by Todd Gregory
“Where the hell did that come from?” Victor asked.
The young man leapt onto the desk. As John yanked the tray from the bloody gash in his throat, the waiter replaced it with a swipe of his sword that severed head from body.
The waiter hopped from the desk and turned to a frozen Scarlet Harvey, the headless body tumbling to the floor at her feet.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes were wide and vacant as she watched blood pour from the corpse’s open neck and pool onto the room’s thick carpet.
“Are you all right?” the young man asked again more forcefully, shaking her.
“What was that thing?” she asked, never taking her eyes of the body.
“Questions later, run now!” he ordered, shoving her out the library doors back into the study.
Their movement broke the spell over the room, and the crowd erupted in screams of panic as they ran for any exit they could find. Some ran out the study’s doors and through the front hall to their cars parked in the driveway beyond. Others raced for the French doors and into the night. They could be seen wading their way across the estate’s soaked lawns as the rain continued to pour down on them.
Within a moment the chaos had ended and the room stood empty but for the waiter and the remaining members of Victor’s blood-clan.
“You bastard.” Victor’s words sliced through the silence of the room, quiet and deadly. “You dare come into my home and slaughter my family? I’ll kill you where you stand, you coward. I’ll skin you alive and wear your flesh as a trophy.”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” The words were Trevor’s. He watched the young man standing before the fireplace slowly spinning the hilt of his sword in his grip.
“It’s me,” the waiter agreed.
“It’s who?” Victor spat. “Who is this gnat that I’m going to crush?”
“Victor, it’s him,” Trevor explained, “the hunter that’s been cleaning up the city, ridding it of the werewolves and the goblins, the ogres and the other trash.”
Victor smiled. “So now you’ve come to the burbs? Lucky us.”
The waiter shrugged and said, “Figure you look hard enough, you can find trash anywhere.”
Movement out of the corner of his eye caught Trevor’s attention. While the others had the waiter’s focus, Jean-Claude saw his opening. He leapt, fangs and claws at the ready. He swiped at the man with his jagged nails but missed. By the time his hand passed by the other man’s face, four severed fingers were tumbling to the ground. Jean-Claude lifted the stump that had been his right hand. Blood gushed from where fingers had been. Too late Jean-Claude looked back at the man as the sword plunged through his chest. It pierced his heart and blossomed out his back in a spray of crimson.
The body slid off the length of the waiter’s sword and crumpled to the floor. The swordsman shook his head and said, “Damn, but I hate killing the pretty ones.”
“Jean-Claude!” Celeste howled, racing toward the waiter. She was brought up short as the point of his sword pressed against the flesh of her bosom.
At the other end of his sword, the waiter smiled that twist of a smile. It revealed the single dimple in his cheek that Trevor had been so enamored of just moments before. He said, “Do your worst, blood rat.”
A brief moment’s reflection and Celeste turned and retreated toward the front hall. The swordsman grabbed a small marble statue from the mantel and threw it at her. It connected with her skull as she passed through the doorway. Her head jerked to the right and slammed into the door frame.
Stunned, but still on her feet, Celeste shook her head as the man advanced on her, his sword extended. Without warning, she batted the sword away. He tried to recover, but she leapt on him, her teeth at his throat and her claws digging deep into his back. Losing his balance, the man tumbled over the arm of the chair Trevor had been seated in. It skidded out from under him, and he slammed hard into the stone floor of the room, his sword slipping from his grasp.
The waiter tried to shove Celeste off but she held on tight. Instead the two combatants rolled so that she was on the floor while he straddled her. He tried to pull away, but her claws ripped through his tuxedo shirt and shredded the flesh of his back as they rolled again. He slammed the palm of his fist under Celeste’s jaw to keep her fangs at bay while he reached for his sword. It lay several feet away next to the chair’s leg.
Trevor felt Victor move to intervene, but he placed a hand on his chest to stop him.
“But it’s Celeste,” Victor said.
“Precisely,” Trevor agreed.
“We have to help her,” Victor said, trying to push past the hand restraining him.
Trevor cast him a sideways glance and smiled, asking, “Do we? Really?”
Victor looked to his friend and then back to the woman. Trevor could see a lifetime of arguments and regrets play across Victor’s face as he watched Celeste struggle with the man. A grin crept across Victor’s face and he finally said, “No, I don’t suppose we do.”
Trevor shared a smile with his sire and turned back just in time to see the waiter rip free one of the large hoops dangling from Celeste’s earlobes. A spray of blood trailed in its wake. He plunged the earring down into Celeste’s eye. It ruptured the cornea and passed through the squishy gelatin to dig into the socket.
Celeste screamed in agony, releasing the man and groping at her face. He jumped up and ran for his sword, turning back just as Celeste raced after him, the earring still dangling from the center of her eye. He leapt onto the chair’s seat and made several slashes that landed deep cuts across Celeste’s face, driving her away.
“My face! My face!” she screamed, covering her mangled features. “My beautiful face!”
“Trust me,” the man said, drawing his sword back for the killing stroke, “it wasn’t all that beautiful to begin with.”
Celeste opened her mouth in a snarling hiss and the man rammed the weapon deep into her mouth and on up toward her brain. It caught on the top of her skull, and he jammed harder till it cracked through the bone and ruptured her head. Grey matter dribbled out the hole, catching on her blonde curls before landing with an indelicate plop on the floor.
Placing a foot on the body’s shoulder, the swordsman pulled the blade from the woman’s skull and wiped the blood and goop of her brains onto her dress. Trevor could see the man was in no hurry. Neither were he and Victor, for that matter. They stood quietly before the French doors like hunters ready to spring, or prey ready to bolt—both knew better than to reveal which.
A flash of lightning on the lawn was answered by a rumble of thunder from the clouds.
“Who are you?” Victor asked the man standing amid his fallen family.
“My name’s Dyson, and you,” the waiter answered, pointing his sword at him, “are Victor Goodman Crowley, three hundred and twelve years old.”
“Three hundred and six!”
“Give or take.” Dyson grinned and that single dimple reappeared in his cheek. “You’re freshly reborn which, if memory serves, is when you’re at your weakest.” He continued to speak as he walked slowly across the room toward the two men, his sword en garde.
“How do you know all of this?” Trevor asked.
“It’s my job to know,” Dyson said, then added, “Mr. Whitworth, age two hundred and sixty.”
It was Trevor’s turn to smile and say, “Give or take.”
Victor watched their interaction, then sighed. “Oh, Trevor, you always did have the worst taste in men.”
“Shut up, Victor.”
“Well, it’s true. Even now when he’s killed John and Celeste and that French fellow, here you are flirting with him—another of your round-faced retards from the Midwest. You’re pathetic.”
“And what about you?” Trevor retorted. “Not five minutes after promising me a life in the heavens you’re diddling some secretary at your own funeral.”
“Legal assistant,” Victor corrected. “She’s work
ing nights toward her law degree.”
“Oh well, with that pedigree, I can’t imagine why you haven’t turned her already.”
“You are an elitist snob.”
“And you are a vile whoremonger, sticking it in wherever you can.”
“Would you two shut the fuck up!” Dyson said, standing just a few feet from them.
“Excuse me, young man, I will remind you you’re in my home,” Victor reprimanded.
“Dude! This is why I hate you guys,” Dyson said. “Always bitching. Always caught up in your own little dramas, thinking the whole world revolves around you, thinking everyone’s got the time to just sit by while you yammer on and on and on.”
“Speaking of yammering on,” Victor said, rolling his eyes.
“You traipse around, seducing people just to drink their blood then leave them for dead. Don’t you feel anything? Remorse? Regret? Is there an ounce of humanity left inside you? Of all of the fairies—and I mean all of them: elves, ogres, werewolves, dwarves, goblins, every last one—your kind are the most disgusting, heartless creatures I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, and what of you, Mr. Dyson?” Victor asked. “All of twenty-three? Twenty-four? Who are you to judge us? What regrets do you have in your long life? What would you change if given the chance? Let’s just find out.”
Victor’s eyes turned to slits as he grasped his friend’s hand. Trevor’s mind reeled for a moment as he joined Victor in invading Dyson’s brain. A flurry of images opened to him…
…A woman dying as her heart is pierced while Dyson looks on helplessly…
…A young man walking into a bedroom with a broad grin on his face and a joke on his tongue, only to find Dyson lying in the arms of another boy, the grin quickly vanishing from the young man’s face…
…Dyson reaching out for a brown-robed figure as it leaps through a portal into another world. Dyson screaming out a name. The brown-robed figure never looking back, only running on into the woods on the other side of the portal and vanishing from sight…
…A man losing his grip on a cliff’s face and slipping to his death as Dyson stands by doing nothing…
…Thousands of bodies dead and dying beneath the water’s surface as Dyson is unable to stop it…
“Get out of my head!” Dyson screamed, staggering backward. Trevor felt a wave of dizziness as the connection broke.
“What was that?” Victor asked, impressed. “Well, well, it looks like our young friend here has more than a few regrets of his own.”
“I said, get out of my head!” Dyson screamed, lunging at Victor, his sword at the ready.
Instantly, Victor pivoted to the side and grabbed Dyson’s sword arm, propelling him through one of the unopened French doors and out into the night storm. The young man tumbled through, shattering glass and landing sprawled across the patio’s slick stones. His sword skittered out of his grasp and down the steps, clattering onto the stone path crossing the lawn.
Victor readied to step through the glass and follow him out onto the veranda, but Trevor laid a hand on his arm and said, “He’s right, you know. You are fresh-born. You’re at your weakest. Let me.”
“He just killed John,” Victor replied. “He invaded my home and ruined my funeral. Do you really imagine I’d allow anyone else this pleasure?”
Trevor released his arm and watched Victor leap through the shattered doorway and out into the downpour. “No,” he said as an afterthought. “No, I really don’t.”
Trevor looked on as Victor grabbed the young man by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off the ground, landing a fist in his gut that sent him flying backward. Dyson smacked against one of the stone columns encircling the veranda and rebounded off it, landing with a thud on the floor.
“Well, this is exhilarating,” Victor said as he crossed to his opponent and yanked him back to his feet. “The estate hasn’t seen a row like this before.”
Dyson struggled to regain his breath saying, “Well…we are…a full-service…catering company.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for my next event.” Victor smiled at the young man, and with as little effort as if he were throwing a pillow, he tossed him off the veranda and out into the yard.
Dyson landed and slid several feet through the slush of the lawn. While he struggled back to his feet, Victor stepped down the stairs and picked up the other man’s fallen weapon. “Not so tough without your sword, are you, Mr. Dyson?”
“Yeah,” Dyson groaned, “these fair fights are a real bitch.”
The young man wiped the mud from his face as he fought to regain his footing, but before he could steady himself Victor backhanded him with a blow that sent him flying several feet into the air. Dyson came back to earth hard, knocking the air from his lungs.
Victor strolled over to him, sloshing through the puddles, with the sword resting on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Dyson, I hate to cut this short, but really I’m going to have one hell of a time salvaging these shoes.”
“Yeah, I’ve got plans tonight, too,” the young man said, trying to rise to his knees. His body gave way, and he crumpled back down with a splash.
“Normally, I’d relish drinking your blood, but really, severing your head with your own sword seems much more fitting an end, don’t you agree?”
If the waiter had an opinion on the matter, his words were lost in the jumbled heap of his body on the ground.
Victor laid his head back, the rain slapping his face and soaking into his hair. He spread his arms wide, the sword extended in his right hand, and shouted, “Oh, Mr. Dyson, wouldn’t you agree this is quite the poetic end?”
He raised the sword, ready for the kill. But before he could land it, a streak of lightning connected with the blade and sent a jolt of electricity through him. His body locked in a perverse, jittering dance before crumpling to the ground.
Dyson slowly rose to his feet as his opponent lay moaning on the grass. He retrieved his sword from where Victor had dropped it and yanked the other man’s head up by a hand-full of his long, dark hair and said, “Personally, I never liked poetry.” The blade sliced through the air and connected with Victor’s throat, severing it. Dyson let the head fall to the earth with a splash and said to no one in particular, “I always thought it was for fags.”
After a moment Trevor waded out onto the lawn to where the young man stood over the body of his fallen friend. Finally he said, “Huh.” And then, “So lightning won’t kill us after all.”
“Guess not,” Dyson agreed, “but it sure came in handy.”
Trevor looked up from Victor’s body and studied the assassin. “Forgive me. I assumed I was getting a petite blonde—stereotypes and all.”
“I get that a lot,” Dyson said, wiping away the stream of blood continuing to trickle from his mouth.
“I left the details of the matter to my associate, you see.”
“No worries. Has the money been transferred to my account?”
“Already done,” Scarlet Harvey said as she joined the two men on the lawn.
“There she is,” Trevor said, applauding. “A most impressive performance.”
Scarlet laughed and took a bow before sharing her umbrella with Trevor and snaking her hand around his arm.
“I especially thought the scream was quite lifelike,” Trevor offered.
“Well, I should say so, what with John’s fangs at my throat.”
“That was a bit unexpected, but a useful entrance for our friend here.” Trevor said. “Did he sign the papers?”
Scarlet gripped the leather satchel to her chest. “Congratulations, Trevor Whitworth. You are now the sole beneficiary to Victor Goodman Crowley’s estate and all his holdings.”
A phone chimed from Dyson’s pocket. He pulled it out and read the name that appeared.
“Your boyfriend?” Trevor asked.
Dyson smiled. “I said I had plans tonight.”
“Well, you shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Trevor suggested.
“He�
��ll be all right,” Dyson said, pocketing the phone.
“Love is a fickle thing, Mr. Dyson,” Trevor said, glancing to the woman on his arm. He gripped her small, dark hand in his own. “It never comes as you expect it to, and it can leave just as quickly. You should never take it for granted.”
“And when it leaves, you what?” Dyson asked. “Kill everyone left behind?”
Trevor looked at Victor’s body lying dead on the lawn. He watched the blood pool onto the grass, the rain diluting it before it vanished into the earth. It seemed that with that blood a lifetime of regrets washed away. Finally, he said, “My resolution for my next life: a fresh start.”
Dyson snickered as the rain continued to fall. “Fresh starts don’t have to come with a body count.”
“In my experience I’ve found you can’t escape your past if it can still show up unexpectedly for a visit.”
“Maybe so,” Dyson said, “but it seems to me you’ll never escape your past as long as you keep making it your future.” He glanced at the woman entwined on his arm.
Trevor turned to Scarlet. She stood studying the decapitated body. There was a look of excitement in her eyes that made him nervous. It reminded him of something, of someone. Before he could ask himself who, Scarlet glanced at him and grinned, tightening her grip on his arm. He smiled in return and patted her hand, pushing his worries far away.
Dyson watched the silent exchange and said, “Yeah, but what do I know?”
The sound of distant sirens drew their attention.
“Guess that’s my cue,” the young man said, wiping the last of the blood from his sword onto Victor’s expensive suit.
“If you head down the lawn, you’ll find I unlocked the back gate,” Scarlet volunteered.
Dyson nodded. “You sure do think of everything.”
“She’s indispensable, really.” Trevor smiled proudly at Scarlet.
Dyson turned to leave. He looked back at the mismatched couple standing beneath the umbrella and said, “Well, good luck—with that fresh start and all.”