Something in humans clung to the campfire, though, still reveling in the scary stories about the horrors which lurked in the Stygian darkness. Primordial fears banished by the electric light were altogether rejected by civilized man. How else could vampires operate a church and not be discovered? Even when shown evidence, most rational minds would deny the truth in front of them.
Father Bryant marveled at the events which brought him to be standing on a stage in a vampire’s church He never dreamed such an evil to be real. Having Sean reveal himself, hoping for release from his undead life, opened John’s eyes to a reality he never entertained.
John glanced at his watch as he walked the stage. He heard the heavy door open and he looked to see Maggie slowly walking toward the stage, stiff legged and awkward. She stopped halfway down the aisle, a frightened look on her face.
“Should we get out of here?” John asked as he started down the steps.
“Oh, no. I won’t allow that. Not yet anyway. Maybe not at all.”
Instantly John froze. “Malcolm!” he exclaimed.
From behind Maggie the master vampire appeared, his right hand on her throat. With the slightest pressure from his unnatural muscles, he could snap her neck.
“Hello, Father, nice to finally meet you.” The malice and hatred in his voice sent a chill down John’s spine. “You hurt people I love, destroyed an enterprise years in the making. I feel a cosmic, almost karmic need to extract a price as dear from you.”
“Let her go. If you want someone to pay, I’ll do it. She’s just a bystander in this. Everything that happened today is because of me.” John dropped the backpack to the ground.
“She’s not innocent. She’s an accomplice to your crimes!”
“She did what I asked.”
“Like a soldier? Hardly.”
Maggie felt the hand about her throat tightening and relaxing as he spoke. His anger closed his steel like grip on her windpipe. Fear flooded her. If he released her now she felt like she would run with reckless abandon of a scared animal. Her pulse pounded in her temple as the blood to her brain strove to bring life sustaining oxygen. He didn’t need to break her neck, his grip could end her life without exerting the needed force to snap her spine.
“Please.” John’s bearing was one of complete surrender. He didn’t want Maggie to die. Enough life had been lost in the past 12 hours. He didn’t want the guilt and sorrow of her death added to the heavy price on his soul. “Please.”
Malcolm regarded him. He could hear the sound of her blood rushing in her neck, her labored breathing. It would be so easy to kill her. Another body added to the tally of centuries. He took a deep breath and released her. Without his grip holding her she collapsed to the floor. John rushed down from the stage to lift her up. He was frightened to be so close to Malcolm but he couldn’t forsake Maggie. He helped her stand and they backed away, carefully climbing the stairs up onto the lighted stage.
Malcolm stood still as a statue, impassively watching them.
“I can kill both of you at any time. I don’t need a hostage.” Malcolm glided forward and ascended the stage. He stood in front of them, imposing, lethal. Maggie clung to John. “How touching.” The vampire chuckled. “But love isn’t something your occupation allows.”
“What do you know of love?” John retorted contemptuously.
Malcolm surged forward, they retreated.
“More than you will ever know, mortal.” His deep voice resonated through them. “I've known love that transcends the flesh and I’ve known love so carnal it sullies the soul.”
“So why are you telling me?” John still held Maggie’s trembling body tightly.
“Do you remember the first vampire you met here in Las Vegas?”
John flashed on the boy-man Ice who followed him back to his hotel. He stabbed him, the vampire fled into the night leaving John frightened but determined. His first battle in a shadow war. “Yes, I remember.”
“He is one of my reasons for living. In a life centuries long you need a reason to continue. Immortality can be a grind. Ice is one of the reasons I wake up every night. Companionship is the reason.” Malcolm distractedly continued. “Ice and Simone. He likes being called Ice. His real name is Jeremiah. He is my son, brother, and companion.”
“How many people have you killed?” John asked.
“How many vampires have you killed?” Malcolm retorted.
“Five.” John spat back, “No. Four, almost five.” John said. “Six.”
Malcolm paused. The priest didn’t know how many vampires he killed. Maybe it was fear causing his uncertainty. “We’re both killers.”
“I’m killing monsters.”
“How am I more deadly, more of a monster, than the human race?” Malcolm asked. “In all my years haven’t killed a fraction of the people your average modern war has killed. The wanton wholesale killing for money or land or religion has decimated millions. Hundreds of millions.” Malcolm leaned on the last word looking for a rise out of the dubious priest.
“I want you dead.”
Malcolm laughed. It was a big hearty sound. “I died centuries ago.” He switched to a Monty Python accent. “But I got better.” He happily mocked the priest.
Maggie slipped out of John’s arms and stepped behind him. Malcolm had disarmed her in the lobby. She sensed John’s anger rising and shifted to his side if he decided to do something rash, foolish, hopeless, and futile. She didn’t think they were going to live. A reckless attempt at some desperate action was justifiable if they were going to die anyway. She would do whatever she could to help. They might as well go down fighting. She would take the cue to attack from him.
“If you are going to kill me, get on with it.” John stood ready, legs spread, arms by his side, fists balled up ready for a futile battle. “I don’t need a Bond villain monologue about how you are going to kill me. I’m powerless. Let’s do it.”
Malcolm smiled, fangs glinting in the stage lights. He had to admire the priest. In the face of certain death he was defiant. Malcolm took a step forward. John tensed up in anticipation. He expected a lethal blow, a clawed hand raking across his neck, being bent over, fangs rending his throat, spilling his blood over the stage.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Malcolm said. “It’s been four hundred years since my last confession.”
John reeled at the unexpected ritualistic statement. The vampire standing before him was four hundred years old. And he was a lapsed Catholic.
Malcolm was about to continue when a blur shot out of the darkness crashing into the ancient vampire. The two bodies careened off the stage and into the darkness. Maggie and John stood frozen on the stage watching the titanic battle. The vampires were elemental, forces of nature. Rolling, pounding, merciless.
Malcolm met the rushing figure. He didn’t have time to brace himself and was thrown off the stage. Fists pummeled the wound in his side he received in the cemetery. The assault reawakened the pain from the iron spike. The wound was partially healed thanks to the blood he imbibed at Rhyolite, but it was not completely regenerated. He roared in pain, and kicked out. There was a whoosh of air and the body flew backward. Thomas rolled to a stop against a pew. In a moment he was back on his feet sprinting toward Malcolm, his muscles pumping as he rushed to battle the older vampire. Malcolm moved to meet the onslaught, his hands were steel claws clutching for the neck, Thomas spun to the side and delivered more devastating blows to Malcolm’s left side and face with blinding speed. Malcolm back-fisted Thomas, the powerful blow slammed Thomas, flinging him across the floor.
“You shouldn’t have come back.” Malcolm growled in the dark, a primeval sound which sent fear down the spines of the stunned humans watching. “You were free, you could have escaped.”
“You’re old. You need to die.” Thomas hissed. His hatred clouded rational thought.
“Not by your hand.” Malcolm met the headlong attack of the vampire, pivoted and flung him fifteen feet into the side wa
ll. Thomas felt himself lifted off the ground and torqued his body mid-flight to protect himself from slamming into the wall head first. His back hit the wall and he fell down to the carpeted floor in a seated position. Malcolm followed the careening body to the wall but couldn’t grab him before he fell to the floor. Thomas, back against the wall kicked Malcolm in the groin with all his strength.
Agony blossomed, clouding Malcolm’s vision. He doubled over in pain. Thomas was on his feet in front of him, clawing at Malcolm’s throat. The age old vampire snarled unintelligibly. He protected his throat with his left hand, the right hand, a taloned claw, shot upward with lightning like celerity. His fingers dug into the flesh around Thomas’ scrotum. Malcolm jerked down with all his inhuman strength.
There was a sound of tearing fabric and flesh. Thomas howled in pain and outrage as he was brutally castrated. Blood spilled from his groin and he sank to his knees next to Malcolm.
Malcolm released the blood sodden genitals and fabric from his hand and he fastened his teeth to Thomas’ neck. He tore out the young vampire’s throat and feasted greedily on his blood. It would help him heal. He could sense the heart weakening. Death was close by waiting to take an immortal into his embrace. Malcolm watched as the light left Thomas’ eyes.
John and Maggie stood on the lighted stage during the battle. In the reflected stage lights they had only caught glimpses of the fight, ghostly flashes of bodies as they struggled in the darkness. The sounds had been frightening enough. They didn’t need to see the totality of the Herculean clash to understand its unnatural savagery. Neither had moved or attempted to flee during the fight. There hadn’t been time, the battle being so swift. The final gruesome brutal act shocked them both. The elemental fight over, Malcolm would now turn to them.
“Take this fool and begone,” he whispered to Death. Malcolm stood, victorious. His face and hands bloody, gore covering the front of his suit and dress shirt. Anger left him. He turned and walked to the side. He easily hefted a long pew by the end and walked back to the body. He lifted it up and smashed the heavy end down on Thomas’ head, crushing the dead vampire. He brought the pew down again and again. Killing him wasn’t enough. He needed to be erased from existence. The skull fragmented and Malcolm quickly rained blows down the torso crushing the ribcage
Maggie pulled at John. “Let’s go. He’s distracted.” She whispered.
“No!” Malcolm’s voice boomed out of the darkness. The sound of the heavy wood pew flattening the body stopped. “Stay where you are or this will be your fate.”
They didn’t attempt to flee. He heard her whisper despite the noise of his exertions. The destruction resumed. He stopped when the upper half of the body had become two dimensional.
The final gruesome, brutal act shocked them both. The end of pew dripped crimson as Malcolm set it down. Bits of flesh and bone clung to the end. He turned and walked calmly to the stage like the savage act never happened. Malcolm pulled out a pocket square from the breast pocket and wiped the blood from his face and hands as best he could with the small cloth. An oddly civilized gesture after the brutality they witnessed.
“Now remind me, what was I saying before I was interrupted?” He intentionally asked as calmly and innocently as he could to further shake up the petrified humans. Red blood soaked the pocket square but that was nothing compared to what was spattered on Malcolm. His expensive clothes were ruined.
John’s eyebrows rose up in disbelief. “You said it had been four hundred years since your last confession,” he stammered.
“Of course,” Malcolm ascended the stage and drew closer. Father Bryant moved back, shielding Maggie behind him. “Sorry for the commotion. Flat Thomas had bad manners.”
“He has no manners now.” Maggie stepped from behind John after coming to terms with her fears.
“I see why you like her. She’s strong.” Malcolm looked at her with new interest. “And funny.”
John moved to shield her again. “Leave her alone!” Father Bryant commanded. “What now? Are you going to kill us?”
“I’ve lost much because of you. I haven’t decided if I will kill you, turn you, or ignore you.” Malcolm’s mind conjured hideous tortures; unending horrors of perpetual pain. It would give him no satisfaction. He would gain no pleasure from hurting the mortals in front of him. The rage and the fire driving his revenge had burned out, partially quenched by killing Thomas. Everything now was ash in his mouth, he sighed deeply.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been four hundred years since my last confession. Well, give or take...”
Chapter 24
Confession
“What?”
“I’m serious. I want you to hear my confession.” Malcolm paused for effect then added, “If you don’t I will kill you both, here and now.” He slowed the last three words emphasizing each syllable carefully. The threat was real, their lives hung in the balance.
Father Bryant glanced obliquely at Maggie then returned his attention to Malcolm. “I’ll hear your confession, but I doubt I could give you penance for the evil you have done.”
“So be it. I’m not looking for penance.”
“I have no choice in the matter. There are rules for confession.”
“I know.”
“Maggie, you will have to get out of earshot,” John said. “But I doubt you will be allowed to leave the chapel, am I right?”
“No. She stays. I want her to hear this,” Malcolm replied.
“The confidentiality and privacy of the confessional is sacrosanct!” protested Father Bryant. “It cannot be violated.”
“Fine, I’ll kill her,” Malcolm stepped forward, “so we can have privacy.”
“Stop.” Defeated, Father Bryant barred the vampire from advancing. “She can stay.”
“Look around you, priest. You’re in a church run by vampires. There is no cross. There is nothing sacred here. My congregation worshipped me, a false prophet. It was a cult of personality. God was never here, He won’t be offended by a lack of privacy.” Malcolm privately reveled in the pained look on the priest’s face.
Crestfallen, John looked around. “You’re right,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Where shall we do this?”
“I imagine you want to stay in the light?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Malcolm walked off the stage and picked up a huge pew in his hands as if it was a toy. They shrank back. Was Malcolm going to pulverize them like he had just done with the young vampire? He walked back to the stage and placed it on the floor. “Both of you sit.” Malcolm glanced at his watch. There was time before he needed to decide the mortal’s fate.
Maggie and John sat on the long bench in front of the large, imposing vampire. Father Bryant transitioned to his accustomed role, priest. He reached for the cross which always hung at his breast to find it missing. Where had it gone? Malcolm reached into a coat pocket and pulled out the silver cross. It glinted in the stage light. He dangled it in front of the priest. Father Bryant remembered he placed it in the female vampire’s hand after Maggie shot her in the parking lot just hours ago. His action, his challenge now seemed foolish and rash.
Silently Father Bryant took the cross, kissed it ritualistically, and placed the chain around his neck. He made the sign of the cross and said words he had spoken thousands of times before. “Angelus Domini, child of... God.” He found the words inappropriate but habit was hard to break.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, let me see…” he paused doing the math in his head. “Three hundred and ninety seven years since my last confession. I’m going to break from your stodgy traditions and just tell you a story. Right from the start I’ll tell you I feel I’ve done nothing wrong. My actions weren’t sinful. It was necessary for my survival."
“I was born in the year 1558 in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, what is now Florence, Italy. My mother was a drudge who cleaned up after the Medicis. In the world of that time, you were either elite
and had money, or a servant. The middle class didn’t exist. My father had a position in the Boboli Gardens behind the Pitti Palace as a gardener basically.”
“My first recollections are of my mother. She was a pretty woman for the time with strong, worn hands from menial labor. She went into service of the Medici at a young age, mainly because she was pretty. That’s what happened to uneducated peasant girls. They were scooped up by the aristocracy as playthings. When she was no longer a concubine of a prince she ended up with my father. He was large for the time and strong from toiling in the gardens. He didn’t mind that my mother was, well, soiled. Many women were chatal for the aristocracy.”
“Life progressed for them. I was born. There was virtually no schooling for the peasant class. So when I was young, about five I think, I went to work in the Gardens with my father. It was what one did; you learned their father’s occupation. I was a bright child and I discovered about the beauty and cruelty of nature from my time spent in the enormous garden. I spent many hours in the spring and summer keeping the garden beautiful. The fall was spent raking leaves and trying to keep the turn of the seasons from ravaging the plants. I grew older. I acquired more of my father’s tasks for he grew older and infirm. He was only in his forties, but humans didn’t survive well then. Sickness, bad food and water, accidents you would shrug off today could be debilitating. When I was twenty I found my father dead in the garden, sprawled out on a path. He had a heart attack or something similar. I became the Master of the Gardens. I knew much about horticulture, had a rudimentary grasp of reading and writing, and after his death, my head swelled with my newfound importance to the Medici.”
“I treated the gardeners under me with disdainful courtesy. I was never overtly cruel but I was rarely kind. My self-importance now seems ridiculous. I was an uncultured, mostly uneducated peasant who was born into a lucky position which let me stumble into becoming someone of limited importance. Outside the walls, I was still looked down on as low born. My position I had only because my father died. I knew a great deal about plants but of life beyond the walls of the garden, I was very naive.”
Blood Stakes Page 23