Pills-in-a-Little-Cup

by Rage, Reverend

  The blood he supped that night came from one of his clan’s own ponies. He remembered the sensation, but couldn’t recall how many years ago. It could have been decades or centuries for all he knew. The hunter recalled accidentally draining the horse dry, leaving evidence of the supernatural in his wake. He was forced to leave, under the threat of violence, and was to never return.

  The hunter always had been able to smell panic and despair like it was food and so followed his stomach to Genoa. He scaled the walls late at night, unseen by the guards, dispatching one or two in the course of his illegal entry.

  The hunter dug his way under the home of the magistrate. He holed up in the unused storage beneath the buttery and lay there like a spider, waiting for prey to wander by. Eventually, the citizenry knew to avoid that street and the hunter was forced to locate and stalk his supper, ever further and further from his lair. He was as careful as he could be, what with breaking their necks to simulate a fall or some other explainable catastrophic injury. But rumors spread even faster than the kills. The Genoese became convinced that they had a monster in their midst. People spent their nights at home, a pitchfork or scythe at the ready. The hunter began to cut into his intake, hunting only every three days.

  The night in question was one such third night, when the rough drunkenness of the foolish stalwarts and braggarts was slowly winding down. It was to be the hunter’s last in Genoa, or son he planned.

  The hunter sense, just as he sense fear and despair, that his life was in danger. He couldn’t shake its dread. Yes, tonight would be his last here.

  The hunter came to the main thoroughfare in town. He squatted and rested briefly beside a water trough.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the night. All the sounds he heard the hunter could place. Everything seemed, smelled, and looked satisfactory, although the feeling of dread persisted. But hunger trumps dread any day of the week, so the hunter prepared himself to move into the depth of night.

  The hunter looked skyward. Just as the clouds parted a touch, the hunter could see the details of the night sky. He moved out, staying contained in the shadows. He darted furtively from dark spot to dark spot and never let mortals see a hint of him. That was the secret to his longevity. Mortals fear what they don’t understand. And in the hunter’s case, the wary citizens’ concerns were quite justified.

  After the merest of moments the blood drinker arrived at one his favorite feeding spots —the brothel and paused beside the building. The high front of the brothel dwarfed the tents and lean-tos that surrounded it.

  The hunter, using his exposed talons, fluently scaled the walls, seeking the hole in the roof he’d made the last time he ventured forth. Straw, he hoped, still hid the spider’s hidey-hole.

  The hunter reached the roof and dropped through. It was here at the top floor where the whores plied their trade. He entered silently and emerged in a room with candles flickering. As his feet sat lightly down he noted a customer gustily getting his money’s worth. The hunter considered the two for dinner, but to attack more than one at a time was a risk.

  The hunter darted toward the interior door. He opened it and closed it behind him. So silent was he, that the customer’s plunging ass missed not a bob.

  In the hallway there was no one in sight. The hunter sniffed the air. He sorted through the various odors of sweat, dirt, and soured secretions to detect the presence of oxygenated blood. He followed the scent down the hallway to a closed door. He tested the handle of the scarred wooden entrance. It rotated freely and he pushed inside.

  There was a woman on the bed and she was nude. Her restrained wrists and ankles were chained to metal eyelets that had been screwed into both the wall behind her and the floorboards below. Her legs were spread wide.

  The whore was drunk and semi-conscious, From narkotik, no doubt thought the hunter — he could smell it.

  Hunger, deep and profound, had him springing through the air and onto the smelly, soiled bedclothes and he was on her in an instant. The whore’s muffled protest was weak. The hunter procured the sharp blade from his scarred forearm sheath and punctured her bounding neck vein for a fast drain. Even through the madness of his crazed need, the hunter was aware he’d need to hurry. He quickly popped his jaw out of socket and placed his widened mouth on her neck and drank deep. The pressurized blood was a powerful tsunami that he chugged with incredible lust.

  As he swallowed gulp after gulp, a random thought occurred to the hunter: as good as the blood was; it did not have the same savor that he had smelled in the hallway and in the room. It was not even in her menses, which was a rich, delicious gravy to him, luscious and tasty, but devoid of any nutritional content. This blood was neither good nor bad.

  The muffled moan that had come from the whore didn’t sound right either and the hunter thought almost absently, why is she tied up?

  Oh, you stupid, stupid pissier…

  The wardrobe burst open. Two humans soldiers appeared with swords brandished. From fear, or rage, or both, one of them cried out. The hunter was stunned, flat-footed, rooted to the floor. A double-blast of steel dug in and struck the hunter deep in the chest. The power of their enraged thrusts knocked him off his feet and flat on his back. Both swords pulled free as the hunter fell. It was only out of a deeply ingrained instinct that propelled the hunter up off his back. He was crouched and ready before the two soldiers moved in for the kill.

  Lightning fast, the hunter had his ice-cold right hand flat on the floor in front of him, the muscles in his legs taut and ready. He was a cat prepared to spring.

  The hunter pushed from the balls of his feet and the flat of his hand. Pushing with all his might, the hunter launched himself straight up. He broke through water-stained timber with a deafening crash. Splinters and straw fell upon the soldiers as they looked on in amazement.

  “A fiend,” said one soldier.

  “Aye,” stated the other.

  The soldiers glanced skyward and gazed through hole in ceiling the hunter had made. In amongst the sweet head-smoke and the moon-brightening night, great drops of cool blood fell from the ragged hole. The hunter’s blood hissed when the drops landed in sprinkles upon the flushed, hot skin of the overwrought soldiers. And as they craned their necks to stare, they could hear several sets of footsteps on the rooftop.

  Up top, the hunter crouched on the roof of the brothel. Sheltered from the throng of soldiers running up the lane, he tried to hold himself together. A great deal of his precious blood had been lost and his strength with it. It took all of his supreme will to think of a way out of this bad mess.

  The hunter should have seen this coming. He knew something didn’t feel right. He scolded himself for not squeezing the juice from a dozen vile rats before risking his very life. He should have left Genoa the second he felt danger.

  Even through the horrendous pain and dizziness from his blood loss, the hunter felt the fool. He must have killed two dozen drunken men and nearly half as many whores. The hunter should have known this could not last. He chose them all for their good blood, but perhaps he should have stuck with the buboes covered, the ones dying in pain. He did not like the taste of disease. Perhaps it was an acquired taste. These pestilent, dribbling, sour-tasting wrecks were the ones in poor standing in Genoa. Those that wandered dead-eyed through the city streets, too bereaved to even beg. They would probably have welcomed the hunter and his final answer.

  No one would seek retribution for those lost souls. But the hunter was infatuated with good blood.

  Obviously he’d taken someone’s favorite tartlet; someone who was royalty, or mayhap, someone with influence and power. And now the hunter’s made to pay for that indiscretion.

  But not right now, not if he had anything to say on the matter. Right now the hunter needed to find a dark hole to crawl into so he could hide and heal.

  Then he, too, heard the multiple pairs of footsteps up on the rooftop with him.

  He glanced around. The hunter realized immediately he
was worse off than he had earlier thought. There were more soldiers than just one or two waiting for him up on the brothel roof.

  It was an ambush, plain and simple. The hunter heard swords unsheathed. All their weapons were pointing at him.

  The hunter looked to the soldiers and saw what they thought would be the implement of his demise. He snarled at the men as the moonlight glinted off the head of an axe. He was already dying, but not fast enough for their liking. A soldier swung it viciously at the hunter who could do nothing but propel himself backward off the rooftop, hoping for the best.

  The axe head swooped through the cold still air and buried itself in the planking behind where the hunter had sat moments ago.

  The soldiers all rushed to the side, fully expecting to see a dead man twisted on the ground. But there was nothing there but darkness and blood-dampened dirt.

  The soldiers raised the alarm. The garrison fairly emptied of soldiers anxious to do something other than just waiting to be killed by the Muslims right outside the wall. And try as they might, they could find neither hide nor hair of the hunter. He managed to make it unseen to the storage under the magistrate’s house, but to them the hunter had vanished into thin air.

  “A fiend, aye,” said a soldier, “one of the undead.”

  And so it would seem.

  THE FUGITIVE.

  In that foul Year of our Lord, 1346.

  More War.

  Port of Algiers, Northern Africa.

  THE FUGITIVE HUNKERED DOWN behind a row of barrels. He watched the captain of the ship get welcomed aboard the immense sailing vessel. It was a risky venture, no doubt. The ship was of Spanish origin. A long voyage trading vessel, it brought and dispensed foodstuffs, more men and other essentials in a prelude to war. Spain wanted the vital port to use as an open conduit for trade between Algiers and Spain. But the Moors were getting driven from Spain and here’s where they’re winding up. They‘ve been pirating ships ever since. But the fugitive is not one to talk. He’s run here from Italy, only a step or two ahead of those who wanted to do him harm. The fugitive had not been here even a year and already the locals wanted his hide.

  It seems if you bleed and kill a few dozen locals, everyone loses their sense of humor. Go figure.

  The ship had already been off-loaded and as soon as it could be re-outfitted, off it goes again, east and north, toward the horizon and civilization.

  The fugitive morosely drained a large tabby cat. He had to get aboard that ship. The fugitive was frightened and past caring about who he would be hiding from or even where the sailing vessel was bound. He didn’t care because the local populace, maybe even all of Algiers was searching for him, even at this very moment.

  The fugitive glanced cautiously behind him, convinced that a whole contingent of crazed asshole Moorish pirates would fall upon him if he snuck a peek at the ship.

  The fugitive came to the sea, figuring to stow away on a ship. He’d live off shipboard rats and maybe a sailor, or two. If a deckhand was foolish enough to be topside on a dark and stormy night, that is. He could get away with that, the fugitive was sure. Sailors fell overboard every voyage. Everyone knew that.

  The fugitive put the deflated cat gently and quietly down. He looked about, scanning for danger. None was seen, so he as quietly as he could, the hunter stuffed the dead and deflated animal between two crates.

  As far as the fugitive could ascertain, there was no one near where he hid. He saw that the gangplank to the ship was empty. And there was absolutely nothing to be heard but sounds of toasts recited in the captain’s honor. The fugitive was able to rise swiftly without any more pain. And, after another quick peek, he darted aboard the ship.

  No one saw a thing.

  The fugitive only ventured out of his rancid nest below decks when the night fell. Then he would feast on rats by the dozens. An occasional cat or kitten helped to tide him over. They were a little better than the vermin he was eating. The cats were kept aboard to keep the rat population in check. They needn’t have bothered. The fugitive did a better job.

  The blood of these lower creatures could never do any more for the fugitive than to ensure his survival. The fugitive needed domesticated livestock to feel well. He needed human blood to thrive. But every time he sought out what he needed to thrive, it was angry mob time.

  Then one night, after many uneventful days at sea, the fugitive, while eating a plump warm rodent, heard a sound; a sign of human life. He saw a sailor emerge from below. The lone Turk was sipping something from a clay jug. It was a fiery fluid judging from the way it fucked with the boy’s sea legs.

  The sailor stopped at the edge of the ship, closed eyes pointing starboard, his right hand full of his rigid self. Tugging with increased ferocity, the foreskin coated his circled fingers and thumb with the crusting from countless previous sessions. His knob popped out of the skin bag, filled with weeping sores. He spit on his hand, rubbing the slick over the scabs, loosening them up, getting to the syphilitic pus that further lubricated his cruelty to self.

  When he reached his finish, the uniformed lad emitted thick streams of his ejaculate out into the open ocean, the calm sea keeping the deck level.

  The fugitive watched him, enraptured. He looked then from side to side and, as silent as blood flows through veins, the fugitive fell upon the sailor.

  The fugitive grabbed the boy’s lusty golden curls and pulled him down in one fluid movement. The sailor hit the deck hard. The fugitive crushed the boy’s trachea with a vicious downward hammer-fist.

  Now that his prey was incapacitated but still alive, the fugitive dropped to both knees. Using the point of a talon, he opened a fresh scar and removed the weapon which lay sealed between muscle and skin. With the sharp blade free, he opened up the sailor’s neck and drank deeply.

  Pleasant fire rippled throughout the fugitive’s body as he fed. He remembered to replace the blade in his fleshy sheath, but then got caught in the moment. It was human blood, after all and it has been a long time coming. His folly was that he focused solely on the luscious human blood and lost sight of his surroundings. The fugitive, yet again, failed to notice that there were other dangerous animals approaching the watering hole.

  In what seemed to him only a moment, the fugitive lost consciousness.

  He didn’t even realize he’d been hit broadside with a backsword.

  The cold water that the sailors dumped on the fugitive roused him. He stared up and into the eyes of the captain of the ship, who stared back at the fugitive, quizzically. The captain had his hands clasped behind him. He rocked back and forth on his heels, considering. Finally:

  “What manner of creature is this?” he asked.

  ”It’s an evil spirit, Captain,” a crewman stated, “He is one of the demimondaine, a nosferatu.”

  “He certainly looks a devil,” he agreed.

  The captain bent at the waist to get a better look at the fugitive. In all the captain’s travels, he’d never seen a blood drinker before.

  The fugitive stared back. He was frightened and in pain. The captain noted the yellow piercing eyes, the mass of teeth, and the talons the fugitive used to try and rend his binds. Grunting, all the fugitive was able to accomplish was to shred his own hands to a bloody pulp.

  The captain gave the fugitive a fleeting glimpse. Then his gaze found its way to the dead sailor and then back again. His eyes rested on the fugitive once more as the Captain stood straight.

  “What shall we do with him, Captain?” he was asked.

  “I think we should give him back to the devil from whence he came,” the captain said without hesitation. “Throw the hobgoblin over the side.”

  The sailors snatched up the half-conscious fugitive and heaved him overboard. The fugitive landed with a painful splash in the icy water.

  When the fugitive finally regained his senses, the ship he was tossed from was slowly shrinking into the distance. He was alone, treading water. His hands were even now knitting themselves back toget
her, so they no longer bothered him. However, the searing pain in the back of his head was beastly and unrelieved. The fugitive was wiping seawater from his yellow eyes, just as two dorsal fins split the ocean surface.

  All alone in the midst of a nameless sea, the fugitive bobbed up and down with the swells. His wretched heart was burning oxygen as it pounded in his breast. Tiny wavelets collided with his face, the sea-salt stinging his eyes. It was getting pitch dark, but the fugitive’s yellow eyes were sharp and piercing. When he blinked away the

  sting, he could easily see the moving silhouettes that were encircling him.

  The moving silhouettes began tightening their concentric circles around the fugitive. A trail of blood spread out, away from him. The blood attracted unwanted attention from the ocean predators.

  He was sorely afraid. The fugitive had never heard of sharks.