by J. F. Lewis
I crossed the street at a trot and unlocked the front door of the club. She was probably getting things ready for our grand reopening. We could open back up tomorrow, I thought.
Serves me right for being optimistic.
The hair on the back on my neck stood up. Cold white light from the street illuminated Marilyn, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Blood trickled down her arms and legs where piano wire had cut into her wrinkled flesh. A large band of duct tape covered her mouth. It was frayed along the bottom, tucked under and stuck to itself on the upper right corner. All the little details.
Her eyes screamed at me to run, but I didn’t. I’m stupid like that. I never know when to run or when to leave someone behind. That I do, on occasion, manage to do one or the other just goes to prove the age-old adage: “The sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days.”
Stuck to her chest was a Post-It note with the words: Happy Birthday, you stupid fuck! It was signed Hugs and kisses—Roger. My vampire speed kicked in and I think I might have made it if Roger hadn’t been the one who’d set the trap for me. He’d known me too well.
My claws raked through the piano wire, severing it on both sides simultaneously. I clutched Marilyn close, the smell of stale cigarettes and old age filling my nostrils. The intro music from the old Superman radio show flashed through my head. I heard an electronic whine that didn’t sound like the alarm system. I rolled away from it, hoping to shield Marilyn from the blast. More than one bomb went off.
I’d never moved with such urgent speed before. We shot past the first explosion as it happened, outrunning it like in the movies, dodging over the runway and into the dressing room. The next explosion went off in there, my every move anticipated, creating a circle of fire, shaped charges designed to hit me from all angles. It wasn’t normal fire, either; the way it burned and pierced was a sensation I associate only with crucifixes and holy water.
He’d paid someone to bless the damn explosives. Even so, I lasted longer than Marilyn, watched her burn away. The only thing that eased the pain was knowing that I got Roger first. He was a Master, easy to kill. I’m not.
We Vlads keep coming back unless you find that one special way that will take us out forever. It didn’t feel like Roger’s method was it for me, but it felt damn close. My body was completely gone; not even a speck of ash remained. I’d been melted before, but there, in the goop, I’d still had a body, just an icky liquid one. Now, I was totally disconnected, a floating ghost.
I hate ghosts.
I hovered over the burning ruins of the Demon Heart, pleasantly surprised to see that the explosion hadn’t harmed the Pollux Theater across the street, waiting for my body to re-form and wondering how long it would take. And waiting. And waiting. You know, when I get my self back together, I’m going to find the guy who thought up blessed C-4 and kick his ass.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
