the soul.

  We are all flesh-and-blood batteries, and like any other energy source, it can be transformed, manipulated, and redirected, if only we had easy access to the knowledge of how to do so.

  The old man was above most. He had trained himself over the years in how to control his core energy using his brain; but for all his efforts, he was not a match for my abilities.

  One thing he can do better than pretty much anyone else is contacting that invisible force around us. The one we all share and move through—some people call it gods, spirits, ghosts, and even angels. He is open to this force and knows how to translate the different types of changes in energy. Then his brain would perceive whether it was a positive or negative source. The old man can only interpret this information as far his capacity allows him. In most cases, it ends up with just a hunch, a premonition of either danger or fortune; and that is more than enough.

  We started to speak in Spanish.

  “Basta, no puedes leer mi mente,” I warned him. “Stop it. You can’t read my mind.”

  He was sitting in front of a big table, writing down something that he had just read in a book. There was a half-empty bottle of scotch whiskey next to a half-full glass.

  “Hace tiempo que no os veo Viejo,” I continued. “Long time no see, old man.”

  I quickly recognized the Bible among the books.

  It is funny how the wicked always turn to ‘God’ when their youth and strength are gone and death is near.

  I read his mind easily and saw his doubts. I also found something unexpected: The old man, the assassin of children, was hungry for peace.

  I’d be dammed if I was going to let him get away with it that easily!

  “I believe you’re on a foolish quest,” I added.

  Frank wanted to speak. I could feel he was about to voice out his thoughts, so I hurried with mine.

  “Just now you were thinking that God had no choice but to let the devil loose, so there could be a balance in the world,” I said.

  Frank dispensed with all intentions to speak.

  “If you look closer you may find that the devil is just an extension of god,” I smiled at his drunken expression. “That’s if you believe that sort of fiction,” I added.

  “Three years,” he said. “Not a word, not a letter, not an e-mail. And just like that, you show up.”

  His abnormal heartbeat was starting to annoy me.

  “You should check that up,” I said with a wicked expression. “That heart of yours is sick. I’ll say you won’t last more than six months,”

  I watched as the old man reached for the glass of scotch and drank.

  “Maybe I’m being overoptimistic,” I observed.

  The old man put the glass back on the table and poured more whiskey.

  “¿Me acompaña?” he said, chuckling. “Would you care to join me?”

  The music was beautiful. I decided to listen to it rather than to the old man. I hid my body deep in the darkness of the room. The old man tried to track my movements with his tired eyes. I stood in silence, concealed by the shadows, and looked at him. He had aged badly, and that notion made me smile again.

  “¿Estoy hablando solo?” he asked. “Am I talking to myself?”

  Suddenly, I approached him, maybe way too fast for his own good. I just felt like toying with him for a bit. With a bit of luck, he could delight me by suffering a heart attack. I grabbed his head violently and opened my mouth. Instinctively, my fangs went for his neck. Then I stopped. I could smell the red liquid under his old skin, and I wanted it all.

  “Yes, do it, please!” He said.

  His voice distracted me from my murderous intentions. No, it won’t be this easy, I said to myself.

  “¿Te gustaría eso no?” I whispered in his ear. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

  The old man closed his eyes. “Yes.” He quickly replied.

  “What if I’m here to take instead of give?” I whispered again.

  The old man opened his eyes. “¿No es así siempre?” he replied with another question. “Isn’t that always the case?”

  That was the old bastard I knew. Deep behind those tired eyes, the killer still existed. Somewhere under that costume of wrinkles and dry skin, the purest evil was waiting for the right purpose to awaken. As much as I loathed him, I also needed him. For now.

  I stood near one of the house’s columns, using the shadows as a cover, putting a considerable distance between the old man and me, trying to regain control of my thirst.

  “Please don’t leave!” The old man said.

  I looked at him from a distance, debating with myself whether to leave or stay.

  “You said it yourself. I don’t have much time left,” he continued.

  “Why that should be of my concern?” I asked.

  He tried to locate me inside the shadows, but his old eyes failed him.

  “I have always been faithful to you, haven’t I?” He asked.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Oh, but I have!” The old man said vehemently.

  I loved to see him get all worked up.

  “From the moment I found you, fifty years ago in that dirty hole you called home in Texas, you have only craved one thing, more than the love of your dying mother, more than the promises to your lost sister, or the lust for the human flesh of your victims,” I said, slowly coming out from the shadows.

  I went to stand in front of the table.

  Frank kept his eyes on me. “Our friendship has been bigger than our flaws,” he said.

  “¿Amistad?” I asked. “Friendship? Why should I be friends with a dying, drunk rapist, pedophile, cannibal mass murderer like you?”

  My words forced him to look down. He was weaker than ever.

  “I’ve helped you before, haven’t I?” He asked.

  “No. You have helped yourself by helping me before,” I clarified.

  The old man’s eyes came back to life. He looked up at me with rage. “So why don’t you end it right here, right now? Put me out of my misery!” He screamed.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at him.

  He stood there, watching me.

  “That’s the old Frank, the one who breathes evil,” I said, controlling myself. “In times, you have been helpful, I must admit.”

  The old man took a couple of deep breaths, still watching me. “So that’s why you’re here?” He asked.

  I regained my composure. “Maybe you could be helpful again.” I proposed.

  The old man grew serious, his face expression telling me he was almost offended. “Tal vez,” he said. “Perhaps.”

  His answer made me smile. I liked to see him reclaim some respect, even if he had no ground on which to stand strong. Then he tried again to reach for my thoughts. That was Frank, always a bastard.

  “Stop trying to read my thoughts, old wizard.” I said, letting him know that his efforts were futile, again.

  “Isn’t that what you do with mine?” He replied.

  “There’s a presence that I have been feeling lately.” I began to explain.

  The old man reached for the scotch bottle.

  “¿Uno de los tuyos?” he asked. “One of yours?”

  “No, this is a presence like nothing I have felt before.” I said, walking toward him.

  Suddenly, I wanted a taste of his blood. I stopped next to him, grabbed his left arm, and made a thin cut on his wrist with my nails. I saw the dark red liquid flowing freely, and I dived into it, swallowing it slowly, savoring it. I felt the warmth growing in the center of my chest. My heart started to beat faster, stronger. T
he euphoria began to build up, and I knew had to stop, or I would kill him. I felt his pleasure in the small pain I caused him. His mind opened for me, and I saw disturbing images of death and pain, children screaming pleading for their lives, human flesh being eaten by the one I was feeding from. I walked away, torn between the taste of life and the sickness provoked by all the mental images I had access to.

  “¡Oh monstruo!” I said out loud. “Oh, you monster! The things you have done to so many of them!”

  I closed my eyes, trying to clear my own thoughts; and when I opened them, the old man was holding a handkerchief against the cut on his wrist, looking at me in silence.