"Does it bother you?" Larry asked as they crossed the threshold into the office.
"No," Kent replied, "What I saw the other day has prepared me for anything."
"That is what I am asking. We are merrily eating food that will shorten our lives and those two young people cannot think of anything right now without wanting to throw up into the nearest receptacle."
"Yeah, I know what you were asking," Kent replied.
"And it still doesn't bother you?" Larry asked as they approached Carl's remains.
Kent placed his coffee cup on a forensics investigators clipboard. He removed a pair of gloves from his raincoat and placed them on his hands. Both gloves snapped into place. He put his hand on the body bound to the chair and turned it around. Larry gasped as he saw what Mikhaeli had done to the museum employee. Kent smirked.
"This is why it doesn't bother me," Kent said.
"Why?" Larry asked as he crouched to examine the brutality of the vampire queen's torture techniques.
"It doesn't bother me because I know that I will see it again and again. I know that it will never end," Kent replied.
Larry hung his head. He knew exactly where this conversation was headed. "You sound like David."
"So I am not the only one wondering if we will ever win this war?" Kent asked.
Larry bounced out of his crouch. His knees and his back both cracked as he stood. It felt good despite their circumstances. He also wondered if it was his body's way of telling him that he was getting too old to be chasing immortal beings across borders.
"No," Larry admitted, "You are not the first and you won't be last that doubts our ability to win this war, but we can win this war."
"But will we?" Kent asked as he noted the words carved into Carl's chest on his notepad.
"Yes," Larry replied, "But I doubt that any of us will be alive to see it."
"Not very reassuring," Kent mumbled.
Larry sighed. "Let's see if we can find something here to give us a chance," he said.
"Fair enough. What do you make of this note?" Kent asked.
"It means that our friend was here," Larry replied.
"How do you know?"
Larry chuckled. "Let's just say that it is a little insider information."
"This is a homicide, Larry. If you know something…"
"I am well aware of what has happened here, Kent, but that piece of information won't help you find your killer. She was simply taunting Chris. She plays mind games."
Kent glanced around the ransacked office. "Do you know what she was after?"
"Yes, but I doubt that it was in here. It was far too valuable," Larry said as he walked towards the open supply closet.
Kent stepped over some desk drawers. "How valuable?"
"Priceless in many ways," Larry said as he stepped over a broken office chair and peaked into the closet. He sighed again.
"You are being very cryptic, my friend," Kent said as he peered over Larry's shoulder to see the cause of his exasperation.
"As you can see," Larry said as both men read the words written on the wall, "She is playing with us."
"I see," Kent said he noted the words on the wall.
Larry stepped forward to examine the writing. A discarded finger was on top of the open safe. 'I am not hard to find, darling' dripped down wall. Larry shook his head in disgust. He crouched to peer inside the safe. It barely looked disturbed. The previous night's deposit remained in place. However, he knew that the real valuable was missing.
"Looks like she missed something," Kent said as he noted the deposit bag.
"No," Larry retorted as he stood, "She got what she wanted except one thing."
"And that was?" Kent asked as he stepped aside to let Larry pass.
"Chris didn't see this note."
"How do you know?"
"The safe is still in its original place. Knowing my friend, he would have hurled it through the wall in anger because she beat him to it."
"So that means?" Kent asked as he followed Larry back to the dead body.
"It means that her little calling card is in here somewhere. She wants him to find her."
Kent tapped Larry on the shoulder as he removed a folded piece of paper from Carl's left shirt pocket. He unfolded it and read. He handed it to Larry. His eyes spied the torn hotel brochure page. The bright red lipstick next to the address stared at him.
"Too easy?" Kent asked.
Larry was already dashing out the door.
* * *
The day slipped into night but not a soul had noticed. The dark and dreary weather had continued to set the perfect stage for the mood of Halifax. A cold rain had continued. The streets were dark and wet. The hearts of the population were heavy. Several dozen members of the police force were either dead or injured from the horrific explosion that had destroyed the forensics lab and had toppled neighboring buildings. News reports gave sparse details, but the word on the street was that several suitcases were armed with C-4 plastic explosive and they all had detonated at the same time. Whoever had been behind what was being called a terrorist attack had yet to come forward. However, Chris knew.
Christopher Bloodheart had spent two sleepless nights searching the dark underworld of the city. His body ached. It had been over a day since he had fed. His body raged with hunger. He had tortured and killed dozens of vampires. He fed on their undead blood but it failed to sustain him. He had resisted the urge to feed on those less fortunate souls who walked the streets at night. Instead, he gave them the money that he had taken from the vampires and encouraged them to use it to find shelter. It was also so they would be safe from him. His anger and his hunger grew by the hour as his search did not reveal where the vampire queen had set up her hideout. He was on the verge of ripping out the first throat that he found to quell not only his vampire appetite, but also his human anger. He needed help and he knew of only one place to find it.
Battered and tired, Chris stumbled up the steps of St. Mary's Basilica. The Catholic Cathedral, which was located not far from the museum where he had lost track of Mikhaeli, was consecrated near the end of the nineteenth century. Its design was inspired by the Saint Martin in the Fields in London, England and featured the tallest granite spire in all of North America. Pope Pius XII made it a basilica in 1950. He also secretly decreed that it would be the religious center for all Council of the Light activities in the region. As the reach of the council continued to grow, so did the legend of the basilica. Religious leaders, who rose through the ranks of the council, desired to serve in the church even though their religious backgrounds varied. In recent years, under the guidance of Father Colin McLeary, the basilica had become a welcoming refuge for the less fortune. Tonight, Chris hoped for much more.
He reached the large double doors and pulled. They were locked. In his tired state, he rested his head against the dark wood. Cool rain dripped from his blood soaked hair and sent frigid trickles down his spine. He stepped backwards. He slipped on the wet steps and fell. He tumbled to the street. Agony from pain and hunger filled his body. He stood slowly. He thought about leaving and continuing his search, but his anger sparked again. His rage grew and he charged up the wet steps and slammed both fits on the door. The doors shook. He pounded again and again.
"WHY?" he bellowed as he slammed his fists onto the door again, "WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?"
He slid down the door and fell to his knees. He began to sob.
"Why?" he asked through the tears.
His sorrow continued until the doors eased open. A dim light from the church slid across the wet steps. An aged hand touched his head.
"Are you okay, my son?" Father McLeary asked.
His yellow, demonic eyes snapped upward to see the balding man. The priest immediately produced a cross and a stake. Despite his advanced years, his reflexes had remained sharp. His blue eyes were stern and cold. He pressed the holy symbol against Chris' cold wet skin.
"Be gone d…"
He pause
d. Instead of his flesh melting against its touch, it appeared to warm him. Chris ripped the cross from his hand and clutched it to his chest. He hugged it and looked skyward.
"Why?" he asked.
The priest was dumbfounded. Kneeling in front of him was the creature that he had sworn to destroy. The unholy demon of the night that had murdered countless numbers of his parish and his fellow council warriors knelt in front of him. This one, however, clutched his cross to his chest like a child embracing the warmth and love found in a teddy bear. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he continued to look skyward. Despite his better judgment, Father McLeary hooked Chris under the arm and helped him to his feet.
"Come in if you can," he said.
Chris, nearly completely unaware of his surroundings, continued to look skyward. He held the cross firmly to his chest. The interior of the basilica was breathtaking. The high-arched ceilings were absolutely beautiful. Despite being centuries old, the basilica had retained a modern appearance. Pictures of the crucifixion of Christ adored the walls. Large stained glass windows depicted images of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary. However, the large crucifix, a cross with a likeness of the body of Christ, which hung above the altar, immediately caught his eye. Still clutching the cross to his chest, Chris broke into a full dash. He stopped when he stood directly in front of the altar. His arms dropped to his side and the cross fell to the floor. His eyes never left the crucifix as he slumped to both knees.
"My Lord," he whispered as he stared in awe as tears trickled down his cheeks.
Three nuns appeared from the behind the altar. One ran to Chris' side only to stop and gasp when she saw his face. She covered her mouth before blessing herself. She stepped backwards until she bumped into the other two nuns. One of them slowly dipped an empty candleholder into a basin of holy water. With the makeshift container in her hands she crept towards Chris. She lifted her hands to throw the holy liquid when Father McLeary grabbed her wrist.
"Don't," he urged. "Something is not as it seems."
Chris turned his head slowly and he saw the holy water in the clear glass candleholder. He gasped and leapt to his feet. He snatched the holy water from her grasp and he drank it quickly. Both the nun and the priest watched. They were dumbfounded. The vampire hunter glanced left and right until he saw the basin filled with holy water. He dashed between the two other nuns who squealed. He buried his face in the basin and lapped up the water.
He fell backwards and slumped to the floor. He began to froth at the mouth. All four members of the church ran to his side. He trembled. Father McLeary slipped behind him and cradled his head in his lap. Chris clutched his stomach. His eyes slowly switched colors and his fangs retracted. His vampire features melted back into his face. The handsome, yet battered features of Cristof Blutherz returned.
"Well that is an improvement," the youngest nun stated.
"Sister McCormick," the eldest nun stated, "Shame on you."
"What?" the young nun asked. "He's not ugly. Well, not anymore."
Father McLeary began to speak. "We shouldn't…"
"It…It's okay," Chris mumbled through his still raging pain. "At least I am not scaring her."
"It speaks!" the oldest nun exclaimed.
"Sometimes I sing too," Chris joked as he slowly sat up. "However, only on Sundays."
Father McLeary laughed but the nuns were still in shock. They were in the presence of a vampire. The youngest nun, who was rapidly developing a crush on the vampire hunter, stared at his battered but muscular chest. She blessed herself and ran to his side to help him up. She noticed a gash along his left side.
"You're bleeding," she exclaimed as she pressed her hand over his wound.
"Comes with the territory," he said as he winced.
"We need to help you," she said with a hint of urgency in her voice.
He placed his hand over hers. "Thank you, Sister, but my physical wounds will rapidly heal. If you can provide me with a pitcher of holy water, my physical wounds will heal even faster."
She looked into his eyes and blinked several times. Her heart skipped a beat. He was truly the most beautiful man that she had ever seen. "I…I…"
"You need to get the holy water," the eldest nun scolded.
The embarrassed, young nun nodded and hiked up her dress and quickly disappeared. Chris smirked as the young woman disappeared. Fatigue overcame him and he stumbled. Father McLeary, with the help of the other nun, steadied the tired warrior. He winced in pain.
"It seems that she had better get that pitcher quickly," the eldest nun stated.
"It's not his physical wounds which concern me, Sister Gilroy," Father McLeary stated.
"And then what does?" she asked.
The priest and the vampire hunter looked at each other and their eyes locked. "His spiritual wounds," the priest said.
"Father," Chris said with a rasp, "I have sins to confess."
The eldest nun gasped and blessed herself.
"Then, my son let us help you to the confessional."
"Father McLeary," Sister Gilroy asked, "I must protest. You aren't going to absolve this…this creature of its sins, are you?"
"Yes. Now open the confessional doors," he ordered sternly.
"I will do no such thing," she retorted.
"Then I will," the other nun said as she slipped out from under Chris' right arm.
She dashed to the door and opened it quickly. The elder priest, who was struggling to support Chris, slowly led him to the confessional. Chris stopped and leaned on a pew. He motioned for Father McLeary to lead onward. The elder nodded and blessed the wounded warrior. He walked to the confessional and entered. Chris, painfully, walked with the help of each pew. Minutes later, he stepped inside the parishioner side of the confessional. The nun smiled at him and he smiled back. She closed the door behind him.
He slumped to the floor and he held his damaged side as the confessional darkened as the door closed.
"Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last confession…"
"Six days, my son?" he asked. "Are you sure that you are not just trying to stay in my good graces?"
"Six days is a long time for me, Father," he replied.
"So you were just recently cursed?" Father McLeary asked.
"No," Chris said as he winced.
"You are not as you seem, my son," the priest said.
"However, you know of me, don't you Father?" Chris asked.
The priest sighed and he blessed himself. Chris could see his motions through the grate that separated the two small rooms but allowed them to converse freely.
"I honestly thought you were a legend," he admitted. "A vampire that hunts vampires for the Council of the Light."
"I am not a vampire," Chris corrected.
"Then what are you? Are you human?" the priest asked.
"I was Father Cristof Blutherz…"
"You were the one who legend states aided Martin Luther," McLeary said.
"Yes because the church had been corrupted by vampires," Chris said.
"By vampires?" the shocked priest asked.
"Yes, Father, but I am not here to give history lessons. Can we?"
The priest nodded. "Why are you here?"
"I need to confess…"
"Confess what?" the priest asked.
"My sins…"
"Sins against the undead?"
"I…I…I guess," the confused vampire hunter admitted.
"You are a member of a calling who has pledged their lives to ridding the world of those same unholy creatures. People from all religious backgrounds and…"
"I am aware of the calling of the council, Father; I am one of its warriors."
The priest cleared his throat. "And as one of its warriors you know that regardless of your religious beliefs, all churches do not consider actions against vampires any kind of sin."
Chris groaned. "I have fed on them."
"Have you fed on human blood?"
; Chris let out a painful chuckle. "Yes."
"Was it directly from a human?"
"I don't recall it coming from a plant or an animal," Chris said sarcastically as his pain and his hunger increased.
"Did you feed directly on a human being?" the priest asked sternly.
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