by Kira Hillins
Tristan stepped away from his worried friend. “I must leave.”
Mac gave a short nod then went back to the bar, no questions asked. Tristan couldn’t hold off any longer. He longed to be alone with his struggle.
The beach helped him through most nights when desperation peaked. The sound of the waves calmed him when the fire would not go away. To stand in the ocean and let salt water cleanse the blood of thousands from his body would somewhat cool his cravings. It’d be enough to go home and drink from the bottles he stored in his house, aged to bitterness—Jester of Wines.
Tristan left his once lone haven now contaminated with the old man’s stench. No way could he rejoin the serenity of this place, at least not tonight.
Too riled up, he headed toward the door. As he passed Mac, he threw him a glare from beneath his dark locks then sneered as he stalked outside into a wintry mix.
Chapter Two
Relapse
Tristan walked alone down the sidewalk. Thick fog had rolled in and covered the empty streets like a blanket. The rain changed to winter snow then back again. He’d open his mouth to let the cool flakes land on his tongue, but there was no point. They were tasteless. The only thing that quenched his thirst was blood. Right now, he needed it.
He shivered. To find the old man, to make him writhe in pain as he drained life from his fragile body would fulfill this rage. Sour blood would end the tormenting hunger inside him. But then, he’d made a promise not to kill. He’d never break his vow no matter what obstacles lay in his way, at least, not on purpose.
A car turned the corner at the intersection ahead. Its tires whooshed in the rain-filled street as it sped down the road toward the bar. Though an unusual encounter on a night like this, Tristan ignored the intrusion and kept his pace.
The brake lights cast a red glow on the pavement. The car came to a halt. It whipped around then idled his way. Headlights fell against his back. Tristan’s shadow shrank through the standing rainwater to his right, and then vanished as the car rolled in beside him.
He kept his head down as he continued forward. If he stopped, the female who drove the car would think he was friendly. She’d bother him enough that a promise might be broken, and that just couldn’t happen.
“Hey, mister!” she called out from the window. “Could you give me directions?”
Killing never mattered when it came to the sexes. He’d always taken the readily available. But women were most difficult to overlook. Their sweet scent made his human side vulnerable to the demon within. To breathe now would be a mistake. Unfortunately for her, he couldn’t resist.
The aroma of clove cigarettes intoxicated him. The rose perfume she’d doused her body in sickened him, and yet, he desired to taste it on his tongue as he drained her essence.
She parked the car at the curb. The engine coughed once and then cut out. The door opened. Her heels clapped against the wet sidewalk as she stepped ahead of him then stopped.
To talk to this woman would gather his demon’s attention. Ignore her and move on.
She was an obstacle he could avoid. All he had to do was step up in the fog and drift over her. So quick and quiet, she’d never even see it happen.
Her lips pursed as he walked around her. “Excuse me!”
He kept his pace in the slowing precipitation, hoping this hurdle would not find a way to rouse him further. Her voice, soft as her blood-red lips, sang in his ears. He sensed her stare on his back, beckoning him to acknowledge her. There was nothing more that he wanted than to do just that. Blood was blood, blood was food, and conversing with his meal just never happened, at least not without sex.
Her heart pounded like a siren’s song, demanding him to stop. He tried to keep going, but his will wouldn’t allow it. Then, he turned to face her.
The rain had soaked her short blonde hair. Her legs were long, thin, and bare to her thighs. Like a cheap whore, she wore a skirt that left nothing to the imagination, a tube top she could barely keep up over her flat chest, and a tan leather jacket that looked pulled from the garbage. Black mascara smeared around green eyes and streaked down her cheeks as if she’d somehow become one of the forest creatures he often fed on. They were nuisances, both of them.
“I’m trying to find Mac’s Bar.” She threw her weight from one high heel to another, making her look like she danced. She held her hand on her curved hip. “I was supposed to meet my friends there an hour ago. I’m from out of town and don’t know my way around. If it wasn’t for this awful weather—”
“—the next alley.” He spoke the first words to a woman in over fifty years.
“Oh, nice.” Her teeth chattered as she inched toward him.
It was the allure that drew her in. He’d never understood why or how it worked, and had never questioned it. Although chasing his victims had been more fun in the past, getting what he wanted, sex and blood, was easier this way.
Her body trembled as she brought her hand to her mouth. Mesmerized, she bit the end of her nail and smiled. Heat emanated from her inner thighs. She wanted him, but he couldn’t imagine being with such a woman. Attraction or not, she was too willing to give herself to a strange man on the street.
She’d be better off if he ended her scorned life. He’d replenish his body with warm, sweet blood. He took pity on her, and with a deep, calming breath, he looked away.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
No sense of imminent danger and with no fear for her life, she hurried down the sidewalk toward Mac’s. Foolish girl. Out on the street alone, half-dressed on a cold winter’s night, she’d be an easy target. He’d grab her up in his arms, pull her to him, and drain her life before anyone even noticed.
Regret for wanting her was difficult to swallow, equally painful for letting her go. He desired the chase. His insides ached for her blood. The rise in his slacks pleaded for pleasure, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could allow himself to do but wallow in misery.
Footsteps splashed in the water behind him. They were at a distance, but drawing closer. By the scent of sour pine in the air, he knew who it was. Slate.
Tristan rounded the next corner then followed the short alley to the dead-end. He leaned back against the brick building. Demon coming unbound, he stuck his hands in his pockets. He placed his black-booted foot on the wall behind his knee as three men rounded the corner. One of them was indeed Slate. He had hunted him down, and brought friends.
“That’s him!” Slate limped toward Tristan.
Tristan was conflicted. If he let his demon loose, he’d kill all three in a matter of seconds. He’d made a promise not to take life, and promises weren’t meant to be broken.
“You’re an idiot for coming here.” Slate could barely catch his breath. “You’re trapped now with nowhere to go.”
The other men carried metal pipes in their hands. They were twins, maybe in their thirties. They resembled Slate. What an unfortunate situation for them to be in. Tristan wouldn’t mind killing Slate, but his sons were defending their father from a man who’d struck fear in his heart.
Slate waved a pistol in Tristan’s face. He leaned in close. “Nobody makes a fool out of me.” Saliva spewed from his mouth as he spoke. “I don’t know how you got your eyes to do that little trick, but when you’re dead, it won’t matter.”
Tristan chuckled. “You would murder an unarmed man?”
“Freaks like you don’t deserve to live. But I hope you put up a fight for me and my boys.”
“Three against one is not a fair fight.”
“I never liked following rules, sissy boy.”
The fiery spheres of his demon worked their way through him with ease. Tristan wanted this kill. He’d buried this monster deep inside for too long. Now unleashed, it was difficult to chain him back up.
Sometimes promises were meant to be broken.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” Slate tapped the barrel of the gun against Tristan’s cheek. “Just stand there like
a good boy and take whatever we give you.”
“Do what you must.” Tristan flashed his wicked grin. “But I will not hold back.”
The two men raised the pipes over their heads then swung fast and hard. Tristan caught them in each hand. He jerked the weapons from their grasps. Adrenaline pumped through him as he stood to pursue more of this fight.
Slate aimed the gun at Tristan. He squeezed the trigger. The bang echoed around the enclosure as the bullet plunged into Tristan’s side. The despairing look on Slate’s face eased as Tristan stumbled back against the wall.
The wound emanated a strange aching sensation. To feel his cold blood exiting his body for the first time in years fascinated him.
Slate aimed again. “You’re going to die now.” He pulled the trigger.
Tristan lunged straight into the bullet. He ignored the pain in his chest as his canines, sharp enough to slice through the toughest meat, fangs every one of his victims had experienced just before their death, protruded from his parted lips. Food furthest from his mind, he went for the thrill of the kill.
With a swing of both pipes, Tristan sent the two men flying through the air. One hit the west wall, the other hit the east. Both fragile bodies cracked and fell to the pavement. The scent of blood filled Tristan’s nostrils as he glared at Slate, who stood in front of him, heart racing.
Tristan threw the pipes on the waterlogged ground. They landed with a clang, startling Slate enough to shoot the gun. The bullet ripped through the thin material of Tristan’s trench coat, grazing his arm. His muscle burned, but he kept moving forward, eager to rip out Slate’s throat.
Slate turned to run, but Tristan caught him by the nape of the neck. As his fingers dug into leathery skin, he remembered making a promise not to kill for food. Never had he sworn off killing for vengeance.
He shoved Slate’s face into the brick wall above the body that lay groaning at his feet. “Please.” The man on the ground moaned. “Don’t hurt my dad. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. We didn’t know.”
Tristan shoved Slate harder into the wall. From the loud crack, it sounded like the brick had broken from the force of the push. But the scent of fresh blood meant Slate’s nose had broken, and the weary, painful breath that passed his lips made his pain gratifying.
“He is dying anyway.” Tristan growled as he fought the urge to hear Slate’s skull cave from the pressure.
“I’m so sorry.” Slate cried as he dropped the gun from his shaky grasp. “I promise I’ll leave you alone. Just please have mercy on me.”
Mercy—a word Tristan never understood. He struggled with his rage. He commanded the demon to release his grasp on Slate. One by one, his fingers peeled away. Letting him go was an excruciating feat.
It didn’t feel right to send his demon back into the depths of his consciousness. It hurt to put away his daggers and cool his burning eyes.
With a slight slump, Tristan buried his hands in his pockets. The silver lighter nestled on his palm, brought back reason as he traced the line of the dragon with his thumb. The dark puddles of water leading back to the road were his path out of this mess, and he was ready to follow.
Slate buckled over and coughed. “Who are you?” He wiped blood from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “What are you?”
Tristan sneered. “I am nobody. I am nothing.”
Tristan headed toward the road. It was unusual this feeling of closure, how it cooled his burning veins. He’d never guessed it’d be this easy to walk away from someone who deserved to die. He’d kept his impossible promise. He’d won and that gave him hope.
Maybe he’d go back to the bar and order a celebratory glass of fruit wine. There he’d sit with his beloved friend and converse in a gentlemanly manner for the remainder of the night. Afterward, he’d return to his dark home for the day and sleep well knowing he had controlled his demon.
An explosion echoed through the alleyway. Tristan stopped. An unplanned breath escaped his open mouth. The ringing in his ears was immense as excruciating pain tore through his skull.
He raised his hand and touched the open wound. Cold black liquid exhaled from the gaping hole around shards of flesh. His right ear clung by a mere thread of skin that entangled in his drenched hair.
He turned on his heel to find Slate sitting on the ground, eyes wide, slack-jawed, as he held the gun out before him. Tristan held out his bloodstained hand, inspecting it, studying it, showing the man what had caused his ultimate demise.
“A shot like this might kill a normal man.” Tristan stepped toward Slate, breathing the demon’s breath once more. “You want to know what I am. I am a monster altered to endure your wicked attacks. To no longer bleed red or feel the same pain as your mortal body. Every wound I suffer is healed with the power of darkness. And in this circumstance, I believe I am fortunate.”
By the frightened look on Slate’s face, the man knew what his outcome would be. Death would have his way with him, after he bled, after he experienced pain.
Slate sheathed the gun in the top of his pants and scrambled to his feet. He ran for the exit, but Tristan caught him by the throat. His heart pumped with power that he’d missed. His thoughts, so in tune with the demon, turned darker than black.
He dug his nails into warm flesh. A chilling cry escaped Slate’s mouth as he unsheathed the gun. He fired his last three rounds into the pavement as Tristan enclosed his hand around the long, hollow tube of his throat. Flesh and blood pushed into his nails as he ripped out Slate’s esophagus. Steam rose into the wintry air around his bloodied grasp. Warm blood oozed between his fingers and dripped down tendons that still moved.
Slate’s eyes rolled. His last breath still lingered in an exhaling gasp, until his body gave out in death. Red liquid spilled from the hole in his neck, drenching his clothes as he fell to his knees and then to the ground.
Tristan cast a devilish grin. The monster inside him had won. He was stronger than ever, dominant at this very moment. To do something so inhuman, so evil was like artwork, a masterpiece.
An elated sigh escaped his mouth. He ran his tongue across his daggers as if he tasted the very blood that dripped from his hands. In his mind it was delicious. But the scent was sour, and his appetite diminished.
He gazed at the dead man on the ground. To go back to the killer he used to be, to create destruction along his path through eternity, would be so easy. If he could stop the struggle and let the demon take over, guilt would never eat him alive. He would never again feel ashamed as he did now.
Movement from the shadows caught his attention. Slate’s sons were waking from their unconscious state. Tristan gathered the corpse in his arms and ascended into the sky. He flew over the fog where the rain thinned and patches of clear sky showed through the clouds. He was unworthy to look at the stars, for he’d broken his promise.
The house on the cliff, this dark stone home he’d taken residence in, seemed to welcome him with open arms. Just south of Devil’s Cauldron, it offered seclusion. The isolation gave him room to do as he wished, including the disposal of bodies.
Hatred went with him as he made his way to the furnace room below the kitchen. Remorse hit him hard as he tossed Slate’s body into the fire. Not because he’d killed a man who’d already looked Death in the eye, but because of his broken promise. He’d killed. And he’d enjoyed it.
His eyes burned like the flames engulfing the body, and then cooled when he closed the large steel door. As if he’d shut his demon inside, he fell to his knees.
He’d been alone for so long until he met Mac, who’d been like a father to him, guiding him in human ways he’d forgotten. He’d been a savage tamed by the love of his friend. When Mac found out about this, he’d turn his back on him. He’d despise him. Then this disgraceful droplet of what he called life would again be completely and painfully empty.
* * * *
Tristan scanned the room through the large pane window. Though the glass was tinted, the dim lights from the ba
r made it easy to find Mac sitting on a chair. He fumbled his beret through his fingers as he waited on a prodigal son.
Mac was a loyal friend. They’d spent almost every night conversing until the sun was about to rise. Tristan had told him about his life, his death, and resurrection. He’d told him about the infection Madeline spread into him and about the cure for this disease that led him here.
He’d spent centuries waiting for a female to be born in a bloodline to cure him of his ailment, but none had ever come to pass. Mac had waited with him, and then mourned with him when the lineage ended.
So many years without a word to anyone, and Tristan had told this man everything. He’d told him things hidden in the depths of his soul, things so dark the devil would tremble. To hear disappointment in Mac’s voice now would be upsetting.
Mac huffed then checked his watch. He placed his hat on his head ready to give in on his wait and go upstairs to his apartment.
Tristan winced from the pain. He should leave and never return, but he stumbled through the door, head low to hide his wounds.
“There you are. I wondered if you’d come back.”
Tristan swayed. The pain became unbearable, as if being this close to Mac brought out his human side. He drew one breath after another into his lungs. The room spun as he leaned back against the door.
Mac’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
“I will heal while I rest. Just take me to the house before daylight breaks.”
Mac pulled Tristan’s arm around his shoulder. He walked him outside to the back of the building, where his beat-up yellow sedan sat. As he helped him into the front seat, he inspected his ear.
“He got you good, didn’t he?”
“He suffered a worse fate.”
Mac shut the passenger door then rounded the front of the car. He sat on the driver’s seat then slammed the door closed. Lips pursed, he stuck the keys in the ignition and started the car. He twisted the large knob on the dash to defrost, and then leaned back in the seat.