Red-hot ash floated languidly from tray to a tightly drawn mouth in the smoky darkness. The owner of the cigarette was more than impatient, his annoyance was evident from the hastened glances to his watch that came more frequently as the minutes passed. Soon his eyes, the same color as the smoke wafting from his cancer-stick, resorted to staying fixed upon the clock ticking away his precious time. The rolled tobacco in his hand seemingly forgotten now, he simply allowed the gray matter to curl as far over as gravity permitted, which was quite a distance as far as ash stems go.
From across the room, the subject desiring a better sense of promptness finally made his appearance. Even in the distance separating them, the darkened spaces that the newcomer displayed in his mouth were strikingly evident. Lack of teeth was not the only characteristic the man claimed, for he had many traits that distinguished him from the ordinary. A frayed tuft of hair sprouted wildly from the side of his head, stark white and contrasting drastically from the dirty brown that dappled the rest of his crown. His clothing left much to be desired in good taste, and many a bouncer had lain hands upon his shoulder in hopes of removing the would be beggar from the premises. Yet, despite his ragged appeal and humbled countenance, a beggar he was not. A street goer perhaps, but far from unemployed.
Though he was a sore thumb to the eye, he was remarkably capable of blending into the scene, and oddly enough, as he entered this beaten establishment, he did just that. In fact, the cigarette bearer was startled into disgracing his elongated ash stem as the oddity arrived unnoticed beside him. Hot orange sparks lit the dim corner as the smoke was tossed haphazardly into the air and took a deathly nose-dive into the greasy counter-top.
"Jesus Ratty!", the smoker wheezed in his high strung impatience. Sucking back a breath of the hazy air, he composed himself well enough to fight off the coughing fit that scratched at his throat to be released. Ratty only stood there, his expression unchanging and uncaring. Beady black eyes bulged now and then from their sockets as he waited for his "boss" to catch his breath.
Picking up the remainder of the cigarette, the smoker took a second to extinguish the diminishing glow by grinding the tip into the overflowing ash tray, then, after knocking thrice on the table with his knuckles, he sucked in his upper lip as well as his breath and folded his arms over the leathered jacket adorning his chest. Rocking back gently, the leather protesting with an angry creek, he leaned casually against the table and nodded to the Rat Man.
"Whatcha' find out, pal?"
The seedy fellow grinned broadly, flashing his decaying smile as he dipped two fingers into what remained of his breast pocket. In the process of handing out a rather faded and gnawed polaroid, Ratty swiped the grimy sleeve of his jacket across his mouth. He had begun to drool in anticipation. "Here ya' go, Damon. A snapper shot, jest like you asked."
Damon nodded, swallowing back an urge to cringe at this decrepit display. He despised working with this filth of a man, but no other sniffer he ever hired turned out half as much information, nor lived a quarter as long. The fact was, this mongrel blended well with the underground. It was as if he was born to a litter of sewer rats, how appropriate his name was. It was chance, perhaps, that his birth certificate clearly stated his name to be Ratallion. It had nothing to do with his rodent-like appearance.
"Way to go, champ".
Damon gingerly pried the photograph from between Ratty's gloved fingertips. He couldn't help but notice the pallid digits that jutted from the missing tips of the mittens. He also couldn't help but crack a smile as he discovered what attempted to hide a growth of some sort on one of Rat's knuckles. A child's bandage, depicting animated mice, hugged the cleanest part of the man's entire person. Evidently, he had suffered the horrors of soap and water so that his wound dressing would last a little longer.
Ratty scowled, almost childlike, then quickly withdrew his hand and stuffed it into his pants. Lowering his weasely orbs, he nodded towards the picture in Damon's grasp, and husked his voice forcefully to sound a bit more masculine.
"His name's Gunner. He's a stray."
Scuffing his feet into the tile floor so that two dull squeaks chorused his movement, he paused for a moment, then spoke again, his voice less forced but still somewhat submissive.
"They say ta sucker's already formin' his own band. They say he be at The Hole tomorrow evenin', there wit' a few prospective wanna-be's, an' mayhap a few more strays. You be there, ye'll get ta rabid feller."
With that, Ratallion scratched the white tuft on his head and held out his hand.
That was more than enough information for Damon. He couldn't help but be amazed and somewhat dumfounded at how much this scurvy could find out. From a worn, suede nap-sack slung over the back of his chair, he pulled a brown, paper lunch bag from the recedes. Before Damon could give his appreciation, the Rat Man snatched the bag from the man's hands and crumpled it close to his chest. Opening the lip, he peered inside and grunted his content at the cash bound together in a plastic bag, then simply scurried away with the sack nestled beneath his armpit.
Damon smirked, shaking his head, then slipped into his chair once again. He sighed as he fired up a fresh cig, running his free hand through the wispy raven bangs that hung in his eyes.
"I really need to quit this shit", he muttered under his breath.
Despite his thoughts, he managed to chimney another pack and a half while studying the polaroid and working his plan for the following evening's events.
Chapter Two
Damn if the Rat Man wasn't right again. There was no time to dwell on Ratallion's master accountability, though. Damon peered through a crack in the floor of a rundown apartment building which rose from the heart of the town slums. The Hole, yes, it surely was just that. An inner city underground club, home to the most committed Gothics the world had ever birthed. The club goers drifted about the dirtied floors upon carpets of a reddened material, their make more like a crusted blood than anything else. On the walls surrounding the four corners hung casts of tormented faces seeming to have crawled straight from the depths of hell itself. The ceiling and the floor were one in the same, for the room was nothing more than a dug-out basement, plastered with much decor.
It was clear that Ratallion spoke true, the place was infested with vampires. Vampires that took no caution in hiding their demonic race. That wasn't all, humans mingled with them as well, like they had no clue of the dangers which stalked their every move. It was as if the Goth's had invited the kindred to their demonic party, sacrificing themselves in some odd ritual so that they might walk with the dead for one night. For a moment, Damon thought he would just leave the fools to their early grave. The Hole would make an appropriate crypt, at any rate, for the unsuspecting human naives. Then it struck him. Ratty had mentioned Wanna-be's. God Damn, it was going to be a ritual. The stray, Gunner, must have sent for these oddities to populate his band. Clever. Clever indeed. Too bad he wouldn't have the chance.
Damon kept a stoic vigil upon the scene for quite some time while puffing his cigs. He watched their unusual dance and heard their exotic talk. It was no wonder people fell for this apparition of grandeur, the language was quite sweet and the atmosphere sexually enticing. It was the product of the whole ordeal that ate at Damon's soul. Many people would die, meal to some hunger that could never be sated. That was precisely why Damon chose this as his profession, to save the people. He never was one to partake in any congregation, but he enjoyed the world at peace and full of those to carry it out. From what he'd witnessed of vampires in the past, they knew no peace, only death. Damon's pastime was posing as an observer, and he was damn good at it. As he observed the happenings below, he had to recount his good thoughts upon Ratty's information. The sniffer was wrong about one thing; Gunner wasn't there.
No matter. He had seen enough. Already quite a number of strays had chosen their entrees for the evening, taking their victims to darkened corners of the room and preparing for their meals, after which they would perform their dark deed. In every crevice where once there was a vampire and a human, there would soon be only two vampires. Damon couldn't wait for Gunner to show, he would have to track him another night, or have even more followers to deal with. That would complicate his job. He hated only one thing more than complications; an empty pack of cigarettes.
The vampire hunter stood, dropping his cigarette to the ground. The soft glowing life was suffocated beneath the heal of his boot as he pulled his sack from his shoulder. This time there was no paper bag, instead, he pulled out a crossbow. Damon loaded the bow with a heavy arrow, carved entirely of wood and laced with a special concoction of garlic and holy-water. If he missed once, the concoction would allow enough stung time so that he would not miss again. He slung the pack with the remainder of the stakes over his shoulder and descended into the basement. What came next was a mastery of art and skill.
An observer, that's what he was. When an apprentice observes a carpenter, he has no choice but to one day turn out magnificent works of hand perfected splintery. It is his job. Damon, he spent his life observing the things that would perfect his job. Many times he stood in the rain outside of the martial arts building, observing the motions that reflected outward through the window as the droplets that plummeted from the sky made rhythmic taps upon his leather. He puffed a cigarette behind the shot line at the rifleman range, examining the skill of the hunters as they hit their targets with undaunted precision. He watched spiders toil in their webs, noticing how patiently they awaited their prey, and how quickly they did strike when the time was right. Damon was an observer, and he applied his observations well.
The first shot was fired. Even beneath the heavy rhythm of the music, the dull coil and slip could be heard by each set of powerful vampire ears. At once, the creatures were startled into attack mode, leaving the humans to do as they would. Of course, the cowardly mortals never stuck around long. As soon as they caught wind of the massacre, Damon was claimed the sole living flesh in the room. It mattered not, he was here to save their asses anyway. It didn't occur to him how easily they all escaped, unscathed.
Again the vampire hunter released the trigger on his crossbow. The stake didn't soar long before relinquishing a dull thud into the chest of its prey. The screeching was terrible as the kindred fell to the floor, disintegrating as if acid had been poured over it's entire body. The horrid cries of the expiring creature didn't seem to affect Damon, but it angered the remaining spectators severely. The attack thickened. Two, sometimes three charged the hunter simultaneously.
The Rat Man was right after all. Just as Damon put to rest a trio of his aggressors, the attack withdrew all together. Amazingly, the kindred began to slowly make a retreat. This had never happened before, and it stunned Damon so much, even he ceased his fire. Upon looking over his shoulder, he discovered that two more had entered the scene. The male was a vampire and he was undoubtedly the man from the picture Damon had memorized every line and curve of. The soft gray of the hunter's eyes didn't befall the kindred long, for they were drawn to the beauty in his shadow. A woman, more than likely a vampire for she walked at Gunner's side as an equal, looked over the steaming remains of the terminated with much dismay. When her emerald glints could not bear to look upon her defiled friends another second, she turned her accusing glare to Damon, and for the first time in his profession, the merciless hunter actually felt remorse. Pegged beneath the eyes of this beautiful creature, ensnared in her intoxicating gaze, he swallowed hard, seeking to devour this horrific feeling before it could take further root in his soul.
Damon didn't dwell on his pity for long. Beautiful or not, the midnight tressed adonna had a death wish for even daring to step in the shadow of Gunner's stride. Like a flash, Damon reloaded his crossbow and aimed it precisely between her eyes, forgetting fully that Gunner was the one he sought. Perhaps for a moment he actually felt a connection, and desired the need to extinguish any feeling he might hold for the damned. Click. Spring. Whisper. With more haste than the stake could soar through the air, Gunner had stepped into the path of the shot and taken the blow in his shoulder. The young kindred winced terribly as the chemical mixture ate at his flesh, but he was swift to disregard his pain. With fiery eyes, he raised his free arm and made some sort of sign with his thumb and index finger. The silent language of this motion left the room empty, aside from Damon and his gaping mouth. The vampire hunter could not recall but a whisper of shadows before the room was free of all activity. Even the beauty and her boy scout, Gunner, had managed to escape.
Damon cursed beneath his breath and crouched down amongst the piles of clothing that had once adorned the undead bodies of the kindred.
"What the bloody hell was all that?", he whispered wearily beneath his breath, then proceeded to ignite a hand-rolled that awaited him in his breast pocket.
With his cig dangling limply from his mouth, he kicked an empty cloak into a corner and sulked out of The Hole, leaving only a long, curving trail of smoke behind him.
Chapter Three
Damon often wondered why it rained so God damned much in this part of town, but tonight, he was actually thankful for the cool precipitation. The day after his hunt had been sweltering and he had spent the most part of it sleeping. He was a night bloomer after all, and night bloomer's had to get their beauty rest sometime. When he awoke he had found his skin plastered to his bed sheets in a sticky sweat, his apartment musty with the smell of contained heat, and the soda he had left out of the fridge too warm to swallow. Now, as he stood in an alley on the border of town, he raised his face to the falling droplets and allowed the wetness to fill his parched pores.
Once again he awaited Ratty. He knew the man wouldn't come until after the sun had set completely. Hell, if he looked the way that walking pile of trash did, he would want to travel under the cover of darkness too. Damon was, for the most part, a patient man, and he bided his time by watching the sun head for slumber in it's western bed. Just as soon as the last tendrils of light made their descent beneath the city, Damon was joined by his faithful sniffer.
Ratty waited obediently by Damon's side, allowing the "man in charge" to break the silence, as usual. The Rat Man leaned against a dumpster, his thumbs laced through the front two belt loops of his pants. Every now and then he would wriggle the thumbs, making the dirty appendages appear like earthworms who had come to take a breath of air from beneath their soiled homes.
Damon took a hearty draw from his cig, and as he spoke, each syllable left his lips followed by a swirling white cloud.
"It appears that the stray is powerful, Ratty. Powerful and clever."
Ratty simply nodded.
"Maybe", Damon took another drag of cigarette, "Maybe even more powerful than the band of elders in which he deserted."
At this, Ratty winced, his thumbs pulling free from his belt loops and joining the rest of his fingers as they clenched into fists.
Damon sighed as the cooling rain increased to a soft sheet and took the life of his cig.
"I have to get him soon, or I'm going to have twice as much shit to deal with. I'll lose the war, Ratty. I can't take on two bands. Its odd, though, pal. I just don't get why he would stray. Maybe he clashed with the head elder, or something. As if we don't have enough mafia screw-ups to deal with up here, now they gotta go start their gangster bullshit underground, too." Removing the lifeless smoke from his lips, Damon tossed the cigarette to a watery grave. A burial at sea.
"Anyway", he sighed, the thickening rain seeming to cool his anger as well as his flesh, "I hope you have something good for me tonight, Ratallion. Don't let me down, Pal."
Ratty offered Damon his most charming smile, a few teeth short of a cheshire grin.
"I gotcha covered Boss Man."
Ratty bent down on one knee and proceeded to remove his mildewed sneaker. The scent that rose from the exposed foot was enough to cause Damon to want to vomit.
"I writ the address down an' put it in safe keepin'." Ratty laughed, the humored vocalization comparable to the gasp of a tightly collared dog dragging his master excitably by the leash.
"Gunner an' his band be meetin' again. You gave em' a good scare, so I hear, and they was mighty careful bout' giving out their information dis time. But, they wasn't careful 'nuff for good ole Ratty!" The Rat Man handed Damon the damp scrap of paper, and Damon tried to retrieve the moist information without looking too disgusted.
He read the scrap aloud. "The cinema on the outskirts? What in the hell would they want with a rundown theater, Ratty?"
Ratty shrugged. "I dunno Boss. That's jest where they gonna be. I imagine its cuz the seating, an' ta movies are dark. You ever been to ta movies, Boss? I went once, I sure d..."
Damon waved Ratty off with his hand, he didn't have time for some nonsense story involving a kid flick and some popcorn.
"Here, Rat, I ain't got much time."
Damon shoved another paper lunch bag into Ratallion's arms and swiftly left the alley. As soon as the vampire hunter was out of sight, Ratty scoffed and hurled the bag and its contents into the dumpster. A rather large sewer rat was disturbed by the crinkling projectile, and scurried down the alley with fright. Ratallion followed, mimicking the rodent's terrified squeals in a tormented vocalization.
Chapter Four
Still puzzled as to why the strays would choose to meet there, Damon slipped into the theater on the out-skirting part of town drenched from head to toe. Like many times before, Ratty was right again. The theater was darker than the lungs of a chain-smoker, the thought not settling too well within his own nicotine addicted blood. Whipping out his zippo, he was thankful for his decaying lungs anyway. The wan light was just enough to lead him down the silence of the halls, and not nearly enough to attract any unwanted attention. Even in broad daylight, Damon was certain this establishment would not harbor any illumination. One up for Gunner, and another one for Ratty whom suspected just as much. Sometimes the halfwit knew what the hell he was talking about after all.
Damon discovered a stairway, stumbled onto it really as his footing was lost in the darkness. Climbing the stairwell, he was pleased to find that the passage lead to a balcony, a balcony that overlooked a sea of kindred. It almost startled him, for not a one made a sound, and he half expected to see only empty seating as he peered cautiously over the edge of the outlook. For a moment, he was awestruck. Never had he seen this amount of kindred gathered in the same dwelling. If they were all strays, he wondered how many the original band now numbered. The setting was perfect. If he thought with haste and precision, he would be able to take out the entire gathering with a single blow. Damon patted his pack, comforted with the thought of the fire-power within. Fire. Yes, the place would burn. Not that it would be missed. Nor would be the creatures damned within. He decided he would wait until dawn. Once the building was set to blaze, they would have no-where left to hide. To be torched by the flames or crisped by the sweet light of day, it made no difference to the mighty vampire hunter.
Just as he bent to begin harvesting his crop of fire, there arose such a zealous uproar from the crowd, that for a moment he thought he had been discovered and his life had ended. Truly, he could not fight off this many foe. Alas, the roar came again, and Damon realized that they were cheering. Cheering? What on earth's sacred ground would a vast quantity of vampires who had remained silent for so long, now want to wreak havoc on his resting ears for? Once again Damon became an observer, and his watchful eye detected with ease what the clamor was about. They had entered once again. Gunner and the dark haired beauty.
Gunner hushed the crowd with his free arm, the other bandaged heavily from his elbow to his neck. Evidently it was still healing from his encounter with Damon's stake. The woman at his side smiled broadly, a captivating smile that brought even more cheers and applause from the crowd. High above the uproar, Damon stood captivated as well. Not only with the beauty, but with his astonishment towards the group. The ovation lasted for nearly five minutes, and Damon couldn't remember the last time he saw a president get that sort of recognition, let alone a lowly kindred. When the hoots and excitement finally dwindled to a low murmur, Gunner shook the woman's hand and upturned his palm to a podium that overlooked the crowd. With a stunning confidence, the woman took the offered stand. The sweet speech that left her crimson lips was ever more enchanting than the dulcet sound of her voice, and as Damon listened to each and every word that befell her tongue, he truly grieved for the innocents he had slaughtered just an evening past. How foolish he had been. How horridly foolish.
The woman spoke of a new time, a time when kindred would not be hated, that they could learn to live amongst the flesh without fear of being slain. She spoke of a time when mortals could walk amongst the kindred and not fear for their own lives, a time when the laws of the elders would be outcast, and the innocent lives of humans would no longer be taken. There was a way. There was a time, and the time was now. Quietly, the beauty offered her hand to Gunner, and willingly he accepted. Gently, ever so gently, the stunning young kindred took the woman in his arms, tilting her neck to the side like the softness of a child pushing over a tulip on its long stem. His fangs extended hungrily, and with the tenderness of fingers putting their impressions in dough, he sunk into her fragile flesh. He drank of her, and it was only then that Damon knew the woman was not also a vampire.
Clenching his fists, he decided to entertain his hatred after all. He couldn't bear to watch this beauty be slain so the world would be at peace. Yet, he had not watched long enough. As soon as he grasped a torch in his hand, ready to cast it over the balcony, Gunner released the woman with a reluctant, yet satisfied gasp. Light headed, the woman swayed a bit, yet once again offered the crowd that charming smile. Damon stood, mouth agape as the woman took the podium, and Gunner withdrew into the shadows. In a weary voice, she spoke.
"The time...the time is now. No more need for killing. You might gain your strengths in this way, just as Gunner has done. You might gain your strength, and we...we mortals shall live as well. Buy not what your elders tell you! They are false! Death is not the way. The way is life, and together in life we shall remain friends!"
The cheers arose, drowning out the sound of her voice as she continued on in speech, more to Gunner as she looked over her shoulder, than to the now unquietable crowd. Damon faltered, extinguishing his flame and fell to his knees in the shadows. His thoughts exploded in his head. Why had he not discovered this? His own prejudice caused a shroud to shield his eyes. These strays were not the enemy! It was the elder band that was responsible for the death, and it was the elder band in which he had been neglecting. Shoving his weaponry back into his pack, he knew he must redirect his arsenal. Taking one last glance over the balcony, he sighed as he gazed upon the woman. He didn't even know her name, but he knew one thing was certain. She was a Night Bloomer, just as he, yet, she was far more worthy a soul. She had found a way to escape death and gain peace by harmonizing, not to simply create peace by making death. Damon would be certain to make his own peace, and he would start with her.
Chapter Five
Lighting a cigarette, Damon took the smoke to his mouth, the reddish glow trembling between his lips as he slung his pack over his shoulder and turned to descend the stairwell. Yet, just as his first footfall made contact with the stair, he found he was not alone atop the darkened balcony. The blow to his chest was severe and it sent him reeling backwards, slamming his spine into the hard curve of the overhang. As if the shove was not enough to stung him, a fist bearing savage claws raked harshly across his face, blurring his vision, dismantling his smoke and causing him to cry out painfully. His cry went unheard amongst the chaos below.
"You found us out, did you now?"
The voice rang in Damon's ears like a bad headache. Behind the voice were low and angry growls, growls that did not come from the crowd below. The vampire hunter knew that the voice had companions. Blindly, Damon reached for his pack, but his hand was slashed brutally. Then the voice laughed, and it was at that moment that he knew to whom the voice belonged.
The laughter wheezed in disturbing ripples of mockery, and after some time, the voice spoke again.
"You really didn't think I could have been that good, do ya now? All the others, did ya ever stop to wonder what got em'?"
Another terrible slash relinquished across Damon's face, causing him to scream the perpetrator's name.
"Ratallion!!"
"Ratallion!", the sniffer mimicked in that raspy, sewer voice. "Aye, its Ratallion. Your sniffer. Your pal! I thought you were smarter an' that, Damon. I thought ya would have figured it out. You came so close before. That's why I had ta kill them. All of them! They knew about Gunner's plan. They would have told ya...an that would have spoiled everything!"
Damon gasped for breath in pained inhales, blood trickling down his face, wetting his leather jacket in crimson rivers.
"How's it feel ta be dying, Damon?"
Ratty wheezed laughter once again, as did his fellow vampires.
"I took matters into my own hands, I became your employee so that I could use you, you wretched human. Just like we always have done. That's all humans are good fer. Ta be used and discarded. And yet, ya didn't carry out my plan fully, Damon. Ya didn't rid me of my burdens. So, I shall have to do it myself. And I shall start with you, you piece of living shit!"
All Damon could do was brace himself as he readied for another blow, yet, the blow never came. What did come was a scream so terrible, Damon wished he would have had the strength to cover his ears. A chaotic blur of creatures swarmed and scattered as their master clutched at a splinter of wood that had been skewered through his heart. Behind him, what appeared to Damon as a dark angel emerged from the shadows, clutching the crossbow that Damon had misplaced in the ruckus. The remaining elders took one look at their leader and decided they didn't want to stick around for seconds. Before another shot could be fired, they had vanished. The angel pointed the crossbow, aiming it between Damon's eyes, then released the trigger, jerking it to the side just in time so that the shot missed and bit into the balcony just aside from Damon's head.
"I owed you that", the ebony tressed beauty chirped, then she swiftly knelt beside Damon tending to his wounds.
"Who are you, and, h...how did you know?", Damon winced.
"My name is Jasmine, and I've been watching you. So has Gunner."
Jasmine nodded her head over her shoulder, and Damon squinted in the direction of her cant, watching quietly as Gunner began to drag Ratallion's body out of the balcony. Gunner gave a sort of salute, it almost seemed like a sign of forgiveness. Damon offered a pained smile.
"Jasmine...a Night Bloomer", the vampire hunter laughed, his head aching terribly.
"Yes...a night blooming Jasmine", the beauty chuckled, then lit a cigarette and propped it between Damon's lips.
"Here's to a new beginning, but you know, you really ought to quit this shit."
Damon simply nodded. Yes, it was about time to retire.
The End
E-mail: RatalIion@aol.com
"At 22 I've made my home in an enchanting town in Ohio, the history and quaintness of which sparks my creativity more every moment. I live with my daughter, who at age four, already seems a teenager in her cunning and independance, (grins broadly and holds her breath at the thought). She, along with my writing, are the sole keepers of my heart. I thank Aphelion deeply for putting a glimmer on the dull shine of my aspirations."
Visit Aphelion's Lettercolumn and voice your opinion of this story. Both the writer and I would love to read your feedback.
Return to the Aphelion main page.