by Craig Zerf
William knelt over him and put his ear to the big man’s chest. Then he felt for a pulse.
Finally he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Em,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’
Chapter 13
Lord Byron stared at his new chief Enforcer with an expression that might have been anger. Or hatred. Or a combination of the two. But when he spoke his voice betrayed little emotion. He was cold as death.
‘You are failing us,’ he said to Nathan. ‘Three clubs in London. Two in Edinburgh. Two in Manchester and one in Exeter. One hundred and seven of our Brethren have been dealt the true death. Not since the Second World War have we ever experienced such a decimation of our numbers. And you, as head Enforcer, are responsible.’
Nathan said nothing, he simply returned Lord Byron’s gaze. But instead of anger and hatred his expression was almost benign. A father witnessing a temper tantrum of his beloved son.
‘What are you going to do about this?’ Demanded Byron.
Still Nathan said nothing.
‘Answer me, damn it. What are we to do?’ Yelled the lord. ‘The attacks are random; they take place all over the country. We cannot put every club on high alert and we cannot close them down.’
Finally the ex-Shadowhunter spoke. ‘We have to close them down,’ he said. His voice calm. Reasonable, as opposed to Byron’s angry shouting.
‘Don’t be moronic,’ spluttered Byron. ‘How else do we feed? This is the way it has worked since the 1920’s. We need the clubs. We need to be able to access a constant supply of blood. Of familiars. Of new material.’
Nathan shook his head. ‘We do not need the clubs,’ he contradicted. ‘They’re a mere convenience. They have become our fast food takeaways. Our MacDonald’s. We have lost our need to hunt. We are no longer feared as the children of the night,’ he continued. ‘Instead people think of us as the romantic lead in the next soppy teenage love story. Twilight or True Blood. We do not inspire dread like the Nosferatu in the days of yore. Now we are mere night time fables and heroes of pulp-literature. It is time that we claimed the night once more. It is time that we took to the streets and hunted for our food. It is time to remind the humans why they are scared of the dark. No more clubs. We are Nosferatu.’
Lord Byron started to shake with rage. ‘How dare you,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you talk about the Nosferatu of old, you mere stripling. You are but a child. You talk of things that you know nothing about.’
‘I might be a child in your eyes,’ admitted Nathan. ‘But I have been around for over a century and I have seen the moral decline of your house. You have become the equivalent of Nero, fiddling while your house burns down around you. Fear not though, my lord,’ continued the ex-Shadowhunter. ‘My Bloodwraiths and I will bring these wolves to justice, you can count on that. However, as head Enforcer, I demand that the clubs are closed. I demand that word be put out to all of the brethren – from this day on we hunt to feed. From this day, we assert our right to the dark. No longer do we lurk in the shadows. It is our time. The time of the Nosferatu. Now, if you do not mind, my lord,’ ended Nathan. ‘I need to speak to my Bloodwraiths. We have much work to do.’
The new-formed vampire left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving lord Byron alone with his anger.
The head of the United Kingdom chapter ground his teeth together in frustration. He had effectively been outplayed by his own creation. He remembered full well when he had warned his ex-enforcer, Cromwell, to beware the obvious ambition of Nathan Tremblay. And he remembered Cromwell’s return warning.
But he had seen the warning as little more than a josh. A light joke, almost condescending. Now the junior Nosferatu was a Caporegime who had the direct ear of the master of all masters, he was head of the United Kingdom Enforcers as well as being unbelievably physically powerful. And to top all of that, he had his own elite force under him. A force of twenty highly trained Enforcers that answered directly to him.
However, Lord Byron had been around for a very long time and he too knew how to play the game of thrones. He would bide his time. He would wait. For patience is oft rewarded in situations like these. Many a time has burning ambition been doused by the waters of its own greed and self-importance.
His time would come.
Chapter 14
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the wolf from growling with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Tears ran unstopped down Emily Hawks’ cheeks. She stroked the big man’s brow and whispered words of meaningless consolation as she wept.
Both William and the Prof stood by.
Silent.
Eventually Em looked up at the Prof. ‘You did this,’ she stated. ‘You killed him.’
Professor Brownstone didn’t deny it. But he did shake his head. ‘I am truly sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh shut up,’ shouted Em. ‘Your apology is meaningless. I don’t care what you say, he’s dead because of you. All he wanted was to be useful. All he wanted to be treated with a little respect. And now he’s dead. You gave him a mug of poison and you killed him.’
Em stood up and the Prof shrank back.
William stepped forward. ‘Em,’ he said quietly. ‘Calm down. The Prof is just as devastated as you are.’
Emily shook her head. ‘No he’s not,’ she said. ‘Or you. Or anybody else. He was my friend. He would have died for me. All that he wanted to do was protect me. And I let you kill him.’
‘Go,’ said William to the Prof. ‘Outside. Em needs some time alone.’ He turned to Em. ‘We’ll be outside. If you need me, call.’ He left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Emily alone with the body of her friend.
She sat next to him. Bereft and at a loss as what to do next. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks as the last couple of months ran through her memory. Only just turned eighteen and she had killed countless vampires. And people. Humans. She had made and lost more friends than she had ever had before and she missed her foster parents with an ache that was physical. What she would have given for Bart’s gruff advice. And Ryoko’s warmth and understanding. She yearned for the daily routine and boredom of her past life.
The life she had before everybody started killing everybody else. Before the smell of blood and cordite. Before the constant stench of death and the divine madness of battle. She wanted to be a normal eighteen year old. Taking selfies for her facebook page, instagram, snapchat. Illegally downloading music and worrying about boys.
As opposed to being a lethal killing machine who seemed to bring death and harm to all that she touched. The tears flowed faster as the enormity of what her short life had become come crashing down on her. She felt utterly helpless. Depressed beyond measure.
And utterly alone.
‘Hey, baby girl. What you cryin’ so much about?’
Emily hiccoughed in shock. ‘I’m crying because you’re dead,’ she answered.
‘I feel like I should be dead,’ returned Tag. ‘Feel like crap on a plate. But I think that dead men don’t talk.’
Em burst out laughing and threw her arms around the big man as he sat up.
‘Hey,’ exclaimed. ‘What’s going on? Why you think I’m a dead man?’
‘Because you were,’ said Em. ‘Stone cold as a man after two doctors have seen him.’
Tag frowned. ‘I took the potion, didn’t I?’
Em nodded.
‘So that means that I must be super-strong. Though I don’t feel it,’ admitted Tag. ‘Actually, I feel weak as a baby. Like I got the mother of all hangovers.’
‘Lie back,’ advised Em. ‘Rest some more. After all, you are recovering from a case of death.’
‘Enough about the death thing already,’ snapped Tag. ‘You obviously made a mistake. People don’t die and then come back to life. Well, not human people at any rate. Whatever, I’m keen to test out my new powers so g
ive me a hand.’
The big man stood up and Em helped him to the door. But by the time that he had walked a few steps under his own steam he appeared to be feeling better. He opened the door and they walked out, heading for the entrance and the garden.
The exited the house to find the Prof and William standing there. The Prof was smoking like a steam engine, a large Sherlock Homes style pipe clenched between his teeth.
Both of them stared at Tag with amazement.
‘You’re not dead,’ exclaimed William.
‘It would seem not,’ concurred Tag.
The Prof let out a short barking laugh. ‘Ha,’ he said. ‘Told you that I didn’t kill him.’
‘No you didn’t,’ said Emily, her voice as cold as ice. ‘You merely said that were sorry. Different.’
‘How do you feel?’ Asked the Prof, undeterred by Em’s hostility.
‘Like shit,’ admitted Tag. He pointed at a tree stump that stuck out of the turf some twenty yards away. ‘I think that I’ll rip that out of the ground,’ he said. ‘Try out my new super-strength.’
The big man walked over to the stump, squatted down and put his arms around it, then stood up. Unfortunately the stump stayed where it as. ‘Hard to grab,’ concluded Tag. ‘I’ll lift that car up.’ He walked quickly over to the Landrover, grabbed the back fender and stood up. Or, to be more accurate he attempted to stand up. To no avail. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘If anything I feel weaker. Used to be I could actually shift a car when I tried. Why hasn’t it worked?’
‘How do you know that it hasn’t?’ Asked the Prof. ‘Maybe your greatest aptitude was speed. Try.’
Tag nodded, bent one knee in the classic sprinters pose and then ran. It was like watching a buffalo doing the one hundred. Big and lumbering and deadly looking. But certainly not The Flash.
The big man stopped and then stared into the distance. ‘Well, it’s not eyesight because I can’t see any further than I did before.’ His shoulders dropped, He looked defeated. ‘It didn’t work,’ he said.
The Prof didn’t say anything, instead concentrating on stocking his pipe up some more.
‘At least you’re alive,’ said Em. ‘And that’s the most important thing.’
‘Not to me,’ said Tag in a whisper. ‘Not to me.’
And he turned and trudged back to the house.
A man who had just cheated death.
For no reason at all.
Chapter 15
Reg ‘The Savage’ Parsons didn’t normally drink. His strict training regime didn’t allow for it. But tonight he had made an exception and toasted to his success. One beer. No more. But he didn’t feel guilty. After all, it’s not every night that a man makes it into the top three of the official UK MMA rankings. Officially the third baddest mixed martial arts fighter in the Kingdom
R. Parsons. No. 3 - Heavyweight Division.
Man that felt good.
Then he had bid goodnight to his coach, his manger, his agent and his sparring partners and headed home. They would continue to drink. To celebrate. Like it was their victory as much as his. And Reg had to admit, in a way it was. They were always there for him. They had helped him with his drug problem, kept him on the straight and narrow and now they were all reaping the rewards.
His agent had assured him that once you cracked the top three, the offers would start to pour in. And, after his twenty percent, his managers cut, his coaches salary and the wages of his sparring partners, there would still be a substantial amount left over for Reg.
In actual fact, Reg couldn’t care less about the money. It was the fighting that he liked.
Inflicting pain. Smashing someone else into unconsciousness.
And the blood. Oh man how he loved the blood. The color. The smell. The viscous consistency.
He took his keys out of his pocket and pressed the remote, bleeping the doors open. But before he could climb in a man seemed to literally appear beside him. Reg jerked with surprise. It was unlike him to allow someone to sneak up on him but this man had done it with ease.
‘Reg Parson?’ The stranger asked.
Reg nodded. Wary. He was afraid of no man but this pale faced stranger who had appeared so silently gave him the creeps. There was something about him.
‘The MMA Champion?’ The man continued to ask.
Reg relaxed slightly, realizing that this must just be a fan. Nothing to worry about. An autograph hunter. Or someone who wanted a selfie with him.
‘Yeah,’ concurred Reg. ‘So what you want?’ He asked. ‘A selfie? A signature?’
‘No, mister Parson,’ replied the pale man. ‘Actually, it is I who would like to do you a favor.’
‘Oh, yeah? How,’ asked Reg, his wariness returning full force.
‘It’s simple, Reg. I would like to give you the gift of everlasting life. Of course, that would mean that first, obviously, I shall need to kill you.’
Reg moved away from the car, giving himself some room to move. He quickly scanned the stranger and noted that he wasn’t carrying a weapon. No knife, no club. Nothing.
Reg grinned. ‘Man,’ he said. ‘You have just made a terminal mistake, my friend.’
The man smiled and, for the first time, Reg noticed his two inch long fangs. ‘Oh, Reg,’ he said. ‘I am not yet your friend. But do not fear. I soon will be.’
‘Stuff that,’ shouted Reg and he let fly with a blisteringly fast combination of kicks and punches.
Not one landed. Wherever the martial arts champion punched there was just empty air. The pale stranger with the long teeth was simply not there.
Reg launched another attack. But it was as if he was moving in slow motion.
Then the stranger smiled. ‘My turn.’
His speed was beyond comprehension. Reg felt the blows land. Not as single deliveries but as one continuous roll of pain. He heard his ribs snap, his arm shatter. He felt his eye burst in its socket. The pain was unbelievable. Never before had he felt such a crashing tsunami of agony.
He fell to his knees but the stranger grabbed his hair and pulled him back to his feet.
Then he held his face close and licked the blood from his cheek.
‘Don’t fret, champion,’ he whispered. ‘You will thank me for this after the change. You see, you have been chosen. Congratulations.’
And he opened his mouth wide and tore into Reginald Parson’s neck like a pit-bull savaging a child. Grunting and snuffling as he did so.
***
Molly hiccoughed, burped and threw up. Behind her, both Clare and Jessica laughed out loud.
‘Better out than in,’ screeched Jessica.
The three of them were wearing matching outfits. Pink Dr Marten’s boots, pink tights, pink leotards and pink frilly tutus. And to be honest they didn’t really have the figures for it. In fact they looked like a trio of pink wobbly servings of blancmange.
It was Molly’s hen night and, in tried and true tradition, her and her two friends had gone out on the town to drink industrial quantities of alcohol, taking full advantage of Liverpool’s standard bar practice of all night long happy hour and two for one drinks.
‘Oh hell,’ mumbled Clare. ‘Coppers coming. Come on.’ She grabbed Molly by the arm and started to drag her off the main road and into a dark alleyway. ‘Come on, Jessica, you slag,’ she slurred. ‘Give us a hand. Before the police ruin our night.’
The three girls stumbled and staggered into the darkness, shrinking away from the two man police patrol as they plodded past.
‘Having fun, girls,’ said someone from behind them.
They all turned to see a pale faced man dressed all in black. His eyes glinted strangely in the dark. Backlit opals. Milky-blue and corpse-like. But there was no denying that, apart from the eyes, he was one seriously sexy man. Chiseled jaw, straight nose and full lips.
‘Hey, alright, handsome,’ purred Jessica. ‘Fancy a bit, do you?’
All three girls laughed and the man smiled bac
k.
‘Mind if I join in?’ Asked a female voice.
The girls spun to see a beautiful woman standing right next to them. Also all in black, her dark hair a tumble of silk down her back. Her figure, hour-glass perfection.
‘How the hell did you get there, sweetheart?’ Asked Jessica.
The woman simply raised an eyebrow.
‘Anyway,’ continued Jessica. ‘No you can’t join in. Shove off.’
‘I wasn’t asking you,’ stated the woman. And she pulled back her lips to expose a set of two inch long fangs.
The three girls took a step back.
‘What the…?’
‘Of course you can,’ said the pale man. ‘More than enough for two.’
And the vampires fell on the girls like a pair of ravening animals, grunting and gnarring with pleasure as they satiated their unholy thirst for blood.
The children of the night were hunting once more.
Chapter 16
‘I have just received word from Alpha Lucas in London,’ said William. ‘The vamps seem to have closed the clubs down. They’ve questioned a raft of familiar wannabees and all of them claim that the vampire scene is dead. No pun intended I’m sure. I must admit, I didn’t see this happening as quickly as it did. I reckoned that we would be able to hit at least another six or eight clubs and gatherings before we shut them down.’
‘Well that’s good, isn’t it?’ Asked Tag. ‘I mean, no more vamp clubs, no more innocents getting eaten.’
William shook his head. ‘No. The leeches have to have blood. It’s their one imperative. Except now the only way that they can do it is to find it piecemeal.’
‘You mean that they’ll go out at night and hunt it down?’ Asked Em.
The Wolfman nodded. ‘From now on we’re going to see hundreds of vampires trawling the general population for blood. That hasn’t happened since before the 1st World War. And even then it was controlled. I fear that we may have simply thrown gasoline on the fire. Dammit,’ he growled. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’