by Hunter Blain
Da cleared his throat. It was intolerable in my stupor. I sighed, loudly, while opening the door. I stepped out and turned to look at Da.
“That gauntlet is going in the cabinet with my collectors cups,” I said while pointing at the seat where the only remaining evidence of my super-sin sat.
“Be honest with him, John. He can’t help if he’s in the dark,” Da reasoned, ignoring my comment about my Eternity Gauntlet.
After a moment’s contemplation, I nodded my head in agreement while shutting the passenger door and turning to look at the ancient building in the middle of Houston. The church looked like it was as old as castles you’d find in my homeland of Ireland. Moss crept around corners with the goal of covering every square inch of stone. Original stained-glass windows decorated evenly, but provided no actual light penetration. I assumed the growth kept the windows intact like duct tape, especially considering Houston had been hit with its fair share of harsh storms.
I set one hand on, hoped the rust covered the wrought iron fence, and fell on my ass. I lifted up my hand and saw where I had ripped the iron apart as if it was made of corndog sticks.
“Why is everything made from cheap, wooden sticks all of a sudden?” I said as I dropped the metal and brushed the dirt off my ass. Realization dawned on me and I looked down at my hands. Consuming blood made me increasingly powerful, but it took scores of mortals over long periods to gain a drastic increase in strength. Even then, how much energy I could permanently store seemed to correlate with how long I had been undead. I never questioned why, just simply assumed it was a checks and balance system of the universe. Maybe it prevented fledgling vampires from rampaging and eating entire continents of people.
I walked over to where a jagged rock protruded from the ground and kneeled down. I set my hands on the corner, gripped, and pulled the entire fixture from the earth. It came away as if ice cream sticks held it in place (last one, I promise). The stone was shaped like a teardrop and a lightning bolt had a metaphorical baby. I lifted it up, grabbing either side, and was impressed that it spanned a little wider than my body.
“And if my theory is correct…” I started as I collapsed my hands together, turning the impressive rock into sand. It was as if the entire thing were made of some sort of cheap, food holding apparatus. You know like a multi-use tool available across different platforms, like at a doctor’s office. The word escapes me right now.
Dust fell onto and settled in the fabric of my clothes and on my black boots.
“Dang it,” I said as I went to pat my stomach, only to be struck with a baseball bat to my gut. I barked in surprise and then looked at my hands, “Oh, right,” I chuckled to myself. I noticed that at least most of the dust had been knocked off my shirt. Small victories.
“Must be careful when I pee,” I said as I turned my hands over in front of me.
Just as intrigued as I was satisfied, I approached the cracked stone of the stairs leading to giant, weathered doors.
Standing at the threshold, I prepared to carefully bang out my secret knock, when thoughts of the impending conversation with a frowning Father Thomes passed through my mind like looking out the window of a train and seeing a billboard shoot by. Worry froze me and gripped my chest like a vice. He was going to be so disappointed and upset with me.
Turning to look at Da for assurance, I noticed the road was empty. Great. Maybe I should pop on down to Valenta’s Saloon and grab me a Jack and Blood to build my courage. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. One drink and I come right back.
I instantly chastised myself for being weak. Let’s add enchanted alcohol to the cocktail that’s flowing through my veins! What’s the worst that can happen?
As I stood on the landing of the church, being disgusted with myself, I heard the clacking of sturdy locks being released. I lowered my hand and took in a deep breath, preparing myself for one of the most difficult conversations I had ever had. The door creaked open, revealing an empty doorway.
It was pitch black inside, as if the church had a restraining order on all outside light. My preternatural eyes scanned just inside, searching for my holy guide. With an audible gulp, I stepped forward and through the empty doorway. As I cleared the entrance, the doors slowly creaked shut behind me, as if on their own volition. My eyes adjusted inside and I could see a lone figure sitting in his usual pew on one side of the aisle. Without saying a word and while looking forward, I slid into the adjacent pew, doing my best to not touch the wooden furniture, and waited. The Father had a knack for knowing exactly what I had done. It’s like he has a direct line upstairs or something.
A match was struck and brought to a wooden pipe. The flame was tugged towards the tobacco by unseen breath, and jumped to the herbs; which began to glow a bright orange before settling into a light smolder. Before the match self-cannibalized, the eager flame was brought to an oil lamp, which was then set on the ground between the pews.
“You attacked, and killed an angel, my son?” Father Thomes Philseep asked; while staring down the aisle to where Jesus hung on the cross above the dilapidated stage.
Speaking in all seriousness in light of the significance of the situation, I said, “He was hostile. I felt threatened.”
Father Thomes’ headshot my way, and my head reflexively turned to meet his gaze, not in challenge but surprise. He had a deep scowl creasing his forehead as if the Grand Canyon had been teleported onto his face.
“You KILLED an ANGEL! Do not presume me a fool to fall for your flagrant lies. If you were an intended target, he would not have given you the opportunity to attack,” anger infused with his harsh words as they exploded out of his vein-bulging face.
“I didn’t know it was a real angel. I thought he would have a body made out of ectoplasm, like demons! How the hell was I supposed to know?” I asked, throwing my hands into the air.
“Poor choice of words, child,” Father Thomes scolded.
“Sorry, ‘heck.’” I said with air quotations.
The Father relaxed visibly, but not from release of tension. Instead, he deflated like a balloon with a small hole in it as he looked at me.
“I can’t protect you from Heaven now, John,” The Father said with full sincerity and weariness. There were heavy bags under his eyes that were visible with every toke of his pipe. Orange light bathed his features with each breath.
I slowly turned my head towards the holy figure on the stage. The personification of all things holy. My new enemy.
“Let them come,” I said defiantly, but only just above a whisper.
I expected a nuke of rage to drop on me from across the aisle, but nothing did. The silence was deafening and more impacting than any fury he could spat at me.
After a few tokes of contemplation, the Father broke the silence, “I’m afraid they will, child. We have drawn the attention from both sides now. Perhaps this is too big an undertaking for just us.”
“Father, all the good we’ve done— the people we saved, the demons we’ve sent back, it all means nothing now, doesn’t it?” I was referring to the scale of my soul. I’ve been working with Father T to try and win favor with Heaven since we first met. It was determined that when it comes time for the big sleep, that my soul would find rest if I used my preternatural abilities for the light. At this point, I’m pretty damn sure that the demons in Hell would wait in a line that wrapped around the cosmos in order to get a chance at punishing me for ruining their time on earth. I had only set a couple dozen back, but a slight on one is a declaration of war on all. Oh shit, I had also killed Locke who was a direct lackey of Satan himself. I know from first-hand experience that he knew how to torture both physically and mentally.
“Maybe a Barnes and Noble gift card would help smooth things over?” I half-joked. It was draining to attempt humor right now and I immediately felt my eyelids get heavy. Fuck it, I was going to have that drink after all.
My comment was ignored as Father T continued to smoke his pipe while deep in thought. The flame fr
om the oil lamp danced, causing shadows to crawl over his weathered face intermixing with the weak light from the pipe, as if they were wrestling for control. His white hair was tinged orange in the glow as the air filled with the aroma of tobacco.
“I’m going to have to reflect on the situation,” he said without looking at me. My heart sunk. If he had looked at me, it would have meant there was hope he could somehow fix this. At least, that’s what I felt. I could be making a mountain out of a molehill, but somehow, I doubted it.
“Return tomorrow night, my son. In the meantime, remain with allies at all times to discourage further incidents.” With that, he stood with a groan while placing a hand on his lower back. He stepped into the aisle and bent at his creaking knees to grab the lamp with his other hand. Without another word, he hobbled towards a hallway on the side of the room that contained several rooms, including his chambers. I took note that he walked with a slight hunch for several paces before straightening as his body loosened slightly with every step. Though I was 559 years old, the impacts of age would always elude me. It was sobering to see my friend for almost two decades slipping into his twilight years. Without him, I’d be lost. My soul would surely be dragged to Hell when I danced off this mortal coil, and I was not particularly fond of the idea of dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight.
A pang of guilt struck me like a broken guitar string; was I worried that the Father was going to die in what to me would be a blink of an eye, because he was my friend? Or because he was my only hope for eternal salvation. It disgusted me that I couldn’t convince myself that it was the former. I was selfish, I could admit that, but when it came to why I had certain people in my life, it felt more like a chess game than companionship. If I sat and thought about it, I could break down each of my so-called “friendships” into useful and distinct categories: Depweg was a loyal soldier. Da kept me grounded and watched over me while I slept. He was my devil’s advocate when it came to most of my actions. Valenta provided me drinks and sage advice, keeping me aware with the supernatural community. Father Thomes Philseep provided bleach to my darkened soul and gave me a sense of purpose. I had always done the right thing on a small scale, like saving a family from a house fire, or stopping the massacre of a small religious village in Africa. But if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t know if I did these good deeds because the big responsibility that comes with big power equation, or if I simply felt good for doing it. I had no qualms about ending the existence of someone who I deemed to be “bad” if it meant the good shall live. But even the latter part of that didn’t matter to me. It is simply how I justified my actions.
If I used my power to do something good, is it considered selfless if I get a sense of pleasure from doing so? To me, it felt as selfish as people posting selfies on social media after buying a few cheap toys for a child whose name was on the Angel Tree at the local mall. It wasn’t about the child, it was about being better than everyone else complete with an upturned-nose feeling of superiority. Whether they were aware on a conscious level was beside the point.
The other side of that coin was at least good things were happening to the people who needed it most, so why shouldn’t the do-gooders receive an increase of serotonin and dopamine as a reward? On a side note, my body does not operate the same as a human’s in terms of hormones and the like. Though, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel things. It is theorized that super and preternatural’s have evolved to mimic humans in order to better blend in. I perceive stimuli and my brain responds appropriately. On top of this, I am fully aware how much my Predator Side wants to take complete control over my actions, which means my humanity has been fighting to remain dominate all these years. I shudder to think what would happen if PS overtook my mind permanently. However, I digress.
Feeling a mix of emotions, I stood and walked towards the wooden doors that led to the outside. I needed a drink.
Chapter 3
V alenta’s Saloon was within acceptable walking distance from the church, and closer still to the cemetery that I called home. Cliché you may say, and you’d be entitled to your wrong opinion.
As I approached the lone surviving business located in a district plagued by abandoned buildings where businesses once thrived, I decided it was best to use the back entrance.
Val’s Saloon catered exclusively to the supernatural element of the region which means I needed to tread lightly. Not so long ago, I had accidentally exposed myself to mortal authorities who had shown a recording of me using not so human abilities to the public. Mortals, afraid of the truth, dismissed it as trickery or editing. Non-mortals were not so quick to forgive or forget.
It was well known that if someone broke the laws of the supernatural community— i.e. exposing themselves to mortals via a bodycam— that their life, or unlife in this situation, was forfeit. It was open season on John Cook, the last vampire on earth, and there would be no repercussions for taking me out.
So, with that in mind, it was best to use the backdoor if I wanted a drink at Val’s.
Two concrete steps led up to the backdoor that were a sneeze away from being rubble. A loan doorbell illuminated the darkness as the only light on the outside of the premises was out front, overlooking the parking lot. I gently pushed it and waited. Instead of a chime, a small light, hidden underneath Val’s bar, would come on. In response, Valenta would buzz me in, allowing me into his modest kitchen, which was surprisingly spotless and well-lit for a bar’s; except a dark corner were a set of heavy metal doors led to a basement.
A sound that reminded me of an electrical current, like a transformer on a country road away from the sound of cars, told me the door was unlocked.
I stepped inside, turning my head to glance over my shoulder, ensuring the coast was clear. I froze as two amethysts glinted in the darkness about a foot above the ground. Even with my eyes, it was too dark and far enough away that I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing.
My phone, sensing an opportunity to make me piss my pants, decided to shatter the silence by belting out the music to Beetlejuice. I yelped in surprise and fumbled for my phone. Pulling it out of my pocket, I saw “Deppyweg” splashed across the screen. It was he who had decided it necessary to get a phone in the first place. I had gone my entire existence without one until now. I answered the phone as I brought it up to my ear.
“Ya man, what’s up?” I asked while looking back out at the blackness. The rubies were gone, if they had even been there at all. I stepped into the kitchen and let the door close behind me, unsettled.
“Where you at, brother? I downloaded the director’s cut of Aliens and I’m ready to ‘get away from her, you bitch.’” Depweg chuckled at his own joke.
I stared at nothing as the theater in my mind played the events again in vivid detail.
“Hello?” I heard the phone ask.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Game over…and stuff,” I attempted to quote while being lost, as if in a dream. The perfect recall of my memory did see two purple orbs in the darkness, but I couldn’t be sure what they belonged to. It could have simply been a broken bottle glinting in the moonlight. My gut told me otherwise. I shouldn’t stay here.
“You alright, John? What’s going on?” Depweg asked – concern evident in his voice.
I forced myself back to the present, “Yeah man, I’m good. I’ll be coming home soon. At Val’s, grabbing a quick drink.”
“Alright buddy. If you say everything’s fine, then I’ll see you soon,” trust was interlaced with doubt, but he knew I could hold my own.
We hung up and I slid the phone back into my front pocket. I was still getting used to having one. I get why people joke about being slaves to their technology. It’s like having a crying, shitting, hungry baby that demands all of your attention and can fit into your pocket.
Val entered through the door that led to the commons area. As he did, it swung back towards the patrons, one of which straightened as his eyes curiously followed Valenta and locked onto me.
“Shit,” I said curtly.
Val followed my gaze to the swinging door, and then looked back at me. “Shouldn’t be common here, boy. Y’know that,” he said with his thick southern drawl. He was rocking a thick mustache that covered his lips and were fashioned into circles at the ends. “What’d’ ya need?”
“A bottle, please. It’s been…weird lately,” I said, leaving out the part where I starred in Leaving Las-Houston after draining an angel.
Val eyed me dubiously for a moment before walking through the swinging door. I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no answer. What I was sure of was the now empty table in eyeshot of the doorway. I took in a deep breath, held it, and repeated, “Shit,” while exhaling.
Valenta returned a moment later with a bottle and a disapproving look on his face. He extended his arm and I took my prize from his hand. I nodded once and turned to walk out the back door.
“B’careful, John,” Val said. “I know y’ can take care o’ yerself, but at some point, ants can o’erwhelm an elephant. Ya’hear?”
“I think…so?” I responded over my shoulder before stepping outside, letting the metal door click closed with a thud.
The night’s air was cool on my skin as I took the two concrete steps in one stride. Bending over, I set the enchanted bottle of jack and blood on the ground before straightening again.
Taking in a deep breath, I called out into the night, “Who will be the first contestant on Wheel of Execution?” I enunciated the last part like a TV show host with dramatic pauses in the made-up title.
In answer, footsteps echoed from the darkness. I smiled my predatory grin of delight. Both PS and I immensely enjoyed punishing those who would do me harm. I let PS put one hand on the wheel as I relinquished partial control.