Blood Coven

by Christopher Fulbright

  A black carriage bearing a red crest rounded the corner, swaying on jerking wheels. The horses neighed loudly, blasting steamy snorts into the falling rain. Heavy raindrops glinted in lightning as they fell like thousands of silver blades.

  Walter threw his knife into his bag. His instinct was to stay and fight. Those hardened, trained instincts of a professional vampire hunter: a professional assassin of the undead. But his reasoning told him to flee. That the vampire behind that thin carriage door was too powerful, too ancient for him to confront alone. He hesitated, wanting a glimpse of the terror that he railed against.

  A thin hand, skeletal, it seemed, more talons than feminine, with fingers tipped by curved nails, appeared in the carriage window and reached for the outside door handle. The carriage screeched to a rickety halt, the wind shrieking around the protesting horses.

  A sudden wall of fear hit him in a palpable wave, drawing its power from the unseen horror that yet lurked in the black carriage. As the moment for her to emerge drew near, the air became taut, and scented like a subterranean cavern. His breath caught in his lungs. His heart skipped beats. He realized he was holding his breath and biting his lip.

  Knowing that once the vampire beheld him, she would pursue with lighting fast speed, he turned to the shadows and ran. Rain came down in sheets and drenched his flight. The instruments in his bag clanked steel against steel. His shoes pummeled the cobbles, slick and wet, blood running from him in pink rivulets into the murky mire of the street.

  Walter ran homeward without looking back.

  -10-

  When Countess Elva’s carriage arrived at the scene of her drone’s death, she devolved into a seething pool of rage that filled the air like poison, a black reservoir that waited to surge forth until her terrible hand reached forth and worked the m echanism on the door.

  The door of the carriage fell open. A shape resembling a flurry of falling velvet curtains cascaded from the cabin into the filthy road, and gathered over her murdered drone—the incubator for her unholy spawn. The smell of the Catcher’s blood hung heavy in the air as she materialized into a creature of the night—the winged Nosferatu. Elva hissed through the alley where the loathed vampire hunter had taken flight, spitting venom from thirsty fangs. She could smell his fear. Smell his sweat. His warm, pumping blood mingled with the pungent aroma of his scent taunting her to follow, to pursue. Her wings spread, black and veiny, into the misty air, lifting her from gnarled legs that tucked beneath her mutating trunk as she transformed into a giant bat and flew low and fast through the nearby alleyways.

  The wingspan of the flying horror reached the fronts of the two-story row houses along each side of the narrow street, stirring an awful smell from its decaying hide that swirled and merged with the stench of humanity, red eyes burning like coal embers. Elva’s twisted form blotted out the moonlight as she flew, dark and deadly, through the sky.

  The Countess flew high above Whitechapel, keen eyesight narrowing in on the alleys and streets, when she became aware of a significant development below. With an inhuman shriek, she spotted the flickering impressions of the lifeforces of her dead drones across the townscape—dancing like the dying flames from dim green lanterns. Her unholy face contorted into a ghastly expression as she saw and understood: it was a pattern. It was a symbol, a message to her from the Catcher and from that insignificant thorn in her flesh, the Ordine. Her drones had been murdered at locations that formed the shape of a cross, a holy crucifix, a message that couldn’t have been meant for anyone but her. Who else could fly above the London landscape and gaze down upon these godforsaken streets to behold such a spectacle?

  The bat creature’s long, misshapen jaws opened, emitting a terrible screech that raked the ears of anyone within hearing distance.

  The awful demon bat dove and soared up and dove again, repeatedly searching the back alleys, always tracking the distant sound of the Catcher’s pounding heart, the thought of his arterial blood, hot and salty, coursing in a steady stream down her throat driving her into a frenzy of lust that stirred in her loins as she landed in a quiet corner of an alley. As the giant bat landed and stood, it shimmered into the demonic winged form again, part Nosferatu, pointed ears and long dark eyes drinking in the night.

  The creature that was the Countess Elva Walacova stood hunched on the corner of a back alley, surrounded by trash and filth, with two high piles of rubbish reeking across the street. A drunkenly blithe hooker nursing the end of a drunk in a puddle of her own vomit whirled there. There was the distant echo of a bobby’s whistle, and a few shouts.

  Surveying the end of the alleyway with the severest gaze, the Countess became one with the stillness in order to sense the slightest movement in the air, like the stirring of a current beneath water. She waited, pulsing with anger.

  Eyes flashed, red coals of hate for the murderer of her drones and the murderer of her children. She was ready to feed. The excitement pulled at her chest, the core of her being that demanded the sacrifice, the blood: the life. Her consciousness became light, intoxicated at the mere thought of feeding.

  She folded her leathery, black wings around her hideous form and scowled, turning away from the end of the alley, moving the other way through the night.

  -11-

  Walter cowered against the soot-smeared, brick wall of a derelict building, hidden in the a lley. He crouched low to the ground, a stack of busted wooden crates towering above. Overhead, he could see Elva dive and soar; her black wings unfurled as she swooped, searching for her prey.

  Searching for him.

  An anguished shriek emitted from the bat-like thing that Elva had transformed into. The sound grated his nerves, ripped his eardrums like the screech of nails over slate. He clutched his ears, rocking in terror. Time was of the essence. Sooner or later, Elva would track him down. And right now, things did not look good for “later.”

  Silently, he waited. When she failed to make another pass at the alley where he was shivering, he waited for a few minutes more. Maybe she was baiting him? Maybe she knew exactly where he huddled and she was just waiting for him to make the treacherous move of showing himself—then she would attack.

  Walter waited.

  When it seemed likely that Elva had moved on, or perhaps given up for the evening, Walter slunk from the shadows and ran to a busier street. The beating of so many hearts in unison would confuse her; throw her off his trail. He hailed a cab to Mitre Square and, relieved, leaned back against the hard wood seat.

  Elva was too close to him now. The Ordine’s timetable be damned. He was going to finish this diabolical case now. If he waited for another assassination date, Elva might have a trap waiting for him.

  Walter thought about Kate Eddowes. She was the last one: the last prostitute on the list of drones. He shuddered at the thought of it. At the brief memory of the writhing thing that had come from the other woman—drone, he reminded himself. It was important to remind himself of their drone status, especially now that there was one more left to kill and that bitch of a Countess was closing in on him. It would be better to strike now, and it would give her less time to lay a trap.

  The cab hurdled to a clumsy stop, and Walter got out, paying the driver. He watched as the horses thundered away through the street, black streaks against a blacker night. He moved toward the pub where he knew he’d find Kate. She looked hungry as she sat there, alone, on a wood bench within the slight illumination of a nearby gas lamp. He sat and ordered a plate of bangers and mash, followed by ale. Her hungry eyes fixated on his plate.

  “You hungry?” he asked between bites.

  “What a thing to ask? Do I look hungry?” she asked, insulted, her words slightly slurred.

  “You do. Here.” Walter shoved the plate across the table toward her. “Have at it.”

  Kate eyed the food suspiciously and him even more so, but moments later found her greedily shoveling food into her mouth. She swayed from side-to-side, clearly intoxicated. Most likely she’d spent al
l of her money on booze instead of food. He pushed the ale to her as well. She gulped it.

  “That’s payment enough, I tink,” she said, her words coming out mispronounced, garbled.

  “Payment for what?”

  “Quick shag ’round the corner?” she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. “I don’t take nothing for free. I’m not fer charity.”

  Walter’s eyebrow rose in mock surprise. She was easier than he had imagined. “Shag would be nice.”

  “A quick one. I’ve got lots of paying men.”

  Walter shook his head, feigning acknowledgement. “Of course you do.”

  Unsteadily, she stood, and stumbled between tables and out the door. She glanced in both directions and led him to the lonely street. She was so drunk that she could barely stand without propping herself against solid objects, but she waved him on, and then reached to hike up her many skirts, exposing herself to his view.

  The high-pitched whinny of a horse in the distance spooked him. Images of a rage-fueled Elva flashed in his mind and he threw a look over his shoulder.

  She could materialize at any moment, he knew. She might be waiting just around the corner in her dreaded carriage of death. She could be flitting about on a stone ledge high above him, right now, waiting for the exact moment to fly down and take her vengeance.

  Walter set his black bag onto the street, slipping the long, silver knife into his sleeve. He froze for an instant when he thought he heard something moving in the shadows nearby. Kate stared alongside of him, out into the street, in an attempt to see what had caught his attention. He was in danger of hesitating, again.

  Just finish this and be done.

  Steeling himself against the unsettling fear of Elva’s impending attack, Walter lunged for her. In two sudden swipes of his flashing blade he slashed her face and throat.

  His gorge rose at the sight of her flayed flesh. The horror of it overcame him momentarily, and for the first time in his years, he didn’t think he could finish the task. His guts turned over at what must be done, at what butchery must be had by his hand.

  A cool demeanor came over him, as if someone had pulled a switch, turning off the revulsion, the sensations of disgust. Terror was an underlying element in all of his experiences. He was in danger at all times. Not even years of solid training in the ways of the hunter could eradicate that. Nor did it seek to, because sometimes fear was all that kept you alive.

  His blade arced high and plunged down in a gush of scarlet. He rammed the long blade deep into the meat of her neck, jarring her head as he drew the blade through with a quick metallic singing of the steel. Her throat slashed, he moved on to her abdomen.

  The clock was ticking. Walter paused for just a moment and looked through the street in all directions, seeking whatever monstrous form in which Elva might choose to appear this time. Looking for a hunched demonic shape, giant bat, drifting fog, or strange thin woman.

  Fog drifted along the nearby ground. Rain fell from the sky again, the same dirty black rain London had been washed with all summer long. The pelting sheets obscured his view of the dark distances along the alleys.

  Be done with it.

  With a furious scoop, he sent a handful of intestines flying over Kate’s shoulder. Her half-decapitated head lolled crazily on little more than a ribbon of flesh, eyes wide open, mouth agape so that it looked to be laughing as her body was split wide open. A stray intestine looped over the side of her body into a coil. Arm in mid-air, posed to strike again, his eyes fell on something so horrifying that he forgot all about Elva and how close she might be to this location.

  Something moved fluidly under the purplish tissue of Kate’s uterus. The organ stretched and strained, as if pushed with great force by something within. A single claw burst forth from the blood-drenched womb, sending bits of her womanhood splattering. The uterus moved, gurgling, mewing.

  His senses returning in a snap, Walter brought the knife down upon the drone with a crunch that hit the bone of her spine. Carving her womb from her body, he yanked it, severing muscle, tendon, and tissue, and shoved the bloody mess into his bag. He was sure that he took more than her uterus, wanted to make sure that the Ordine got plenty of her to examine. Without much reason behind his frenzy, he removed her left kidney and shoved that into his bag as well. If the Ordine wanted bits and pieces of the drone, then bits and pieces is what they’d get.

  His leather bag shook and stretched as if it were full of an angry cat. The vile spawn fought desperately to escape. Walter crossed himself with shaking hands, and prayed as he gathered the gruesome bag and ran through the alleys toward home.

  He chose a winding, obstacle-filled path in the event that Elva was watching; or tracking him, waiting for something: an opportunity, maybe. For that matter, Elva could be right behind him and he wouldn’t know it until too late. You could never second guess these creatures of the night. They can be crafty and deadlier than you at all times. They can’t live so many years off human blood and dreams of undeath and still see things with the same values as the living. He would break out the flowers of garlic and sleep with the pungent necklaces tonight, while praying doubly hard that the Lord would watch and keep his soul.

  Walter wanted to lose his scent in the midst of the masses of humanity that crushed Whitechapel. He wanted to hide among the horses, the food odors, the everyday smells that haunted all of London. Weaving from alley to alley, street to street, he worked his way out of the destitute areas of the city, and into the back alleys of his own territories—careful to remain in the shadows, lest someone recognize him.

  Finally, he stumbled through the servant door leading to his own house, and forged up the stairs, to the sanctuary of his study. He slammed the black bag onto his desk and stepped backward. Waiting.

  The bag no longer moved or cried out. No sound uttered forth. Whatever the abomination was that he had wrenched from that poor dollymop’s body, it now ceased to move.

  Walter grabbed the whisky bottle on the mantle and fell into his desk chair. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, and swilled the amber liquid in two great gulps. The fire of the alcohol raced down his throat, hitting his guts in flame. He needed the shock of it to drive his wits back into his head. He needed the drunk of it to take the edge off enough to keep him sane tonight.

  Upon further observation, the bag remained motionless.

  Walter sprung from his chair, bottle in hand, and jerked the heavy drapes closed. His eyes scanned the contents of the room. In the corner of the room, under a pile of blankets, was a wood chest. He went to it and flung the lid back, dumping the contents, mostly books, letters and scattered mementos, onto the floor. Then he half shoved, half tossed, the bloody, muck-coated black bag into the chest and crashed the lid shut. He secured the latch and slammed an iron urn on top of it for good measure.

  Then he collapsed onto the floor before the fire. His breath came in ragged gasps and he coughed once, deeply. For quite some time, his heart crashed against his ribs. All the time, his ears were pricked, listening for the sound of Elva at the windows.

  He lay there like that for what seemed like an eternity; watching the big hands of the clock above the mantle tick slowly on. The heat of the fire dried his clothes. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor. Walter didn’t bother looking.

  “What the devil are you doing lying on the floor, man?” George Sager asked.

  “Take the bag and leave.”

  “Bag? What bag?”

  Walter stretched out a shaking arm, his finger pointing toward the wood chest. “It’s in the chest.”

  “The chest? Whatever have you put in there?”

  “Another of Elva’s cursed beasts,” Walter croaked, his throat parched by a fear that no whisky could quench.

  Sager looked perplexed, but Walter remained prone on the floor, the heat from the fire drying his hair into a matted crown. “You have one?”

  “Take it and leave!”

  Shock and fear crossed over Sage
r’s face as he removed the iron urn, plunking it onto the wood floor. He bent, opened the chest, and scooped out the bag, gathering it to his breast like a man possessed. For a moment, he looked crazed, crazed with fear or loathing. As if filled with a sudden urgency, Sager turned, ran from the room, and pounded down the stairs. Walter heard him shout, “I’ll be back!”

  Walter knew that he would be. He always came back. Always came back with another assignment. Another kill. That was Sager’s job after all. Walter’s job was to slay the monsters. They were just cogs in the great machinery of the Ordine. Out there was another vamp to be hunted, to be caught. And, he, Walter Lusk, was the Catcher.

  Walter moved the cold bottle to his lips again, and let the whisky flow through his pipes, watching the fire dance.

  -12-

  Elva hovered in the darkness around the Catcher’s home. She had become one with the night. Her deathly essence floated as a yellow fog. The fog curled, stirred by a slight wind, never fully dispersing or se ttling in one area until it assumed another shape—a hunched, winged, long-fingered form of the Countess lurking just out of sight across the street from the Catcher’s row house, a two-story red brick edifice in the overcast night. Two lights on downstairs, and one window glowing with the light of a fire. Rain fell in a steady drizzle between her and the center of her attention.

  Her eyes flashed like stoked embers. She seethed at the indignity, the audacity of the Ordine to send a mere butcher to kill her precious children, her coven of drones. But, ultimately, she understood killing. She understood it, and respected it as a way of life. And so she respected the Catcher, if only for that. Eventually she knew that the Catcher would have a visitor from the Ordine, someone likely higher up, someone with a hand in international affairs, someone with connections worldwide. Better to remove a critical force of the organization and in the process send a thank-you sentiment for the deaths of her brood.