I hadn’t even realized it was him until I saw the story in the news a couple of days later. I remember reading the story, my hand shaking, fear welling up in me, knowing it had been me. Wondering if anyone had seen me. Wondering if I’d left anything behind that would lead the authorities to me. Wondering how I could have not known it was him.
I quit speaking to anyone who’d known me after that. I suppose in some way, I thought I was protecting them. If I wasn’t in contact with them, then I couldn’t hurt them. And if I couldn’t hurt them, then I couldn’t feed off of them.
When I killed a second person about three months later, I just wanted to escape. Thankfully, that one I didn’t know.
So I did escape. I ran to wherever I could. I’d work odd jobs, save up enough money for another ticket to somewhere else, then escape again. A lot of people dream of spending their youth traveling and seeing the world. I hope those who manage it have a better time than I did.
But it was through those travels that I learned. I was somewhere in Italy when Marcella hunted me down. Not knowing better, I’d been too obvious, made mistakes, risked exposing myself. She found me crouched in the rafters of a storehouse behind a church. She hadn’t been the first of our kind I’d come across since leaving home, but she was the first who knew what she was doing.
It took her about sixty seconds to put me in my place and about thirty seconds after that to get her point across that I was going to listen to her.
She can be very convincing.
That was also where I learned that the only way to deal with our kind was the direct approach. When we’re in a full fury, we didn’t listen very well if you tried to be nice. Even when we’re not in a feeding cycle we tend to like to argue.
Three claws sunk so deeply into your chest that you can feel them every time your heart beats counts as the direct approach.
I prefer to cut off heads. Marcella likes to rip out hearts. I suppose it’s a personal style thing. Both are effective. Both are the only ways to kill us. For all our strengths, we simply cannot live without a head or heart.
There’s something deeply philosophical in that idea. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure it out. The poetic aspect of it was almost enough to make me wish I was a poet instead of a painter.
Marcella had a grandson living with her at that time. A particularly bright young man of about fourteen. After she’d gotten my attention, rather than chase me off, she’d demanded I return to her home with her. She no doubt realized just how lost I was, though she never said as much to me. One thing was clear, however, if she felt I was any threat to her grandson, she would rip my head off and feed what was left of me to the fish.
I lived with them for nearly a year and a half. Both astonished at how much Marcella could teach me about hunting and recognizing the feeding cycles and warning signs that one was approaching and that there were those who would know what we were and accept us. That was also where I began really grasping the basics of art and painting. There are worse places to learn it than Italy.
Oh and one thing she made sure her grandson knew was how to kill us.
It said a lot about her, that she realized the precarious position a feeding cycle put us into and the risk it gave to whoever was living with her. Though she took every precaution, she also realized that sometimes bad things happened and if it came down to it, she wanted them to be able to stop her and save their own lives.
She knew they were no match for our speed and strength, so she taught them what weaknesses to look for. Not to inhale if one of us ever blew into their face. Where the blind spots in our vision would be once we were focused on someone. How to get us into a position where we could be killed.
Over the years, I’d discovered she taught whoever was living with her each of those things, adapting them for current technology and resources, as well as the person’s ability.
There were advantages to age, too. Marcella was already fairly old when I met her, somewhere around three hundred and fifty to four hundred years old. She’d rarely left Italy, staying on family property there after her husband had left her with all but her youngest daughter, who had insisted on staying with her mother. Her husband hadn’t known what she’d become, only that she was “ill”.
She had a control I hadn’t seen before and thankfully she didn’t expect me to equal it. She’d explained to me that the age of the one who infected someone had a lot to do with their abilities. An old one, whose infection wasn’t diluted down through multiple generations would have strengths and abilities others wouldn’t.
The one who had bitten Marcella had been old. And given her age now, if she were to ever infect anyone else...well, the idea quite honestly scared me even more than holding Dawn had.
Because I’d never found the one who bit me, I had no idea how old he’d been. But given that I couldn’t do half the things Marcella could—or simply couldn’t do them as well, I figured I was safe in assuming he wasn’t near her age.
Now Aleksander was another story. The one who’d infected him had been no older than I was now. Though Aleksander was older than me by a bit, he had no skills that gave him an advantage over me. Those he had infected for his “army” would have significantly lesser abilities. They’d still have the heightened senses and increased strength and speed, but not up to the standards others of us kept. They would get no real challenge from most humans, but would be no real challenge to those of us like Marcella and myself.
Now Aleksander had gone looking for someone to infect him. He’d lost his family—he’d never been too clear on the exact circumstances—and was looking for some way to replace what he saw as his weaknesses. Once he knew he’d been infected, he had embraced every change as if it were a new awakening. I suppose in a sense it was to him and each one was better than the last.
That was what made him so dangerous. He dwelled on our strengths, on what made us beyond human. He rarely acknowledged our weaknesses and would refuse to even discuss them. Marcella had met him once, briefly and been so unimpressed she’d ignored him after that. He’d given her little regard except to acknowledge her place as someone older than him.
I’d always felt that was one of his biggest mistakes.
What he was teaching those he had infected I could only guess. No doubt he’d built himself up as some ultimate power to them. Showing them what he could do and making them believe he was the strongest, fastest, wisest, best.
I think I’ve mentioned he was a damned fool.
I knew that was why he hadn’t tried to intervene when I’d pinned Gianna. He wouldn’t risk having himself exposed as less than the ideal and having it known that I could at least match him in skill and strength would raise doubts through his army. He would no longer be their “god” leader.
I was also fairly certain those he’d infected had been those who’d gone looking for it. Like the black-clad teenagers who occasionally followed me around, or the women who thought there was something irresistibly romantic about it. Or even worse, those who were power hungry and already half insane.
Oddly enough, Gianna struck me as belonging to all three groups. I suspected she’d been in her early twenties when she was infected. She had that vainness about her; still concerned enough about her appearance to hide her thinning hair with a wig. Someone who wanted to soak in the power and think that’s all there was with it. Someone who was going to fawn and admire Aleksander every time he snapped his fingers, then do whatever she could to keep her place at his side.
If I put the time into it, I had little doubt I would be able to stop them. But first, I had to know just what Aleksander was doing with them. I needed to know what he was teaching them. What he was looking for in those he infected. Why he’d thought I was going to help him.
I wouldn’t exactly say we’d ever been friends, in the traditional sense. Our last encounter had ended with our claws out and a fair amount of blood, though that wasn’t always the case. I suppose the best way to describe it would be to say we tol
erated each other at the time because it alleviated the loneliness.
Kind of like the flatmate from university that you meet again five or ten years later and wonder what in the world you’d been thinking and very thankful you’d move on from that point of your life.
I found myself in a quandary. I could ask for help in finding them and possibly have it go faster, or I could do it on my own. “Help” would mean Marcella and possibly Rosie. Alone meant fewer questions and less risk of getting smacked by Marcella again.
In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to like doing things alone.
I had a pretty good idea where to look, but it would be best to wait for night. I was sure I knew exactly the type of person he’d taken in for his little group.
I spent my day wandering the city, watching, listening and simply observing those who crossed my path. Most people steered clear of me, their instincts guiding them away from wherever I was. A few children watched me warily, hiding behind their parents, siblings or caretakers, believing that made them safe. I suppose in a way it did, though if I had any say in it, I’d never hurt them. The day passed at a casual pace, eventually growing into evening, then night.
I made my way to the east side of town, where there were a number of youth dance clubs. There were places for most anyone, from the elite on their way to Ivy League schools to the unmotivated and destined to spend their lives struggling just to survive and never really reaching any of the goals they think they’ve set for themselves.
I moved carefully from rooftop to rooftop, sorting scents, listening to conversations, pausing when needed to make sure I wasn’t seen. I learned all about what types of wheels Jerry liked on his skateboards, which boy Mira was going to go out with as soon as she dumped this latest loser and which lie Sophie was going to tell her parents to explain why she was out past her curfew.
Part of me hoped I’d never been that superficial as an adolescent. Part of me was afraid I’d been worse.
One of the fun parts of growing up is you’re just positive you were never as bad as the youth of the next generation.
Seeing the road below me clear for a moment, I crouched and jumped over to the next roof. I walked to the edge, following the voices towards the underage club on the next block. It amused me how they always made sure to advertise they were alcohol-free and yet the alleys behind them were littered with bottles, cans and cigarette butts. And that didn’t count what was smuggled into the club and guzzled in the bathrooms.
The owners and managers might turn a blind eye and play innocent, but I could smell a fair amount of alcohol all around the building.
I lurked around the front and back doors for several minutes, watching, listening and occasionally testing the scents on the air. My patience was rewarded when I caught a distinct whiff and saw a shadow run down the alley. I shrugged my coat to a more comfortable position over my shoulders, tilted my hat slightly to make sure my face was hidden, then set out after him, tracking him by scent alone for most of the way.
It was maybe half an hour later that I found myself crouched low on the back side of the roof of the concession stand near the baseball diamond behind one of the high schools.
There was a cool breeze that came and went, just enough to keep the air moving and bring in fresh waves of scents from the restaurants several blocks away as well as the sound and smell of exhaust from the cars up on the main road. The baseball team from the school was practicing tonight, the bright lights shining down on the field from a number of angles, giving the appearance of daylight to most, but giving a harsh light to those of us who make it a point of noticing the way light and shadows fall. Artificial light will never be a suitable substitute for natural light in my opinion. It did, however, make it possible to lurk where I was and remain completely unnoticed by them.
The young men on the field below taunted and yelled at each other, egging each other on as each one came up to bat. Their voices were clear, strong and confident. I could hear their hearts beating with varied levels of adrenaline and exhaustion. The crack of the bat each time the ball was hit. The muffled “thump” each time a ball was caught in a glove. The rhythm of their feet as they ran from base to base or in pursuit of a ball.
I could also hear the labored breathing of the one I’d followed here.
I’d kept a close eye on him as he moved, watching as he tried to be stealthy. He tried to stay in the shadows and more than once I saw him deliberately try to avoid the light. I’m not sure what he hoped to accomplish with that. Though judging by his body language, it was terribly important to him.
Apparently I should pay more attention to things like that.
Walking around in the daylight like I did, I was obviously going to give our kind a bad name.
As he’d moved away from the clubs and made his way here, I’d gotten glimpses of him. Between his shadow lurking, that is. He dressed all in black, right down to the leather collar around his neck and frayed and worn black leather jacket. His dark hair was long, greasy and thinning. I doubted he’d showered anytime in the last month.
Speaking of giving our kind a bad name.
And now he was right below me.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been this easy for Marcella to find and hunt down. Probably. Probably even more so.
I made a note to myself to thank her for not rubbing it in that I’d been that inept.
She’d appreciate the gratitude once she quit laughing.
I crept along the top of the concession stand, my legs moving fluidly beneath me as I stayed crouched low, my fingers helping to balance me between steps. When I reached the edge of the roof, I shifted my coat slightly so it wouldn’t get in my way, then dropped to the ground. My boots hit the sidewalk firmly but quietly and I immediately tested my balance in case there were any surprises. When nothing jumped out at me, I walked around to the back of the building.
He was standing there in the dark, a faint outline that I picked out easily but would have been invisible to a normal human. He was watching the players on the field through the bleachers and fence and I could hear him practically panting.
That just wasn’t a good sign.
I paused just long enough to bring out my claws. Hopefully this wouldn’t get too messy.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I growled at him, my voice low and menacing.
He turned, obviously surprised to see me there and just as obviously not realizing who and what I was.
Thankfully, I’d been expecting his attack.
Panting monsters are always going to attack. Remember that, it might save your life one day.
He pushed off the wall, jumping towards me with an inhuman speed. He yelled something that might have been a curse as he connected with me, trying to tackle me. I moved even faster than he did. Bracing myself for his impact and turning at the last second, I sunk my claws deeply through his coat and into his shoulders as I threw him to the side. He flailed wildly at me, trying to slash at me, as he landed with a heavy thud several feet away. Before he had a chance to jump at me again, I heard a snarl and another shape practically flew at me from the side.
This one was smaller and faster. He managed to hit me, but not hard enough to throw me off balance. I ducked away from him, losing my hat as he took a swipe for my head.
I decided immediately I needed to put a quick end to this. I’d hoped to just chase the one off, but with two here, there was too much risk to the kids over on the field.
I kept an eye on the greasy one I’d thrown to the ground as I turned to look at this newcomer. He was about the same age as the other, but wiry and short. Dressed in a torn t-shirt and low-slung trousers, I was even less impressed with him than I had been Gianna.
He spit at me and jumped at me again, short, ragged claws extended.
The little bastard hadn’t even grown full claws yet. Let alone figured out how to grow them out to a razor edge and needle point.
I saw my opening almost immediately and took it. With a q
uick sidestep and twist, I brought my arm upwards, catching him full on in the middle of his abdomen with my elbow. He collapsed to the ground almost immediately, struggling to breathe. I turned on the greasy one then just as he rolled to his feet and turned back towards me. I held up one finger to him, the curve of my claw obvious in the faint light. He paused, no doubt realizing he’d been hurt when I threw him away from me as well as what I was.
His hesitation was what I was hoping for. I closed the distance between us in less than a second, grabbing him by the throat and sinking my claws deeply into his neck. He tried to yell, but I closed off his windpipe with a single squeeze. I felt his neck crush between my fingers and he kicked, jerked a couple of times, then went limp. I gave a twist to my wrist, severing what was left of his neck from the inside, then tossed him to the side as I turned to look at the short one again. He was pulling himself to his feet and stared at me, scowling and breathing hard.
“Do you want to try again?” I growled at him, taunting him. I could smell the blood from his friend. Thick and sickening, stronger than a normal person’s. Apparently he could too, because he snarled something unintelligible and threw himself at me again.
Sometimes children just don’t learn.
This time there was no skill to his attack. He hit at me blindly, hoping to hurt me and gain the upper hand. He slashed wildly, wherever he thought he could get me. I heard the fabric on my coat tear, but didn’t feel anything cut my skin. It wasn’t hard to avoid his swings. He obviously had little skill with his abilities. Apparently nobody told him some of us might be better or have more experience at this whole monster thing.
For a brief second, I kind of wished I had invited Marcella along. She’d have enjoyed putting this one in his place.
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