BloodStar

by Montoya, Cassidy

  The mountain-man’s blood was still fresh in his system, and he huffed vows with every steamy exhale not to live without Marley in this prison of immortality. He would call in some long owed favors from others of his kind to give him the help he would need to bid this existence farewell.

  Too many of his kind mistakenly thrust themselves into the sunrise, thinking they would burn and be freed. The sun killed, but did not release, and those Kindred without someone to ash the ooze of their decomposition remained trapped, bodiless in a living realm, never unchained to be born into a new vessel. Sabian had wept for some, but not all. More than a few deserved what they got.

  He remembered when one of his oldest friends, Alexander, had asked for his help. It was all too familiar—Alexander couldn’t live without his human, a boy of twelve who had come along and unexpectedly relieved the pressure of centuries of tedium. Alexander told Sabian the child had saved him from eventual and inevitable implosion. When the child was killed as part of a blood feud between Alexander and one of the Elders, Alexander couldn’t think in terms of quid pro quo, couldn’t fathom retribution. He wanted only release.

  Sabian gave his reluctant help, even though he never approved of the old vampire’s proclivities. Two hundred years before, on a dreary, misty day in England, Sabian watched as Alexander drained three virgin boys, children who died with smiles of pre-pubescent ecstasy on their faces, innocence gift wrapped in sin. With Alexander wasted on the strongest drug Kindred dared imbibe—the blood of a virgin child—Sabian took the blade he’d sharpened past lethal, and began to cut. Cutting gave way to sawing, and sawing gave way to hacking. A bone here, a tendon there. His friend was alive when Sabian began, but made no sounds even before the vocal cords were severed. It was the bloodiest endeavor of Sabian’s life, the black essence of Kindred mingling with the red blood of the virgin-painkillers Alexander had taken.

  Sabian had wept for Alexander. He wept for the virgin boys. He wept for himself. There had been worse tragedies in his Kindred life, but that fact offered no numbing comfort. The death of his friend was altogether unbearable. Sabian had tried to convince his old friend that the boy was not bound to him, and release would not bring the child back into his realm, but Alexander was so overcome with grief he literally couldn’t believe that. And the biggest problem with assisting Kindred suicide was inherent in the desired outcome. Alexander was true-dead and could never return the favor.

  Sabian’s friend would be back, or at least his soul would, and Sabian always kept his senses open for Alexander’s presence in another body, but so far they hadn’t crossed paths. Sabian knew they likely wouldn’t. He and Alexander were no more bound than Alexander and his young boy. Tragic, but true.

  If Anya pulled a worst-case scenario, Sabian would have to be dismembered and beheaded, burned to ashes, and then scattered far and wide. It was the only way to extinguish both body and consciousness for Kindred. The same would have to be done to Anya, but he would take care of that first, personally. He wanted the satisfaction of erasing her from this world to keep him company in death.

  But first, he would track.

  Their scent took him north for a while, and then west. He’d only followed the trail for a few miles, just long enough to get out of the city and past the entrance to the Canyon he’d just come from, and then it was gone.

  Decades before, when Sabian had wanted Anya to know how to move quickly and without evidence because she was so destructive and careless, lessons had been learned. The careful instruction had paid off, but Sabian never knew his audience was such an apt pupil.

  And it never dawned on him his progeny might use the information against him.

  Back then it was only a matter of time before the Vanguard Hunters found her in a vulnerable position, or her own kind was forced to rein in the Anya issue. In fact, the Elders had tried to charge Sabian with the responsibility of containment, and those were the only moments he was ever glad they all mistakenly thought he was BloodStar.

  No one forced BloodStar.

  A BloodStar does because he does. And the fools bought the logic.

  There was something wrong with the trail, and it wasn't just that it faded away, but what? While he covered and recovered the tracks, Sabian thought about all the times he considered eliminating Anya but didn’t. Why? So that someday in the future he could run himself crazy following a disintegrating trail that had too much flavor?

  And that was the problem. It wasn’t just Marley with Anya, there was a third, and by god, it was a familiar scent. Why couldn't he place it? Did the moisture of the snowfall dilute the potency?

  Picking up a visual trail was impossible. The blizzard was bearing down now; the terrain was nothing more than a haphazard pile of cotton balls and the trees a bunch of Q-tips strewn together like pick-up-sticks standing on end.

  Total white-out.

  Except for the garnet filter of his tears.

  "Come on," he said. "Where are you?"

  He needed to still himself. Anya’s blood would speak to him if he quieted his mind and reached for her. He closed his eyes and willed her location into focus. A faint but noticeable glow began to burn just under his skin as his vampire blood concentrated into pure purpose, but either his antenna was broken or Anya's homing signal was on the fritz.

  Sabian rammed his head against a tree, needing pain to distract from the frustration, wanting blood to pour into, not out of, his eyes. A gash split his forehead, but the wound healed quickly, mended by vampire venom.

  His emotions rode the metronome from one extreme to the other, and a growl from deep in his diaphragm bubbled all the way up and out of his mouth, exploding into a howl of despair when it reached the open air. He dragged in a few ragged breaths that provided no function other than the soothing feeling of respiration.

  There was nothing for him here.

  Sabian ran as fast as his feet would carry him back to Fort Collins. He needed to focus, but the thought of that mongrel with Marley was too much. He was out of control. What if the Elders could see him now? Would they finally let him be, drop the fucking fanaticism? They wanted so badly to revere him as BloodStar, but look at him now. Lost, out of control emotionally, ready to do anything—including risking the Masquerade—to get his prize. No better than a fledgling.

  How long did they think the vampire community would accept a celebrity that was never authenticated? His station had simply been supposed, assumed, and bestowed. The Ancients never made the official confirmation, and Sabian had never been able to find them to give the official denial.

  A BloodStar does not lose his only childe, especially not an Anya, whose energy screamed in discord. A BloodStar calls to him those he seeks, and they come, goddamn it. A BloodStar does…because he does.

  He had to focus, save his make-believe fights with the Ancients for later. There was nothing to do but start back at the beginning.

  "Why. Can’t. I. Find. You! Why. Can’t. I. Feel. You!" He asked the question silently in rhythm with his footfalls. Without the ability in that moment to settle his energy and reach out with more focus, he headed back to the city to scour all angles, check every place he’d ever seen Marley go.

  Starting with the coffee shop.

  Sabian smoothed his hair and wiped at his forehead before entering, hoping all traces of his head-banging tantrum and midnight-blood were back in the canyon.

  Ben was working at The Basement, managing the morning rush with his usual artistic flair. The shop had a couple of customers in the booths, and a steady flow of people interrupting their morning commutes for coffees to go.

  Ben greeted his known habitués with a hearty "Ready for Halloween?"

  Sabian stood in the corner, choosing not to be seen by anyone. Nearby, a picture of Jenna was taped to both sides of the window, the poster titled "MISSING." Even before he opened the door, Sabian knew Anya had been here.

  Sabian also knew how Ben felt about Marley, not that the feelings were very deep or developed. She’d
barely given the kid the time of day, but was just friendly enough to kindle the beginnings of something. As innocent as Ben was, as harmless and inconsequential, Sabian allowed a brilliant hatred to unfold while he leaned against the wall, watching…waiting.

  For more than an hour he remained invisible in the recesses of the coffee shop. It wasn’t that the patrons couldn’t see him—more that he didn’t wish to be seen. He allowed the silent and all too potent threat of his predatory talent to creep into the atmosphere, and watched with putrid amusement as people squirmed in their seats and checked their watches. They weren’t consciously aware of the source of anxiety—it was a general feeling of unease, a disquiet that could only be neutralized by hitting the door their eyes kept shifting to.

  As the shop emptied, Sabian blanketed himself with a seething fury he’d cooked up special for Ben. The more he stared across the lobby, the more he had to choke back the sense that bile was rising into his mouth, although his physiology rendered that impossible.

  Anya wasn’t going to show up—of course not. It was absurd to wait so long. She hadn’t left a single hint that she’d ever been there other than her stench, which was impossible to camouflage. If she had been so careful to disguise her movement out of town with Marley, what made him think she would make the foolish mistake of returning to one of the very few places Sabian might look?

  Because she wanted him to look.

  He knew Anya wanted him consumed with worry, and it would be just like her to want to watch—need to watch. The only problem was, he realized, this was not her chosen venue. She wouldn’t be back. He’d done nothing more than waste precious minutes of Marley’s life watching this skinny nobody pour coffee as though he were recreating the Sistine Chapel; it was preposterous how much pageantry Ben put into his precious coffee creations.

  The more disgusted Sabian became with thoughts of Ben’s intentions toward Marley, the more convinced he was that Ben had served his last masterpiece. Sabian knew he should get control of his thoughts, but he had been thrown into Purgatory and wasn’t ready to repent just yet. Other than seeing Marley safely into his arms, the only thing he wanted in that moment was this kid dead at his feet and warm blood slipping down his gullet.

  Sabian found himself with sudden direction and purpose. Too much time had been wasted—on all fronts, he realized. He’d frittered away more than twenty years, standing on the sidelines instead of getting into the game and claiming what was his. He had lost time even since he found Marley, running off for this reason or that, leaving her alone—and unprotected—to wonder what she had done wrong to drive him away. She would think their last conversation was a fight, and from a human perspective, it was, but these things didn’t affect Kindred. The blood would erase all debts, make all harmonious again.

  God, why did he leave?

  And now, here in this warm and casual coffee shop—such a contrived atmosphere with its stupid spider webs and pumpkins covering every surface—he'd wasted an hour of Marley’s life she would never get back. If Anya wanted an unceremonious death for Marley, then Marley was already decaying anonymously somewhere, and no one would claim her.

  But that couldn’t be the case. Anya took Marley for a reason, and he knew instinctively she would keep her alive until he got there. If he could only fucking find them!

  With his frustration reaching epic proportions, Sabian decided he had to feed, Ben was nearby, and in all honesty, Sabian just didn’t like the guy. He was irksome. There was nothing wrong with his soul, per se, and his previous lifetimes had been just as droll and trivial as this one, but in the end, being anywhere near him was like sticking your tongue against a nine volt battery—no real damage occurred but it was quite unpleasant.

  Sabian made his move when Ben decided to clean up the shop during a loll in customers. When the empty Splenda and sugar wrappers, and all the stirring sticks strewn about the various counters were safely in the big, black trash bag, Ben headed for the back exit. Sabian walked up the half flight and out the main entrance for customers, skulking without a sound around the building to the large trash bin outside.

  It was perfect. The container was surrounded on three sides by a block wall, and a green mesh-covered gate added a final touch of privacy.

  The plain, white panel van wound its way north through the Rocky Mountains around a never ending gauntlet of blind curves. The route reminded Sam Halac of one of those twisty straws he loved to slurp Koolaid through back in the Eighties. Sam wished the partition that separated the front from the back was as sound proof as it was light proof. Jesus, the radio didn’t go loud enough to drown out the sucking and slurping, and he wasn’t all together certain it was only blood the vampire bitch was enjoying back there.

  Vanguard agent, vampire Hunter, El Camino enthusiast—words he would have used a year ago to describe himself, but it was all bullshit. Jesus, the first two on the list were essentially the same thing. Who was he?

  Fucking nobody, fucking worthless, that’s who he was.

  Before this thrill-ride through the mountains, Sam hadn’t realized he had no real identity, at least not one that could be described independent of his vocation. It was pathetic.

  It was weird.

  That list didn’t actually describe him so much as give a few nouns that allowed him societal acceptance. Then again, society didn’t know about Hunters.

  Worse, he would have to add kidnapper to the list now.

  When he agreed to work with Anya, Sam knew the methodology would change drastically, but he was nothing if not adaptable. He’d always brought cutting edge ideas to The Vanguard and this was the biggest reason he was top dog.

  That and the fact that he could give a fuck’s nut about anything not related to tracking his prey. The other Hunters were always caught up in one thing or another. Not Halac. Eyes on the prize.

  Since he’d been with Anya, though, Sam was afraid more human lives had been lost or damaged than if he’d just staked her. Was the BloodStar worth this? Worth what he knew was happening in the back of this piece of shit van?

  And to top it all off, it was a fucking GM. The only GM he ever drove was the El Camino. He felt like an adulterer.

  Fucking vampires.

  Sam thought about Marley back there, unconscious and helpless in the dark with one of the most deranged vamps on record. He’d worked overtime to stay away from Marley, to make Jenna think he didn’t approve of her transient friend so she wouldn’t bring Marley around. He purposely never spoke to Marley while he was reconnoitering because he was afraid if he heard her voice, if he looked in her eyes, he’d find that Franky had been right, and Sam just didn’t think he could deal with that.

  Fuck, even now he felt something. For the last six or seven hours he’d been trying to deny the urge to skid to a stop right in the middle of the two lane highway and crash his way into the back of the van. He could have Anya’s head in about three seconds, and Marley would be safe.

  And God, he wanted to do it. Go back and chop that parasite bitch’s head off, but he knew that three seconds were two seconds too long; Anya would sense intent, and she would be waiting for him. He was already struggling against the addiction, and the less he put himself directly into Anya’s crosshairs, the better.

  Shit, why was he so fucking worried about this Marley broad, anyway? Sam knew what Franky would say, but still.

  He didn’t believe in all that. He didn’t.

  Honestly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben didn’t mind taking out the trash. The few other employees of The Basement shirked this chore, and didn't that just go to show what dumb-dumbs they were? It was a built in five minute break at least. He opened the bin and heaved the trash bag over the side, and then leaned against the block wall of the enclosure and settled in for a quick smoke. He zipped his coat up to the hilt, and just finished taking his first puff when he heard the clink of the gate closing.

  Ben looked up and saw that he was not alone. It was the man that came in
to the shop the week before and sat at Marley’s table.

  Only he looked different today.

  That day he had the look of a pissed off wet cat with no claws, unable to inflict the pain he knew would make him feel better. Today, on the other hand, he was still a pissed off cat, but more like a lion packing razor-sharp talons. Today, Ben saw, this man could (and would) bring the fury.

  "I know you," said Ben.

  The man leered at him. Jesus Christ, his eyeteeth were fucking fangs, and he was drooling a red-tinted liquid that almost looked like watered-down blood.

  And oh fuck, the guy’s eyes were glowing—not shining, glowing.

  "Holy shit."

  The smile on the man’s face faded, and his weary voice said, "I just need some peace. Just ten minutes."

  "What does that have to do with me?" Ben tried to sound tough, but even he could hear the squeak in his voice.

  "I can’t find them. I can’t hear them. I just need to reboot, and then maybe…"

  That voice was alien. "Hey, man, who are you trying to find? Marley? Maybe I can help." Ben was all too aware of the only exit from the cage, and the fact that it was blocked by some kind of monster. He also realized that when he mentioned Marley’s name, the freaky fucking smile on this thing’s face transformed into blatant, black terrorism.

  "You can help."

  "What do you need, man?"

  "Blackout."

  Ben could only stare, petrified and confused.

  The man with the dripping teeth said, "You really thought you had a chance, didn’t you? Thought she might like you just a little bit? Enough that you might get a little?"

  Now Ben realized this guy was pissed at him, not just pissed in general. "Look, I didn't know she was your girl. I wasn’t trying to move in on anything."

  "It doesn’t matter," said the man in a dismissive way. "You don’t matter. I just need to forget, just ten minutes."

  An inhuman, guttural snarl ripped free from the guy.

  "Oh fuck." Ben pissed his pants—just a little, only a little.