Darkness Becomes Her Disclaimer: Own the ideas, but didn’t make money for it. Any comments, just e-mail me at “kfong60hotmail.com” There were times he wanted to wish away his feelings for her so that he could be detached if she perished, but he could not do that. In his dreams, he could still see her and feel her touch, but then the dream would fade away and she would disappear like mist. He worried that he was becoming obsessed with her, love became dangerous when it turned to obsession. Or was it love? It wasn’t right, he thought, to long for someone like this. He simply could not get her out of his mind; every train of thought seemed to lead to her. No longer would she be alone; no longer would she be adrift in the sea of life. Now he was by her side, to make the cold sea a little warmer, the way she always wanted it to be. Episode 6: Deeper than Serpents He had finished his meal, closed the wounds, licked it clean. He was resourceful enough to not let a single drop go to waste as he worked his magic. He had decided that she would be more grateful if he were to get it all over with at once, instead of him coming back for more; and so he had taken more than coerced to make this fine glass of nectar. He swirled the glass cup lazily. Like a trinket, the ice cubes tinkled within each time they impacted the sides and each other. He had found the glass on a counter ironically, just waiting to be used. He was a man of his word, stopping when he had acquired enough; enough to quench thirst, satiate; but not enough to satisfy. Peering at the liquid time and again, swirling it methodically in a trance like state, he was reminded that this sustenance was an acquired taste, never could quite satisfy the small degree of hunger that lingered; which was always there. Half empty, he handed it to his significant other. She took it from there, sipping slowly. As of this moment they were waiting for their new addition to prep her paraphernalia so that she may be of some usefulness, and not totally dependant. With time for tardiness, Carrie had time to ponder her thoughts. She knew with a firm certainty that the Count of his past persona would never be like the man before her now. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing was in small rasps, drinking in her copse of reminiscence. Something was wrong about everything, and yet it seems destined somehow. As she stared at the pallid figure in question, curiosity creased her features as she attempted to comprehend the mass of chaotic emotions now encompassing her. He seemed far too composed before a double edged blade. There was a chance, miniscule at best, that she could relinquish him. . . So what was it that so bothered her? There were no words, no single sound. It was a merger of voices, an evil chiming cadence which roused her from her almost catatonic state. She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to know what it had to say. She was so very weary of it all. If she listened to what it told her, if she did as it bid, if she were to succumb to its temptations, she would enter that place she had begun to hate; the place of pain, and suffering, and hopelessness. The realization came to her, straying on the bounds of her instinct. So sudden and forcible the feeling that it redirected all trains of thought. It was almost inexplicable, but she felt almost. . . apprehensive. She began becoming slightly hopeful. It would have been better to succumb to the peace, to the emptiness. . . But the voice refused to let her, pushing harder, growing louder. Against her will, she felt contradictions flooding within her. Was it palpable to conceive that he was telling the truth? That he was a changed man capable of compassion? A scowl creased her features as she contemplated the nature of her doubt and concern. The Count’s influence over her, damn him, was more extensive than she thought. Giving another look his way, she found him with legs propped over a desk swinging back and forth precariously. It was such a contrast how he could be so patient under a tumultuous nature by heart. She wretched forth many emotions, but first and foremost of these was disbelief; disbelief that he would risk exhuming her back from the damned, knowingly of the hatred she held against him. Why would anyone be so stupid? Taking another sip from without the stirrings of her trepidation, an answer formulated. Staring at her reflection, it was suddenly clear to her now, the reason for the change in behavior. He had planned this; planned the conflicting insurmountable rational. How he could so easily undertake such a flawed line of action was a question needing answering. Rather than settling for easy seconds, he went for the Jack-in-the-box on the small chance, miniscule at best, that he may actually succeed, where he had failed. It was absolutely stupid, it was ludicrous, it was ridiculous! It was brave. She could not refute the logic that encompassed around the conclusion she stumbled upon. It took only seconds to realize what had happened, and with that realization came something icy; something that gripped the inside out. Fear, fear at what was transpiring by the way she was looking at him in new light. She couldn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, but every second it was revealed further in brutal, heart wrenching agony. What was happening to her? Through all this, she held her troubles bottled up under a mask of indifference; a mood she wasn’t feeling. Humans and animals differ in many ways, but in other ways tend to be very similar. Humans have a colorful array of emotions and such: Love, hate, happiness, sadness, fear, and more importantly in this case, anger and denial. He too was measuring her with no miniscule of attention. He could read her like a book, for she was human. Not human in the physical sense. Her body had evolved and surpassed the parameters set by mortal flesh. In sheer power, they were beyond them. But the feelings which coursed through her then were proof; proof that in the most spiritual sense of the word, she was still human. Such willpower even when faced with something so powerful, omnipotent. He began to understand then, part of what he found so interesting about this girl. She possessed raw courage; a bravery like nothing he had ever known of. He hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t let himself see it, but in light of how different she was compared to the rest of the dock, he could ignore it no longer. It was she that had wrought this condemned attraction he had felt had grown despite all his efforts to banish it, exorcise it. He could not shake the sense of urgency to look ahead from his head hung position. She was venting her fury in his direction now. . . cascading her depths waning upon his to match his own. Her fury was palpable, something he could almost taste, radiating from her in intense waves. The sheer cold, imminent rage she emitted was apparent to him now was terrifying. Directed with an intensity enough to render a man numb with fear, but he was exempted, for he was an phenomenon himself. He smiled nonchalantly back under her death glare. It was probable that she ascertained him of himself, which is why he felt so indifferent around her; not uncaring, but indifferent nonetheless or maybe something more. It was clear she was becoming very suspicious of his motives, as all the pleasantries were now part of a person dead and gone; only a thin line to grace her pale lips. Her mind was a whirlwind, he could see that. Her eyes, wide and shining, were swirling with apprehension. At the sound of that voice, her voice, he opened his eyes again. “What now?” she directed at him suddenly seemingly out of the dark. The other was still garnishing some distance away, beyond ears reach. “I already told you,” he responded fluidly, “Or have you already forgotten?” “I have not. . . Though I wonder,” she voiced adamantly, calm and collected though hinted with venom lacing, “I wonder if all this is but a fabrication. Living a lie perhaps.” He gave her a quizzical look, before bristling with a smirk. It was clear to him that she held some doubt that he maybe lying through his teeth. “Or perhaps I’m telling you the truth, knowing that you wouldn’t believe it, even if I told you.” She did not reply, and unable to bear the scrutiny of his gaze she turned her own skyward. She was quiet, and complimenting it was her silence which bore no more meaning than the end of discussion. Her change in demeanor came almost instantaneous when she could not refute his claim. A little less vindictive now, as it should stay that way. Vlad began to move towards the human, as his eyes stared straight ahead without seeing the world. His body seemed to flow through the naturally thick air surrounding him, never quite touching anything. His smile now barely twitched his lips as his hands drew lightly behind in his passage. “You see her lies the problem,” he continued deeply; deep enough a whisper that only one would hear. “You don’t give me enough credit for where it is due. . .” “Perhaps.” She replied in finale. She could not react, could not summon her wits for a better response. She let out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding, and felt her nerves relax. The effect he had on her was alarming in its intensity. She was bewildered at the change in his behaviour; while it seemed sincere, she couldn't help the way she feared him. Enraptured by her tone, he was reminded again he would have to handle this assiduously, with more grace. It would have to be done to mollify her of the already precarious nature of this nasty habit of questioning. Staring silently, she saw him mouth the words with a ghost of a smile before she felt the noting reverberation a second later. “Perhaps. . . Would it bother you?” Carrie thought for a moment. “No. . . I suppose it wouldn’t. Are you prepared?” she asked rhetorically after ascertaining with the other girls state. Claire was nearly done by the looks of it, only a few minor adjustments. “A better question to ask, Carrie, would be is the world prepared for me?” was his answer with infinite platitude, though it was meant to be hysterical. Instead it was a firm reminder, as he invoked within her so very many things; hatred, confusion, and stark abject horror. Things would have been much easier, if only she did not feel. A final zipping of a vest, their charge had the last of the gear equipped to her persona. “I’m ready.” Claire bellowed over to them with a slightly tremulous face. There was enough explanation to not be inclined to probe further into the matter as well as the running of the hour glass. She stared at him wildly. She was more afraid of this Dracula than she was of the other. Her heart was pounding wildly, and her chest felt tight. What was this? What had happened so obstinately to have beckoned such a transformation? As she struggled with her thoughts and kept her emotions in check, he took another step, and then another, and another, until he stood directly before her. With a gentlemen like gesture, Vlad curtsied Carrie ahead. “After you. . .” Silence fell. She studied him, searching for a sign in the mist that this was a cruel jest, that he was in fact toying with her as he had so often thoughtlessly done. It struck her suddenly as her eyes perused his form; something was irrefutably and inexplicably different about him. His face illuminated by false lights, seemed softer somehow, less arrogant. Even his eyes, always glowing, were devoid of their iciness, their cold hostility. She was frightened by this change and she didn't know why; with a sudden movement she was on her feet and off she went. He didn't follow yet, but watched her from where he stood. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------- Meanwhile. . . Dark. . . It was dark but for the shifting pale orange light cast by the fire he knew was there. It was all around, encompassing the surface. There were no stars this night. The moon, almost full and hidden behind clouds, gave no illumination. Over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of stars as their light flickered through the evening clouds. They were faint, as if fighting for the right to shine this night, and he would extinguish them if he could. The whole city had gone to hell. Feet, striving one after another, laid way through the laced blades of grass. The man himself was elaborated in full ebony attire: Gloves, trench coat, glasses, hat. . . and a suitcase in hand. He was thinking. . . that something was needed to rectify this reality spiralling out of control. He rose a metal contraption from his pocket, and placed it upon his ear. His head was cocked to the side; his eyes, so reflective in the firelight, were intense in their regard. “Bring in the cleaning crew.” Silence for a long span. Trying to comprehend what he'd just said, and if he were serious, the other line clicked. “Are you sure?” came a static reply. He took a moment to marvel the evolution of science. It was immune to disease, pain, among a long list of other physical enhancements that those up top had sought to accomplish. But for all its worth, the deterioration of the mind made the treatment too high a price to pay, as ones very psyche would not, could not handle the bodies accelerated alteration until it was far gone, and dead. But even when the mind was dead in every sense of the word, the T-Virus could continue to splice the cells in a lifeless carcass. It was the solution to resurrecting the flesh at the cost of the soul, and but a minor setback to gaining true immortality. They still attained the most innate of concepts of survival. The need to feed. . . But still. . . despite their incessant nature to shrug off bullets, piercing, falling, and maiming, interestingly enough which came as a surprise, dead they were in the most spiritual sense of the word. . . The dead silence, utter seriousness was a puzzle to be solved. He caught the jewels of a stray victim of an experiment gone eerie; and held it with his own. They bore back at him like the thirsty in the desert amongst its entire dehydrated legion. A problem like this could not leak, and by the deaths of many sprawled across the streets, he could only assume that there were survivors. Where there were survivors, there was a threat. Where the threat manifested, would be when and if the survivors were to live to tell the tale. Where there was a leak, there was a hole that needed patching. They couldn’t be having any of that now, could they? So his mind was racing to contemplate the issue. What if the last remaining survivors, if any, were to die prematurely? Though hard as it may seem believable that one could walk off the same boat onboard that of the damned, it was still a probability; a small possibility of possibilities. But he was here to rectify the problem, and he lewdly came up with a plan of action. All he would have to do was give them a little push. . . and he could have it where it was non-existent. Yes! This was the solution of all solutions. You could as easily say you could be the brightest crayon in the box, if there were no other crayons to compare; Eliminate the competition, and who would undoubtedly win? In all its complexity, it was a simple plan. Certainly simple, but simple was good. Real plans never lasted beyond the first encounter, as it can go spiralling down the drain. But a simple plan was absent of the complications which followed its brother. Yes, a simple plan would do best, and he was reminded again why he liked it so much. ‘Clean, simple, devious. . . I like it.’ And simple it shall be. A smile spread, gracing his already devious mask of unpleasantness, but missing were the sarcastic and icy undertones in his voice. His words were plain, without malice. He raised his pistol to bare. His next sentence came as no astonishment. “Yes,” he replied professionally, “Oh, and remember. Everyone is already dead,” he nodded his head pitilessly, “No one survived. . .” There was a long pause on the line, but he didn’t have to wait too long to hear the three words, “I understand sir.” “Very good.” The man responded cheerfully, before referring back to the dead man and added whimsically, “And oh, do be careful. . .” and with that, the reverberation of one less echoed through the night. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, they shall all be buried, forgotten in the streams of time. But this was all in the name of science of course! Trial and error was a common concept and bound to happen. This problem was a diamond, only needing a little polishing and then you have perfection. . . Now no longer aggravated, left to his own musings, he had time to move his trains of thought on to some more troublesome matters. . . Now, he wondered. . .Where were those survivors? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------- Vlad took point and lead the party of three. Claire wasn’t complaining as she felt uncomfortable around his presence. Though unfathomable as it may seem, she felt safe, for there was no creature out there she could fathom, which she could comprehend was more dangerous than him, in short distance. He didn’t appear like the kind to renege contracts, but better here, with a tangible fear, than surrounded by the damned, adrift all alone. With that knowledge, she had the inkling of foreknowledge to explain her current predicament; the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Then there was the odd cerulean haired girl, Carrie. . . Which came as a mystery to how she came into play. No matter which way she looked upon it, she couldn’t conceive how such an innocent looking girl would be amidst these troublesome circumstances. A random thought, straying out of the darkest reaches of her mind , almost brought her to a halt. She resumed walking almost as if it never happened, not wanting them to know what she was thinking as they so often did, on the most miniscule of possibilities that it would raise questions from the two. She would remain in the darkest recesses of their minds if she could help it. Why was all her trains of thought so ridiculous all of a sudden? What’s most important was that she was still alive! Was that not enough proof to convince herself to not think darkly about her current benefactors but thank them? Though be it as it may, her mind was begging reprieve from this, but that hope was tossed to the wolves as she couldn’t exhume her suspicions. Claire felt like maggots were slithering on the grooves of her brain. The silence was too much to bare, as she could feel the tangible tension writhing on the fringes of her being. Glancing at the girl again, she appeared cordial enough to converse with to reprieve herself from the roots of her concern. “So. . . how are you?” she began, absent of any subject matter in particular. It was all she could say among other rhetorical things to keep her mind occupied. Carrie gave her an incredulous contemplative stare in her tracks, “Fine” succinctly, delving no deeper than necessary. Claire tried initiating again, “So, um. . . how are you coping with all this madness?” Carrie took another stride on brainstorming the pros and the cons of the truth, which came as a remarkable surprise when she spoke her mind. “Could be worse,” gesturing innocuously ahead, “Much worse.” in a lax tone not imploring, but dissuading. She eyed the figurehead trying to catch a glimpse of if he had been listening, but he remained constant and impervious as usual. If he heard them, he was doing a fine job of ignoring their bicker. They came to a halt before a door, and her eyes were wrought back to the pale man. He stood there, hand under chin, in a silent contemplative gesture. They eyed him pensively in wonderment of what he might do, or in this case will do. Almost as an act of impulse, his other hand shot out of his pockets and locked onto the contours of the knob. He gave a small clockwise shift, but mulishly it wouldn’t open. “We’re going to need a key.” Claire commented, though she already expected as much. When she arrived at the station, almost all the doors were locked down as a sort of security measure. Sighing, she was about to coerce them to help find the alluding object when he applied a little more potently on the protuberance. With a snap like sound, the door creaked of its own accord. It had been a hindrance, but looking at the extrusion now hanging oddly, he sincerely couldn’t see it now. His unpleasant smile only grew and gave her a knowing smirk, “I think not.” And then bristled forwards and pushed open the large wooden hindrance. It screeched open with a sound of long rusted hinges and echoed around the interior of the building. It would be logical to assume the door though present, was seldom if ever used. He winced a little at the noise. So much for his silent entry. . . Surprised by the feat and cooping hastily, she quickly followed behind sweeping her dual pistols horizontally in the regard of a pendulum in quick apprehension. Her eyes registered four, and with not so much as a warning, she began firing. One by one, they dropped. Meanwhile the vampires made their way into the fray. In a way, you could assume they were dancing by the way they swung in a flow of effortless movements. It would give one an outlook of how such a ritualistic form of self expression, could be perverted into something more refined and efficient. The fools were gone in mere seconds. With their departure, the group reassembled. Though before they did, something caught the eyes of Claire. There was a file strewn upon a desk short of where she was, with the cover smeared in some blood by a serrated hand. Removing the appendage with a nozzle, she held in her stomach the best she could. The folder had the word ‘Report’, and that was all the incentive required to open it, and she began to browse in hopes of an answer to the harsh reality. Skimming through it, she found nothing more than the name of the creature with its skin inside-out. Now they had a name to go by. Licker. “Nothing we don’t already know.” He commented slyly, pondering over the contents of the article. Closing the folds dejectedly, she tossed it aside; the cumbersome entrapments in exchange for vacant space. She convinced herself that whatever was there meant nothing. The person she was looking for was not listed, and for that she blessed her soul drawing a cross with her hands above her heart. Deciding it best to make leave, she nodded to the unofficial designated leader. Making their way through the carpet, they didn’t get far before Carrie halted suddenly, catching their attention. Slowly she peered precariously in the direction of the open wooden frame from whence they came. Something was up. Before she could ask, she heard the shuffling cacophony of impeding arrival. Thinking it another enemy, she whirled to face in an apprehensive fashion. Gritting her teeth, hopefully not becoming a bad habit, she gave a small prayer to lend her strength for whatever walked through the door, so help it god. Time decided for her at least, to slow to a snails place. She was able to see her own breath in ascension as she could hear the silent gust of wind as well. First came a boot, rounding the corner. Then with it, the hosts frame quickly manifested under her meticulous gaze. Upon reaching the apex of its entrance, she allowed her index of both fingers to ease on the trigger and as always, the hour glass resumes. Two more quickly came behind the first, taking formation besides their comrade. They were dressed in full body gear and armed to the teeth with an assault rifle in hand, a knife in a satchel by the hip, and a pistol in a holster not so unlike Claire’s own. One of them was saying something while pressing the side of their ear, but she couldn’t ascertain what it was. Coaxed with the intricacies of hypothetic thinking, she uttered a sigh of relief. “Thank god you people-“was as far as she spoke, before being cut off by the sudden surprise of being hurled behind a counter. In a forced state of vertigo, she was going to give a piece of her mind when she recuperated when the reverberating sounds of gun fire sounded the alarms in her head. If she had been paying attention a few moments ago, she would have caught the slight shifting of aim of her would be rescuers. Luckily, her compatriots were keener and Vlad tossed her aside when he noticed the imminent descent of fingers under hyperopic attention. Quickly after such a heroic deed, Vlad snorted at his vulnerable state for his impetuous reflexes. The trepidation grew, as he knew the contraption in their hands were similar to the one the girl used. Snarling, he prepared himself for the compulsory ultimatum that would follow for the error of his ways. Staunchly crisscrossing his forearms just beneath the eyes, he prepared himself for the laceration he was about to endure while running for cover. ‘This is really going to hurt. . .’ and not too soon shadowing the afterthought, he could feel how true his words were, as his arms serrated to the bone in insinuating, heart wrenching agony. Though death would not welcome him through conventional means, it didn’t mean he was free from the effects of pain; the somatic sensation of acute discomfort. But pain was good, for if it were absent, you were already dead. Reaching the temporary reprieve of constant infliction, he took a moment to admire the damage upon his visage. Indeed if not substantial, admirable. Pulled out of his reverie again, he was reminded how annoying they could be. Another spark notched off the top of the desk he was leaning on, just above his head. He rolled his eyes. “Insignificant worms. . .” he cursed in a low tone which was blanketed by the rocketing scrap metal. If anything, they were very trigger happy. . . Carrie was on the opposite side of Vlad’s location, awaiting the chance to strike. Once the snivelling, deceitful humans relented, she was really going to do something really not nice. The razor rings sliding into her palms would carry out that statement. She unleashed a few dark coronas at the ceiling lights, darkening the ominous office further. Then she tried surreptitiously dashing for the next closest desk. Each successful vacating and occupying of new terrain would bring her one step closer to eliminating the clever nuisance. It was a well laid plan, but she was forced to back pedal after the second attempt. No matter how much effort was diverted to sneaking under the cover of shadows, it was rendered redundant. She was shining like a beacon in the dark, so no matter how cautious the action; how quiet her pounce, she was no ninja here. So she awaited to see what the brains behind this operation would do. Thinking was his forte. Claire was huddled behind her own counter farther down the rows and she now and then raised a hand above the desk to take unguided pot shots in the general direction of cacophony. Never mind that these were actual human beings she was shooting at, for now they were her enemy and her self- preservation overrides all humane empathy. Unfortunately, the enemy was wearing protective gear, and wasn’t dumb like the zombies to just stand there and take the punishment she could dish out. Back to Dracula. He had decided on a course of action. These humans. . . would have to be liquidated. And the only way to do this. . . he chuckled sadistically, was genocide. He arose in an implacable fashion. It was not so much as the apathetic eyes that deceived, but the lower half of his face which promised death. All their attention came blank of all features except his trailing lips. Drawn to them as they curved in the shape of a sickle. Tilting his upper portion from shadow, it dawned on the enemy that this monstrosity wasn’t human. He rushed at them in crisp movements, as they guided their volley to meet Vlad’s trajectory. Not half way, he was dropped; tumbling to the ground. Like fools, they came closer, and closer, and closer yet towards the motionless body not wanting to leave the possibility it may still be alive, and left half finished. One happened to prod him, and out lashed his hand; decapitating from the right shoulder down. “Oh woo is me. . .” He commented sombrely. Though crying in pain, wallowing in despair, the essence of life rushing out like spray paint; the humans mournful complexion told him the creature wasn’t dead yet. ‘Pity. . .’ Just as quick as the thought came, he banished it; exorcised it quickly with a spare hand and off flopped the head like toothpaste. Hoisting the flesh, he allowed it the honours to act as his shield when a few streaks of amber came blazing by. He removed his hand, the human fell lifelessly to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The head rolled to a stop at his feet, and he raised a brow. The eyes had always had a fierce fire burning within them, black marbles with a diamond core. Now they were cold and dead, like a porcelain doll. Carrie raced into the fray at sight of bafflement among the ranks of the enemy. Soaring over her counter, pouncing on the closest one, a female. Her movements reached an absolute crescendo, moving inhumanly fast, and she began to slow. Her movements were poetry in motion. The scream of the air parting on the sharper-than-razor on her blades quieted, until the room was momentarily silent. In her final position, she held both rings crossed, the width of a hair separating them. The female had only caught a glimpse of the flash of blinding metal half-turned. From her neck, back of the head, from her right eye to the lips, upper left arm, forearm, ring finger, elbow, thumb, from the ribs to the heart, from her chest to the abdomen, right ankle, right shin, and all her left toes. . . Her body began spraying red mist in the gaps, then collapsing in on itself, gravity splashing the remains upon the surface. All in an instant, the vampire had dissected her into fourteen pieces of flesh. It was a gruesome, obscene sight. The last survivor, by the name of Melissa on the tag of her uniform, pulled out her Glock and emptied the clip at the standing aberration that should have been dead. She was unaware that she was the only one left. “Is that how you treat someone you killed?” came Vlad’s fruitless reply. “Monster!” she gasped horrified, and pulled out her knife, stepping forward to deliver a horizontal slash from an angle in hopes of looping off the neck. The descent was methodically halted in mid stride offhandedly by his forearm. The swing caused nothing more than a small rustle of wind against Vlad’s cloak; just enough to veer it slightly; a displacement of air in said direction. The whistling came to a silent halt at the practical wall under insurmountable strength. His lips became a thin line as the confrontation was locked. His eyes burned into her Melissa’s own. “Do you think you can kill me?” his lips parting for a devilish smirk, “You will die with that thought.” Gripping the intruding hand, he crushed her wrist, effectively disarming her. He could tell by the cracking echoes emitted beneath the skin that the hand would never be the same again. Stifling back a cry, Melissa caught the dropping blade with her left arm and quickly swung it towards his chest intending on cleaving him open. He fluctuated out of harms way like a candle in the wind, and before she knew it, he had a hold of her from her behind. “Among my various breeds of your kind, I have been called Kaziglu Bey by the Turks and Tepes by the Romanians. I have been called the Dark Prince. How dare a human wield a blade against me.” Taking the blade from her sweaty grasp, he jabbed the tip of it into her wrist eliciting another screeching moan. “Don’t mock me.” He chastised, with a smile upside-down. He reached out and brushed the soft hair back from her face. He cupped her cheek gently in one hand and tilted her head back up. Her eyes shone with a beautiful brightness but her quivering lips betrayed the cause. She wrenched her face out of his grasp, unable to meet his eyes. He pulled her closer, unwilling to let her step away from him. He wrapped his arms around her and felt the restrained tension in her body. He bent a tad more, and whispered into her ears, “But coincidentally, if you have heard of fairy tales, you may know me by the name of Dracula. . . Vlad Tepes.” Her eyes widened in realization but she was in denial. Musing over how he could deal with her, the ramifications came in a million shades, a million ways. A lengthy water pipe catches his eye. Nonchalantly, he begins strolling towards the protuberance with the girl in hand. “Tepes is Romanian for ‘The Impaler’,” he says offhandedly, “Do you know why?” Seeing the instrument of her death made her sink into despair. “No, no, no. . .” she repeated like an anthem. She shook her head, eyes widening as they grew closer. She was a beautiful woman with chestnut hair that went just past her shoulders. Her face was read with warm tears that seemed so misplaced on her lovely face. She looked only a couple years younger than the others. “No, please!” she began crying, “I won’t try to kill you anymore!” was her ultimatum. It had crossed his mind to offer her a proposition, but now. . . He moved back a tad bit, so they weren’t so close and gave her a knowing look. “You see Melissa, therein lies the problem,” he voices bitterly, pausing for a moment to look at her plea-full countenance maliciously. To him, it was like a mouthing invitation and her fate had been decided in an intricate manner. The corona of his grin grew, as the intense radiating waves of his intent beckoned to fruition. “I never liked myself when I act like such a weakling.” A tangible feeling on the fringes of her perception overcame rational logic of the impeding darkness which consumes all light that excludes neither man nor child. She closed her eyes. The foreknowledge manifested. She knew she wouldn’t live to see the next sunrise. In the blink of an eye, he reaches out with a hand and relocates a section of the pipe to meet the incoming protuberance. She was controlled as a puppet were by an unskilled puppeteer. Both hands reach up and grabs her chin and the back of her head. With a quick movement, adding a bit more pressure than necessary, he nailed her all the way to the hilt. He lets go, and the lifeless body of the victim spasms a bit before limping. A befitting end to turn a once plain blank, white space nothing, into a flawless masterpiece of beauty and red. Now he made her something much more beautiful: She, the girl of red, woman of crimson, goddess in pink, performing the cry of mercy through waterfalls. Running the wrinkles off his attire, then observing his laced hands, he noted it was crimson from the human’s blood. He takes a quick glance down his cloak, which was also stained with the human’s blood. In a quick motion, he backhands the woman of the blood red sea. “Disgusting worm,” he mutters beneath his breath. “It’s bad enough that I hate you more than anything without your filth staining my cloak.” As he retracted his hands to his sides, refitting them, he couldn’t help but admire the three. The toys they wielded certainly had been impressive and the way they moved. It was obvious to him that they had spent most of their lives under conditioning, as their performance was indeed superb. It had crossed his mind that if he had been a mortal, he just might have succumbed; ‘might have’ being the key words. He wondered if there would be more? If so, why? How many more? How many would he send to their funerals? ‘Questions best left for latter’ he thought hopefully. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when they opened again they were still fiery, but less so. Carrie’s complexion remained impassive, for this was not new to her. Claire though, felt like she wanted the throw up at the site of the horrific bloodbath. Body parts were literally littered everywhere in an obscene fashion of art. She covered her mouth sorrowfully Every method to slow her thoughts were futile and still had only felt the seconds tick by with maddening slowness. The daze in her twin depths evaporated by muffled voices. Annoyed, Vlad gave a lethargic scorn, and bitterly persued the sounds emanating from the soldiers. It was coming from one of them. Bitterly he checked one if it were alive, but no, his sense told him it was still dead. Moving a tad bit closer to the head gear, he could make out some muffled words. And what did he find there? A device. He had concluded it had not come from the corpse, but another ‘thing’ of human ingeniousness. The sounds resonated from the wireless. In came a stern tone, “Report, have you dispatched them yet?” He gave it a curious gaze, but answered presuming the link worked both ways. “Yes,” his eyes narrowed, “I have.” A pause on the line, a second later, the voice came back quizzically. “Why are my men dead?” Vlad couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did you know they were dangerous?” “Yes.” Came the confirmation. “Did you also know they would be mistaken as godsends?” Another sigh, another half-hearted, “yes.” “Did you know that they just tried to kill us?” Another “Yes.” And he could literally picture the man nodding his head on the other end boorishly. While his body remained standing and relaxed, his eyes turned icy and his voice turned bitter and hoarse. “Now do you really need to ask me why I vanquished the worms?” “I am impressed thus far, but rest assured your time is waning to an end.” Came an egotistical remark from the other line before it dropped dead. Moving away, he ran the cobwebs from his neck and placed a hand beneath his chin, with a wistful expression. “I think someone is trying to kill us.” he announced. “What was your first clue?” came Carrie’s input. Claire just needed to sit down for a moment to think. How had it suddenly become so wrong? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------- Meanwhile. . . By the conversation, he had estimated there maybe two or three others. How such a substantial number eluded their sights was discontenting. The plan had gone from the zenith of its existence to the nadir in just two short moments. Again he wondered, how could they have failed? It was simple, but now things were complicated. He couldn’t just leave them alone and hope for the best. He had a feeling this problem wouldn’t cut itself out of its misery and would require more delicate mending. With a noiseless sigh he turned his back to the fire and gazed upwards, to where the stars mapped out the constellations. Somewhere in the distance a wail arose in the night air; its crying undulating cadence was an echo to the disconsolate being within his soul. At his side, his fists were clenched in the pockets and he bowed his head in frustration. He washed away the unfairness of it all. If anything, he would have to be in control, and he prided himself on the ability to think calmly, clearly, without emotional interference. He looked at the fine lads then, and then quickly looked away when they returned his glance. Remaining silent for a moment, studying the four soldiers left, he gauged their reaction. Finally he said, “Trouble is brewing. We’re going to have to water it down.” They rose to their feet abruptly, stepped past him and began walking resolutely in the direction he had indicated. He stood as well, for ‘they’ would want him there this time. . . no, they would demand it; demand that he made sure nothing went wrong this time under his superintendence. He also wanted to meet the pests which miraculously survived the encounter. It was time. Soaking the silvery nightdress, there was no more shadow to hide the need to move. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------- Authors Notes: Updating slow as usual.