Vampire Sire

by J. R. Rain

  I heard a bang from inside, then a shout. Then another, louder bang.

  Gunshots? Fireworks? I hadn’t a clue.

  I eased up the wide porch and puzzled over the array of many discarded and damaged paintings—each more beautiful than the next, and all of majestic landscapes—and moved toward the front door. I was about to knock but decided against it. My inner alarm had reached its saturation point, and backed off a little, which meant danger was still high, but it also didn’t want to overwhelm my senses... in particular, my hearing. My inner alarm is cool like that.

  These days, I don’t carry a gun. Back in the day, yes. Back in the day, I might have had Chad go around back while I covered the front, each with our guns drawn. Then again, back in the day, I wouldn’t have been given the assignment of removing a demon.

  Let’s get real, Sam, I thought, reaching down into that invisible pocket near my waist. You’re not here to remove it. You’re here to destroy it.

  True enough.

  My groping hand... now feeling oddly cool as it briefly disappeared from view... found the hilt of the sword. I proceeded to pull it free from its invisible, otherworldly sheath. And the sword kept coming and coming, until finally, in all its obsidian brilliance, it flashed dully in my hands, easily three feet long. Had I been mortal, it might have been heavy. Now... well, now it felt just about perfect in my hand. I resisted the urge to toss it from palm to palm. I wasn’t that cocky. There was a real demon here, after all, and if the Angel of Death was to be believed—and my own continuous inner alarm—there was real danger here.

  I paused briefly, gathered myself, and did what any demon hunter would do...

  I kicked the door open.

  ***

  I saw more paintings, everywhere.

  But these were not so lovely, and certainly not so idyllic. These were, and this could be open to interpretation, pictures of hell itself. Not that I would know. But if hell was anywhere close to what I was seeing now, it was surely a terrifying place.

  Hells, I corrected, knowing everyone had their own private hell, literally.

  The paintings were everywhere, on walls, lined up in rows, thrown over the carpet and furniture. The macabre paintings even covered other paintings, as hellfire and torment overlapped with crashing waves, beaches. In nearly all the paintings, dark, clawed figures huddled around burning humans, chained humans, or dissected humans. Other creatures clamored around the paintings, red-eyed creatures that clung to walls that were not unlike the creatures I’d seen at my one-time father’s mansion.

  Not his mansion anymore, I reminded myself. Your mansion now.

  Okay, that was a thought for another time. Truth was, I still couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that I was now the proud owner of a very large home in the hills of Fullerton. And I certainly wasn’t going to try and wrap it around it now, not with more banging coming from the back of the house.

  I held out the sword before me like I knew what I was doing with it. Well, I kinda did. I’d gotten a crash course in sword fighting by the Archangel Michael himself—the warrior angel, mind you—just a few months ago. But it wasn’t like I went around practicing with the thing. Then again, as I crept through the smallish house, past painting after gruesome painting—(the one next to me featured a severed, screaming head)—I kinda, sorta wished I knew what the hell I was doing. The sword, I knew, had to be driven through the heart of these things, just as it had gone through the heart of the devil himself.

  Something crashed loudly and the whole house shook. There, down the hall and through a doorway, I saw a figure—a human figure—flash by... and bang. He slammed into the wall, although he had briefly disappeared from my line of sight. Yes, that was the sound I’d heard. The man—I was sure it was a man—was hurling himself into a wall. Or being hurled into it. I didn’t know yet.

  Red paint—looking for all the world like blood—dripped down the hallway walls. And yeah, dammit, my stomach growled, and I hated myself all the more for it. Who the hell gets hungry at a time like this?

  A vampire roaming around in the light of day, with her two magical rings on, that’s who.

  I ignored the bloody paint. I also ignored the filthy clothes... and what I assumed were piles of human waste. Sadly, I couldn’t ignore the stench of urine and filth and vomit splatters. I gagged, but held it down. Somehow, I even ignored what I was sure was a patch of human scalp with human hair. I ignored it all, and eased down the hallway, sword in hand...

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The figure flashed before me again, this time crossing the hallway and going from one room into another.

  He was a youngish man, maybe in his late twenties. Long shaggy hair, shirtless, skinny, pale, almost vampiric. Unmistakable was the blood pouring down from his body. I suspected a head wound. In fact, I suspected he had been hammering his head into the wall, which was the banging I’d heard.

  Sweet mama.

  The smell of blood filled the air, and the coppery sweetness of it was intoxicating, to say the least. My body was a combination of factors. Most of my talents and skills came from the wholeness of my soul, contained in this little five-foot, three-inch frame. Some of my weaknesses and cravings and, quite frankly, the magic that animated what should have been a corpse, came from Elizabeth. That magic craved blood... unlike any craving I’ve ever had before. I suspected blood kept this body alive... or, rather, kept the magic active. Should I someday die... Elizabeth would return to the Void where she would await yet another human host... and another. All while I got reabsorbed into the Creator, like something out of a horror movie, except with a lot more light and love. Or so I’m told.

  I ignored the blood as best as I could. And how long had it been since I fed last? Days, I think. Shit, I probably should have had a nip last night. On a personal level, I found it revolting. Then again, what other levels were there?

  I’d gotten good at denying myself—and denying Elizabeth. So, as challenging as it was, I pushed aside the thoughts of feasting on blood, and pushed Elizabeth down the rabbit hole of my mind, too, and eased down the hall. She wanted blood, but she also wanted me to get the hell out of here. She was no idiot. She could hear my warning bells going off as easily as I could. She didn’t want her precious host hurt. She didn’t want me hurt, since I was the bridge, somehow, between worlds.

  But wasn’t this part of your master plan? To destroy the devil and his demons? Oh, you were only interested in destroying the devil? The demons you were okay with? Well, it was kind of a package deal, and I’m in this for life. So, yeah.

  A growl vibrated the very floors from the room on the right.

  Mama, that sounded terrifying.

  Last time I’d fought a demon, it—or they—had come for my daughter. Indeed, it had been an all-out attack on Kingsley’s mansion, which he was still cleaning up after. He’d lost a few friends that night, Lichtenstein monsters all, and it was a sore spot that I mostly avoided talking about with him. It had been tough hearing him howl in agony that night, and his sour moods lately were, undoubtedly, a result of his losses. That said, four such monsters still lived with him in his mansion, of which Franklin was one. I considered all of them friends, scars and all. Even that cantankerous head butler.

  So, yeah, the last I’d seen one of these things—demon, that is—I’d been literally thrown into action with no time to think.

  Now, I was the fool for walking in on one. Keeping my end of this demon-killing bargain suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

  At the door to the bedroom in question, I was about to say something to the young man inside when my warning bells rang so sharply and loudly that they literally drove me back the way I’d come, stumbling back through the hallway, just as the wall adjacent to where I had been standing exploded out.

  Now standing before me was one hell of a big demon.

  ***

  It looked like all the others I’d battled, only bigger. Then again, it was also crowded into a narrow human-sized h
allway, which it filled completely.

  Truth was, it looked kind of badass. Hulking, angular, hooded, with red eyes. What was up with these red eyes, anyway? I was pretty sure it would be anyone’s worst nightmare. That I couldn’t see its face was probably a good thing. Yes, I might be the Angel of Death’s right-hand woman, but I still get the crap scared out of me, and now was no different. Maybe more so. Just about everything leaves the mind when confronted with such a thing. My instinct was to run, and run, I did.

  Sort of. Rather, I backpedaled through the hallway, dragging the sword over the wooden floor. Its razor-sharp tip left behind long, smoking grooves. Oopsie.

  Speaking of smoking, lots of the stuff was rising up from the hood, swirling and filling the hallway. It watched me briefly before lurching forward, its shoulders comically hunched, clearly too big for the space. The demon didn’t seem to mind the drywall particle dust that coated its black robe.

  And why a demon needed a robe—that was my last coherent thought before the thing charged me.

  I raised the Devil Killer before me.

  ***

  This demon was faster than I remembered any of the ones I’d fought being.

  Then again, it was clearly bigger too. Maybe a new class of demon? Either way, a lightning-fast swipe of its whooshing claws launched me off my feet and sent me flying through the air to the middle of the living room floor, where I landed on my shoulder with a bone-crunching snap. The snap part was critical. I knew immediately I’d broken my collarbone.

  With the thing crashing down the hallway toward me, I sat up. Ouchie. Yes, I’d definitely broken my collarbone. My right collarbone, no less.

  The bastard.

  It roared into the living room, pulverizing the corner of the hallway wall as it did so. Okay, I might be in trouble. My right arm was, after all, my sword-fighting arm.

  I found my feet faster than any person should. One moment, I was on my back, and the next, I was on my feet in the en garde position.

  Like a scene out of The Princess Bride, I tossed the Devil Killer into my left hand... and immediately lunged to the side as another clawed hand slashed down from above with a shrill whistle, clearly intending to slice me into quarters. I felt the whoosh of hot air.

  Sweet mama. So much for the myth that demons were only energy beings.

  I knew they weren’t, of course. They were definitely solid matter. I had seen their destruction to Kingsley’s mansion. I would also learn just today (thanks to my talk with Azrael) that such demons can only hold this physical form for so long. And they did so at their own peril, meaning, this was when they were most vulnerable... and most ferocious.

  Then why do they materialize at all? I had asked just a half hour earlier.

  It is their instinct to fight, Sam. It was how they were created.

  Why not just flee?

  See my prior answer.

  But why fight me at all? For all they know, I’m just there to sell them Avon.

  They know who you are, Samantha Moon. They sense the Devil Killer on you.

  Then why not avoid me altogether?

  Like angels, they exist in a hive mind. What one knows, they all know. They are willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, although there is nothing good about them.

  Do they have souls? Where do they go when killed?

  They are reabsorbed, Sam. As far as souls... I cannot answer that in a way that would be satisfactory to you.

  Do you have a soul, Azrael?

  See my prior answer.

  Can you try to answer? Please, this will help me understand what I am up against.

  Demons were created by the devil.

  But the Bible says...

  That one third of the demons fell with the devil from heaven and turned evil, right alongside him. You know otherwise, Sam.

  Yes.

  The devil, among his many attributes, was a Creator in his own right. He chose to create foot soldiers... and he chose to create the many hells.

  Which still exist?

  Yes, Sam. They have not gone anywhere.

  Because it’s up to the occupant to decide when they’ve had enough... and to go to the light?

  Exactly. Hell is merely an illusion, albeit a painful one. Or as painful as each occupant will allow.

  Okay, fine... what are demons, then?

  They are fragments of the devil himself, Sam. As a creator, he infuses each of his creations with something of himself.

  But no soul?

  No, Sam. Only entities created from the Origin have what you would call souls.

  Are you created from the Origin?

  No, Sam. Not directly. I was created by another such creator.

  The entity known as God, I had said.

  Yes, Sam.

  And should you die, you would get reabsorbed into him?

  No, Sam. Like you, my fate is similar.

  You would go home to the Origin?

  Yes. All life, ultimately comes from the Origin. Those without souls, or those with no heavenly anchor, return to him.

  And even though the devil is dead, his creations live on?

  Apparently so.

  You did not know?

  This was, admittedly, a first for me.

  Killing the devil?

  Yes, Sam.

  So, we’re in uncharted territory here?

  Kind of.

  Why does it make me nervous hearing an archangel say ‘kind of’?

  Because you want your world explainable in rational terms.

  And sometimes, it’s not.

  More accurately stated: sometimes, the question has never been posed before; therefore, the answer is not known. I would suggest this is such a case. But, to wit, the demons do live on. So, by default, we already have your answer.

  And why must we remove them?

  The demons were created by the devil for one purpose only, Sam. To wreak havoc. In essence, they do not have free will. They are, quite frankly, proxies of the devil himself. Extensions, if you will.

  But doesn’t everything have a right to live, and all that? Even demons?

  Does the mosquito have a right to live? Does the flea have a right to live? Does the tick burrowing in your skin have a right to live? Does the worm infesting your intestines have a right to live? Why not just let them feed? Why remove them at all?

  Who’s to say who lives or dies?

  It is the dance of life, Sam. Creatures who invade, harass, cause harm to others, risk being removed by the inflicted.

  And who’s to decide who’s causing harm or not?

  We all get to decide.

  And, by default, we decide who lives or dies?

  The short answer is yes. Humans make such decisions every day. They execute killers, they trap vermin, they hunt for meat.

  And some kill for pleasure.

  Fewer than you think, Sam.

  And who decided to kill all the demons? I know I didn’t make that decision.

  No, Sam. But you are an agent of those who made such decisions.

  And who would that be? The angels?

  In a way, yes. But the real answer is... humanity at large. A general consensus, among those who believe, is that demons are not worthy of existence, that demons have run afoul of the general desire of peace and love.

  Peace and love is the general desire?

  The majority’s desire, yes.

  Then why not extend the love to the demons?

  Why not extend the love to the mosquito feasting on your arm? Why does the human swat it into oblivion? Why not lovingly allow it to drink?

  I shrugged. People don’t want to be a food source, especially for insects. People don’t want to deal with the resulting bump that might itch for days, too. And people don’t want to be exposed to possible diseases.

  The desire of the insect is usurped by the desire of the human; the insect, if spotted in time, is destroyed.

  But sometimes, the insect wins.

  Often, the insec
t wins. Just as, too often, the demon in its many forms, wins, too. But not anymore, Sam.

  Because the majority’s desire is to rid the earth of demons?

  Yes.

  And how do you know the Earth’s majority desire?

  I don’t, but my Creator does.

  God?

  Yes.

  The man I met, so many years ago?

  Was an incarnation of God, but yes. That was he.

  And God hears the call of all?

  No, Sam. Just those who believe.

  And he sent the angels to kill them?

  No, Sam. He sent you.

  ***

  This thing was real, it was three-dimensional, and it wanted to straight-up kill me.

  Whether or not it could, I didn’t know. I might be immortal, but being severed in quarters would probably do the trick. Its claws were seriously no joke. Azrael had told me earlier that demons can briefly possess the physical form. And it is in such a form that they are easiest to kill. It is in such a form, that they, in turn, can kill, too. I had to strike quickly before said demon blew its wad, so to speak, and was forced to retreat in a black mist to fight another day.

  The demon, I knew, could possess, well, anything. From humans to houses, to books to mannequins. So, what it had been doing here in this house, I hadn’t a clue, but judging by the bloody nature of the recent paintings, I would suggest it had been possessing the crap out of the young artist himself.

  No, it wasn’t in my nature to wantonly kill. But it was in my nature to help those who needed it, even if they didn’t know they needed it, or didn’t ask. Hell, if anything, I was breaking and entering.

  Now, however, I was defending myself. And yeah, I kinda had to agree: the world would probably be a lot better off without this... thing... haunting it and wreaking its havoc. So, here I was, a demon hunter, armed with the Devil Killer... and now sporting a broken collarbone that, even now, I sensed was stitching itself up. But it would need more than a few seconds. It would need a full day or two.

  Although I wasn’t into killing for killing’s sake, I was into saving my hide, and ridding the artist of the very thing charging me now...