Sighing about her disdain at being Mrs. Petrov, stay-at-home mother of four (three after July 1956), Jack recalled one book (The Feminine Mystique) he found in Angelique’s belongings after she had returned here and met vampire master Uriah Ives.
“Sure, go ahead and blame me for trapping you as a wife and mother after I’d freed your circus of that alien thing taking it over behind the scenes. I fell in love during our big adventure together, years after getting over Phyllis, but wanted you safe from those dangers. The darkness I fought touched our little family anyhow.”
He gave his undead wife a betrayed stare as she reached out and snatched his fedora away to sniff its perspiration odors along the hatband before discarding that, freeing his mashed-down thinning silver locks, and then shaking her head.
“I offered you immortality the last time we met, Cheri,” she reminded him, “even with an aging body. The power of my blood could have rejuvenated your youth again.”
“It’s false immortality, Doll.” Petrov snorted, feeling a last stake near his right hand just under the coat’s flap, “We had responsibilities waiting in Gotham. Frank was only 15, Harry 14 and Daphne 12. Who would’ve raised them? You had no family left in Louisiana. My widowed sister-in-law in New York was too sick with cancer to do it.”
“I could have changed them all, keeping our family together for eternity.”
“Not my kids,” Petrov almost spat those words in her face two feet from his side as she leaned ever closer, hands touching his coat’s lower hems, “condemned to darkness, so don’t flatter yourself. I freed Cassandra by destroying what that sea monster made her.”
“C’est la mort en vie, Jackson,” she grabbed his slumped shoulders and pulled the man’s head closer for her bared fangs, “so now I mercifully release you from the further pains of age by your choosing death. Au revoir, mon Amour.”
Almost permitting her deadly kiss at his neck, exhausted by 74 years of hard living, Jack found the strength and slight-of-hand to pull that last stake from the trench coat, plunging it into her chest between D-cup bosoms he recalled playing with inside their house’s master bedroom and an apartment shared before that. She screeched and struck his jaw with her right hand, the blue-painted nails leaving deep scratches before the woman fell backwards and across that floor. Petrov slowly got to his feet, witnessing Angelique gasping for breath while clawing at that stake and attempting its removal.
A Master Vampire is always harder to destroy; the man recalled from experience against other such fiends, I’ll have to decapitate her next.
Taking the sword, keeping that knife sheathed in case it was needed, Petrov retrieved his small flask (holding whiskey in years past) filled with holy water and poured it over that blade as a purifying act. The man then knelt with his left knee against Angelique’s waist to restrain that writhing body and turned her head to face him with a gentle left hand, sword inside his right grip, and looked into those blue eyes, both ducts shedding blood tears with a pouting plea across that luscious blood-stained mouth. He almost wanted to put the weapons away, remove the stake and accept death, somehow forgiving her for their 12-year estrangement.
“Tell, Daphne and the boys,” she gasped as blood trickled from her mouth’s corners, “I never stopped loving my precious children, and still love you too, Jack.”
Nodding once with his blue-gray eyes tearing up, Jack Petrov brought that blade down across Angelique’s neck, silencing her lilting Cajun accented voice and blood spraying outward as he severed the head with one sharp blow. Sighing as he left the sword against the wood floor and stood to wipe Angelique’s blood off face and hands with the gray suit jacket’s handkerchief, the vampire hunter covered her beheaded body with his bloodstained trench coat in final respect. Collecting both fedora and flask, Jack placed one atop his head and the other in a left outer jacket pocket opposite the knife, clenching the handkerchief in exiting down a fire escape through one south window. He reached street level, glimpsing red lights yards away at that building fire, and felt drained after this ordeal. The old man carelessly stepped off that curve onto Iberville Street, intending one brief walk near the river for clearing his head, when a silver Lincoln Continental Mark IV with shining chrome hubcaps and trim barreled north along that road and struck him with its right front fender, knocking Petrov somersaulting through the air.
Oh, Grandpa Ulvanov warned me in a dream he died this way too.
Even after he crashed against the side of a parked green and white Volkswagen minibus and rolled to the ground stopping face-up, Jack recalled that vision-like dream from years earlier, witnessing his Russian (medical doctor/vampire hunter) grandfather hit by a horse-drawn wagon on a rural dirt road near St. Petersburg in 1895. With blurred vision, he saw the Lincoln screech its tires and back until stopping the right rear wheel near his fractured skull. The car was driven by one vampire, he realized, hearing Bobby Frazer’s taunting laid-back California voice.
“You killed my beautiful Angel,” he leaned down and spat in Petrov’s face, the sequined jumpsuit covered in blood from where he had removed staff halves (neither hitting the heart), “so I’ll grind your bones into the pavement, without bothering to suck any blood, Old Man.”
Jack began losing consciousness from various internal injuries, glimpsing or overhearing dramatic events that unfolded during the next few minutes nearby.
Bobby was about to reclaim the car’s wheel (Angelique gave him that vehicle last year), when gun shots rang out and both left tires deflated. His head turned to behold Peter Packer now wielding the pistol which fell from Jack’s visible black holster when struck by that car. Hissing at the approaching reporter, Bobby was then hit by every other bullet left in the clip at almost point blank range. Angered by this meddler’s intervention, he ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges and flung that object straight at Packer, dislocating the man’s left shoulder and forcing him to drop his emptied pistol. Before he could attack again, Bobby was impacted by the series of wooden bolts and saw Daphne moving toward her prone boyfriend’s left, using her father’s other rapid-fire hand crossbow to destroy this last vampire.
“Leave the men in my life alone,” she screamed, pulling that trigger, “bloodsucker!”
One of those nine remaining shots (each hitting either his head or torso) finally penetrated the vampire’s heart. He coughed blood and fell unmoving against the parked car’s side. Daphne then dropped that weapon and helped shift the door off her injured boyfriend pinning him against the street. He cried when she gripped his left arm in aiding her man to stand again.
“ARG, I think he dislocated my shoulder!”
“Hold still,” she grasped the wincing reporter’s left arm and then shoved the loose joint, popping it back into place with one sudden motion, “there it’s fixed, you big baby.”
“How’d you do that?” He rotated the limb despite its soreness and followed her toward Jack Petrov’s prone body. “It feels better. Thanks.”
“I was a nursing student at Gotham U.,” she admitted, racing to kneel at her father’s side behind the Lincoln, “before switching to journal– Daddy, lie still. We’ll get an ambulance.” Nodding to Peter as she rubbed Jack’s face, the 26-year-old male reporter hurried along that street seeking authorities around the fire for summoning medical aid.
“Your mother,” Petrov gasped in finding it harder to breathe, staring up at his 24-year-old daughter’s ice-blue, tear-filled eyes, “told me she loved our family before I killed…”
Closing his eyes and exhaling a final time, Jackson Sergeivich Petrov already knew if Daphne had any sons, one would inherit his maternal bloodline’s vampire hunting instinct.
Spirit in Black
Thom Brannan
The man with the white hair loaded his .357 revolver. It looked ridiculously large in his slender hands. The rounds he loaded into the gun were odd, only one of them the dull grey of lead.
“And the place is empty now? Except for the…well, whatever it is?�
�
The senior cop, one of the six uniformed officers gathered behind three police cars, nodded to the white-haired man. “Place is always empty. Even the crackheads stay outta this dump.”
The civilian nodded, brushing a wisp of bone-white hair out of his face. The sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt fell back when he did this, exposing a swirling tattoo around his wrist. It gave off a faint blue glow, and he frowned when he saw it as he sidled up to the cop.
“And dispatch okayed you calling me in, Gutierrez?”
The cop grinned, shrugging slightly. “What are they gonna do, take away my pension?”
The white-haired man laughed. “Make sure you call Detective Chang. Tell him Io says to hurry.” He shook his wrist at the cop.
“Will do, magic man.”
Io squared his shoulders, brushed his white hair back one more time, the silver rings woven therein tinkling. He cocked the hammer on his pistol.
“Io, mage and one-man welcoming committee, at your service.”
He stood in the darkened entry foyer of the hollowed-out ex-hotel while his eyes adjusted to the gloom, uttering a short spell to speed things along. Io had large reserves of power on tap, but he didn’t like to just throw it around.
Like now. Normally, he’d just stand there for a couple of extra minutes until he could see better, but whatever was in the condemned building had already killed several people that night. Maybe more, earlier.
So, he used the power.
Io felt that others of his order, the Century, relied on their gifts far too often, for too much. If the day ever came that they were bereft of their power, he’d be ready to carry on the fight, a revolver clenched in his fist.
Something shifted in the darkness ahead, the sound of a creaking board drawing the barrel of the .357 as if there was a magnetic attraction. Io shifted his stance to face that direction more comfortably.
“Come on out, gruesome,” he said. “The longer we’re in here, the more reinforcements will arrive, and they will all be far more trigger-happy than I.”
A chunk of concrete sailed out of the darkness on Io’s right and hit him, knocking the pistol from his hand. He turned, left hand clenching with a blue nimbus of power. A black shape shot up the central stairwell, giggling, zipping deeper into the hotel.
Io shook his right hand. Keeping an eye on the landing above, he bent and retrieved his revolver. He hefted it once in his right hand, but the bones hurt too much to hold it. He swapped the gun to his left hand, holding it awkwardly, a grimace on his face.
“Okay. Trigger-happy it is, then.”
A faint odor of decay crept up Io’s nose as he worked his way further into the hotel. He swept his gaze back and forth along the wall, looking for a patch of black that would indicate an open door, but he saw nothing.
Wait. There was something, a tall rectangle of darkness on the left. And the smell was stronger this way, too.
Io moved towards the door swiftly, the rank odors of sweet decay forcing their way up his nostrils. He’d smelled worse, but he had never been happy when he found the source of a stench like this one.
Here goes, he thought, and kicked in the door.
Weak light from the street outside filtered in between the boards over the windows to reveal a tableau of suffering. Bodies twisted into unnatural positions lay on tables, faces stretched in agony, pain so great its traces remained well after death. Open body cavities yawned at the young magician, echoing open mouths with crushed and pulped teeth. Fingernails and eyelids littered the floor, strewn among strips of skin flayed from living bodies.
Io stepped into the room and was immediately bowled over by a dark, grinning shape. Did it have wings? A tail, maybe? Io couldn’t tell. He raised his gun and fired at the retreating terror, reeling off the shots in his head.
Lead, iron, silver, phosphorus…
The shape disappeared over the railing and flew at the front doors. It burst through and zoomed away, screeching into the night.
Io raced outside, replacing the four bullets he’d used and looking around. “Did you see it?” he yelled at Gutierrez. “What was it?”
“I…” the senior cop stammered. He’d seen gang slayings, shootings and mutilations. He’d been in the first Gulf War, and before that Africa, where warring tribes gleefully practiced genocide on each other. And now, he was terrified and did not know why.
“I don’t know what it was. But it was wearing a suit.”
Io snapped his gun shut. “Well, that’s just fucking great.”
“Wearing a suit” was all Io could get out of the other five patrolmen at the scene. By the time Detective John Chang of the Austin Police Department showed up, Io was good and ready to leave. Detective Chang, upon hearing what was inside the hotel, was ready to drive him home.
Io and the Detective spent the time waiting for the crime scene unit to arrive in silence. And once the CSU did arrive, Io still had nothing to say.
“If you’re on the clock, Johnny, you’ve already got my statement. I don’t know what the hell it was. But, hey, keep pushing me on it. If you like, I can make it so that no one remembers I was even here.”
“Ah, don’t get your junk in a twist. I just hate this supernatural shit. Present company excluded, of course.” The Detective leaned on his car, folding his arms. “Do you think you’ll be able to track this thing?”
Io stared at his fingertips. “Hard to say. Like, how none of the cops here remembered any details except the suit, that could mean a couple of things. If it’s using magic to cloud minds then I can definitely track it. Psionics are a whole different kettle of fish, though.”
“Psionics? Like, psychic powers?”
“Just like. Why?”
Detective Chang grinned broadly. “I thin I know just the thing. Here you go,” he said, digging through a cardholder. “Ah, this one. He’s new to the area, but his record is solid, and he’s done this kind of thing before.”
Io took the offered card and read it. “The Texas Rangers have a psychic?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re finally taking this stuff seriously. Give this guy a call.” The grin broadened. “I’ll bet he’s by his phone, waiting already. Heh.”
Two hours after Io made the call, a maroon mid-80’s Suburban II slewed to a halt in front of the cordoned-off condemned hotel. The engine belched and coughed several times before finally becoming still. Faint strains of a country song escaped the cab before the car door opened.
Io slowly closed his laptop. “Oh, good.”
He cast a critical eye as the figure unfolded itself out of the old GM, all gangly limbs sandwiched between too-tall cowboy boots and an equally unlikely ten-gallon hat.
The cowboy’s first couple of steps were wobbly, but he figured out his gait by the time he reached Io and the cordon. He stuck his hand out, knobby wrists poking well out of almost-long enough sleeves.
“Clint Ichabod, Texas Ranger,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Io.”
The Ranger quirked an eyebrow. “Io? I’ve heard of you. Came across your name in some of the more… outrageous case files.” He cocked his hat back. “Always expected you to be a lady, though. Since Io’s a—”
Io raised a hand. “Spare me. You ready?”
“You told me to bring my psychic trick and a barf bag. Got both.”
Io nodded. “Splendid. We should go inside, see if you can get a whiff of what did this off its handiwork.”
“After you,” Ranger Ichabod said. “We’re like a game of D&D now. A wizard and ranger, about to enter a monster’s lair.”
Io rolled his eyes at the two remaining patrolmen, who waved the mage and the Ranger in. Io led the way into the now-lit hotel, making a beeline for what had been dubbed the Auschwitz Suite. The Ranger stopped outside closed door of the room.
“Give me a minute,” he said. “I gotta open my third eye, so to speak. Give it a chance to warm up.”
“Be my guest,” Io said, folding his arms and leaning aga
inst the wall. He’d already searched he room using every magical tool he had available to him and came up with nothing. If anything comes of this, he thought, it’ll be well worth the wait. And the geek.
The serene expression on Ranger Ichabod’s face twisted into a rictus of terror. His eyes flew open and rolled wildly. Io snapped to attention, but the Ranger soon had himself under control.
“I cannot wait to see this,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Io sat with the shivering Ranger on the steps outside the hotel.
“That bad?” asked the cop at the cordon.
“You have no idea,” said Ranger Ichabod. He turned to Io, car keys in hand. “Can you drive? We have to go north to follow it.”
Io shook his head. “I can’t drive at all. Long story. I can uh, co-pilot, make sure nothing untoward happens.”
Clint Ichabod shrugged and got up. He walked shakily to the car, Io following.
After coaxing the engine to life, the Ranger sat back in his seat. “This thing is evil. And it is old. And, I think that the bodies in there are just to remind it how we move and act.” He swiveled his head to look at Io. “It’s trying to disguise itself as one of us.”
“Well, what is it?”
“First impression,” the Ranger said, sliding the SUV into reverse, “it thinks it’s the Devil.”
Io blinked. “Well, at least this won’t be boring.” He then nodded. “And that explains the suit.”
“The sun’ll be coming up soon,” Io said. “If so, that could be the end of the physical manifestation of this thing.”
The Ranger shrugged. “If you say so. Though, you’d think that would put a dent in the self-image of a being that thought it was the Devil.”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 28