Rising to darkness

by Lucia Guglielminetti

  There was no way I could go out to get some living food.

  So, I drew from my provisions of blood bags in the freezer and thawed four of them, about 17 ½ ounces each. In short, a light dinner just warmed in the microwave. I preferred not turning on the TV; I wasn't eager to find out which depressing explanations to the Alma matter humans had invented. I called Sophie; she sounded very relieved to hear me but she didn't ask me where I was, knowing I'd have to lie to her. I don't think they have already tracked down this new cell phone, but I always have to assume that I'm being spied on and to give as little information as possible about my movements. Maybe I'd better start treating her with more indifference so that the inevitable separation would be less painful, but I can't; a part of me still hopes that it won't be necessary.

  Now it's three in the morning, I have to examine the files that Nathan had sent me and to urge Renfield to procure what I had asked him for. From tomorrow, the Sheikh Abu Omar al Farai al Hamdani, an aspiring exterminator of Jews, like many before him, won't even spend a single moment alone.

  When he becomes aware of it, it will be too late.

  May 19, 3:37 a.m., -4

  My Middle Eastern friend owns one of the most beautiful hotels in London: Warrington House, in the heart of the city in the district of Kensington on the west end of Hyde Park.

  It's a four-story building of Victorian style, dazzling white, whose attic of about twelve thousand square feet is reserved for the Sheikh who stays there during his frequent visits to London. I'm there right now, in a beautiful suite costing me over 700 sterling pounds per night, in which a beautiful snow-white bed with duvet, blankets, and sheets of the best quality Egyptian cotton stands out.

  It’s a waste since I'll be back in my apartment before dawn; I'm not crazy enough to sleep under my enemy's roof.

  Today I had to go shopping.

  As soon as the sun went down, I went into one of the most exclusive men’s clothing boutique and bought two suits, one charcoal grey and one lighter grey, complete with silk shirts, ties, and matching shoes to the dreadful sum of five thousand sterling pounds. It was a few minutes to closing, but a more intense look at the shop assistant, clearly gay, was enough to draw his full attention; it was very easy to enchant him even without my powers of bewitchery. I also persuaded him to have them tailored by tonight at 9:30.

  While taking my measurements, he explicitly fondled my lower parts and I had to refrain myself from tearing him to pieces. However, his brain had gone off on a tangent: love at first sight, no more and no less. He would have done anything to get my attention. His thoughts revealed that he had never seen anyone more handsome and fascinating, that he would have run away with me instantly if I asked him, even to Alaska, and that he wouldn't have survived if I left the shop without asking him for a date. It's fun to enjoy somebody's unconditional adoration and, sometimes, I don't even disparage transgressions from those on the other side of the fence just to liven things up provided, however, that I'm the one who controls the game. I usually dress in a much more casual way but, as I looked at myself in the mirror, with the waves of admiration which reached me as gusts of warm air from the boy, I couldn't help but admit that a beautiful suit makes a difference.

  At 9:30 in the evening, when I came back to pick up my clothes with the shop already closed, I found the shop assistant more fragrant and well-groomed than ever waiting for me in the shadows of the deserted atelier. I asked him if I could already wear one of the suits and invited him to choose the one he preferred. With a trembling finger, he pointed to the darker one, then followed me to the changing room, unable to believe that maybe, this time, he wouldn't be left high and dry. He looked aesthetically appealing, very delicate and effeminate, with beautiful brown eyes and a warm ecstatic smile. His name's Patrick, suitably fitting his personality and his position. I let him watch as I took my clothes off and read his excitement as he noticed all the scars running through my entire body. He reached out and touched my chest with greed, then drew his hand back abruptly when he felt the chill of my skin. I immobilized him with my gaze, fearing he would scream, but he soon recovered and decided that he didn't care whatever I was, allowing me to lower my guard as well. A part of me was also wondering what the hell I was doing considering all the trouble I have to deal with, but to resist temptations, even those contrary to my usual inclinations, has never been my forte.

  We were enveloped in complete silence; the only sound was his breathing, a little panting, and the constant hum of the traffic outside. Neither he nor I had uttered a word, although the flow of his mental appreciation was like music to my ears. I'm not even sure if he noticed that I wasn't breathing; I was still hungry and didn't want the smell of his boiling blood make me lose control and assault him for other purposes that are not sexual. When I found myself undressed except for my black boxer shorts that explicitly betrayed some excitement on my part, I turned to him.

  I evilly smiled and, with a little pressure on his shoulders, I made him kneel in front of me. Maybe my thrust wasn't so light, for his legs ceded at once, making him crumble to my feet with an exclamation of surprise.

  "Sorry..." I said.

  He didn't seem too upset, just more excited and delighted. You can figure out the rest.

  He had another moment of great concern when he realized that I was cold as ice down there too; this didn't stop him, rather, he did anything he could to warm me up. Given his expertise, I deduced that I wasn't the first one whom he got his hands on. Judging from his thoughts, I was the best up to that moment. He was considering the option of holding me captive in the shop for the next ten years; I read this in capital letters in his overheated little brain. Before I reached orgasm, he took his clothes off and demanded his dose of satisfaction. I pleased him without worrying too much about being gentle as I always did with the representatives of the fairer sex. It was unusual and rewarding. I even bit his shoulder from behind just to taste him, but he was so concentrated on not dying due to what I was doing to him that I doubt he noticed. In the end, I detached from him and started to dress, sensing the thousand questions he would have liked to ask and, above all, the desire that I didn't flee. He had the courage, however, for one of those questions, but the wrong one, the only one I couldn't answer.

  “What are you? An angel, a demon... You aren't an ordinary person for sure."

  "Think of me now and then and draw your own conclusions. I have to go, now."

  "Will you be back? I will wait for you every day."

  "Believe me, Patrick, you'd better not count on it. In less than a week, I could be dead."

  "Dead? You? Oh, God, no..." He became pale, his hands over his mouth and his huge eyes filled with fear. I went towards the door, leaving him to reflect about the enormity of my words, then I gave him one last smile and went out into the cool fresh air of the night. Work was waiting for me, it was no longer the case to waste any more time.

  I had booked this beautiful room for the next two days; I wanted to have the opportunity to go anywhere in the hotel without looking suspicious, but the events of the evening led me to change my plans. I'm afraid the Sheikh may have identified me. This man is diabolical, in more than fifty years, it's the first time a thing like this had happened to me.

  Sometimes, I wish I looked more ordinary, especially having a height closer to the average. Even if I try to walk a little stooped, maybe with my eyes hidden behind a pair of eyeglasses - which is supposed to give to me a reassuring air - I am always close to six and a half feet tall and, no matter how hard you try, six and a half feet are noticeable. The hotel is full of guards who try to pass unnoticed. They are all dressed elegantly, posing as normal clients in the lobby or by the elevators, hidden behind a newspaper always on the same page, but I'm practical about these things and I could identify them in a blink of an eye. I felt the comforting weight of my Glock in the armpit holster and hoped not to have to use them until the very last moment. In the elevator, the buttons arrive only to the third f
loor; obviously, my man must have one reserved, allowing him access to his quarters without sharing it with the rest of the hotel guests. Finding him was supposed to be one of the main objectives of this night, but things took an unexpected turn.

  I went down to the bar and ordered a glass of port, sitting on one of the plush white leather chairs. My eyes never ceased to register details.

  Then, suddenly, I saw him.

  He, the Sheikh himself, around eleven o’clock this evening had made his entry into the hotel with a huge cohort of bodyguards and good-looking women. He didn’t fit any of the classic Arabian stereotype from the movies, apart from the Middle Eastern features typical of his race. He was dressed in a westernized manner, impeccable, and showed the self-confidence typical to those accustomed to getting what they want always. I'm afraid that I'll have to give him the worst disappointment of his entire life, in this sense. When he decided to join the bar customers and sat at a reserved table just in front of me, I lived a quarter of an hour with a feeling very close to panic. Since I couldn't just get up abruptly and walk away without drawing his attention and that of his henchmen, I took my glass and pretended to sip the ruby wine with deliberate slowness. I never looked up apart from quick glances to control their movements. For someone who claims to hate the Western civilization so much, strongly wanting to exterminate a part of it, he seemed to be enjoying all the benefits fully. Suddenly, I saw his eyes settle and linger on me. Without ever looking away, he drew attention to one of his minions with a nod and whispered something in his ear, pointing in my direction. Only three hundred of level headedness and our natural stolid disposition allowed me not to show any reaction. When the guy approached me, I was even able to look surprised and concerned.

  “The Sheikh would like to invite you to join his table, sir," he said with a heavy foreign accent.

  I countered with a raised eyebrow, while my brain was working at full speed to size up all possible scenarios. Then, as if in a trance, I forced my long body to pull itself out from the chair and head towards my enemy, whose face was posed in a sly smile, like a cat that has just found an appetizing mouse. I should have been the cat and he should have been the mouse, but the roles were suddenly reversed and I couldn't explain it to myself, nor decide my next moves. I was trying to put together a compelling story explaining my presence in his luxury hotel. If they had searched me, they would have found my guns hidden under my jacket and all hell would have broken loose. Maybe I could have killed the Sheikh himself and most of his bodyguards barehanded and fangs out, but if all the guards left in the hotel had concentrated their fire on me, I could hardly escape. Regular bullets aren't lethal to us, as you know, but they cause the same pain and damage. With stiffened legs, I reached his table and he kindly nodded to me. I responded with a light bow.

  "I’m Sheikh al Farai al Hamdani. Please, have a seat, Mr..."

  "Heveraux. Armand Heveraux." It was the name on my fake passport and on the form I filled out at the hotel reception.

  "Ah, French. I love France, especially Paris and the French Riviera. May I offer you something? Maybe another glass of what you were drinking before I disturbed you?"

  He spoke English perfectly, flawed only by a slight foreign accent. Everything about him exuded charm, good breeding and... danger. My animal nature was trying to respond to the lingering sense of threat and, for a moment, I couldn't even answer, too busy controlling myself not to jump at his throat on the spot. I drifted into his mind and I didn't read the conviction that I was the person he feared me to be; just doubt and his cold determination to find out. Maybe I could deceive him by using all my powers of concealment. I had to be very, very good at it though.

  "No thank you, monsieur, I'm fine."

  "Nonsense! You must taste our best champagne; I have it delivered directly from your country by an artisan producer I know. Allah will forgive me if sometimes I allow myself a glass of that fine nectar, don't you think so?"

  "I'm afraid I'm not very knowledgeable about what Allah allows or not, monsieur," I said, hardly believing the enormity of the disaster awaiting on the horizon. You know what effect alcohol has on people like me. That offer had every appearance of being a test. How could he know so many things about us? I'm sure that this is one of our characteristics that I've never read anywhere about.

  Upon his gesture, a waiter approached, listening attentively to his words; he came back a few minutes later with a bottle which he uncorked, filling up our flutes and those of the three ladies sitting at the table with us. One of them had been gazing at me from the beginning. The Sheikh, very focused on me, raised his glass and waited for us to do the same.

  "I propose a toast! To business and its success."

  "To business!" the three women uttered. I limited myself in just raising my flute, taking it to my lips and tasting a little champagne. I was furious. That bastard would not prevail. I'm three hundred years old, I immortal, and I also a perfect killing machine. It would not be a human that would vex me so.

  He drowned his champagne in one gulp; I placed my flute on the glass table and leaned against the back of the seat, allowing my evil aura to spread around. Until that moment, I had been perched on the edge, stiff as a board with every muscle tense. My change of posture had also changed the atmosphere at the table. The women looked troubled and the Sheikh's smile fainted for a while. I just stared at him.

  "May I ask you, Sheikh, why you invited me to your table?"

  "Your suit, sir. It's really stunning. Armani?"

  "Zegna."

  "Of course. Such great attention to details... I absolutely love work performed to perfection; I always try to provide the best myself. By the way, what do you think of the Warrington?" he asked, loosening his tie as he was hot.

  I didn't miss his reference to perfection. It was for this reason that he had tried to get my cooperation.

  My aura intensified. He became even paler and so did the women at the table.

  "Just perfect. Unfortunately I won't be able to stay for as long as I had planned; I just got a call that requires me to go back to Paris tomorrow."

  "What do you do, Mr. Heveraux?"

  "Security systems for large firms."

  "Really? Interesting! Here, at the Warrington, we have the best, you know. Any danger to me or my guests is a laughable eventuality."

  "Experience has taught me that the leaks may lurk in the least unexpected places."

  For the first time since the start of the surreal conversation, I was the one who was smiling. It was with great satisfaction that I noticed his Adam’s apple jerk.

  "Now, if you will you excuse me, I think I will go up to my room to do justice to that beautiful bed. I thank you for your invitation and for the excellent champagne."

  I stood up and left the bar after a slight bow to the whole company. I felt the Sheikh's cold eyes on me until the very last moment. Only in the elevator did I allow myself to breathe a sigh of relief. Now, the most important thing was to leave this place and come back just to complete the mission. My worst fear was that the Sheikh would decide to leave, but if I know humans, I'd say his arrogance would force him to stay, if only to prove that his security system is really efficient. I'll try to prove him wrong as soon as possible. I hoped to find more useful information to be able to enter his private quarters without having to take strong force, but I can't risk being trapped in a spider’s web. Until proven otherwise, the damhàn is me.

  May 21, 8:00 p.m., -3

  It's tonight.

  I'm all dressed up and ready to carry out my work.

  Renfield got what I needed, a single dose of a derivative of the neurotoxic agent Sarin, known as Soman. It's a dense, oily liquid with a faint smell of camphor, they say, slightly bronzed. The method of use will be at my discretion: I can make him swallow, breathe, or just throw the vial at him so that the substance comes in contact with his skin. Within a few moments, he will start to have vision problems followed by cramps, nausea, vomiting, convulsions, ca
rdiac arrest, and, finally, death. This was the way the bastard had chosen to exterminate women and children just because they belong to a different ethnic group from his. The penalty of retaliation brings with it an exquisite justice and tonight I'll be the one to implement it. I wore my Atropos uniform, nothing too elaborate: a long-sleeved black t-shirt with a hood to hide my hair, black jeans, a light black jacket, and my lucky footwear, a pair of very old motorcycle boots that fits like a glove. The leather and the soles had softened to the point that when I walk no squeaking is heard.

  Obviously, I'm armed; I have my two Glocks with me, one under each armpit and plenty of ammunition in my jacket pockets.

  I felt good, calm, and relaxed. I preferred to dine at home rather than waste time hunting. I will have to wait a few more hours, the deepest part of the night when people's defenses are lowered as they sleep. Oh, I will wake him up, no doubt. It wouldn't be fun assassinating someone who does not know who's killing him and why. I want to have a chat with Sophie for a little while and then see whether Shibeen's still mad at me. I think I'll be back by three o’clock tonight. How will I enter the property despite the Sheikh's army? Just as I did two days ago to get out: through the roof. It will be fun, dear reader.

  See you later; I'm looking forward to telling you everything, word for word.

  London, May 30

  "It's Shibeen.

  Raistan, where the fuck are you?