by Lexi C. Foss
She had those eyes worked into her tattoo to remind herself to always remember who she was, where she came from, and the mission at the heart of her very existence. But of late, she’d come to realize that they also reminded her of the fact that she needed to take the time to see. To make sure that she didn’t eliminate any who were like her — just trying to make it one more day. Those who were not a threat to any who didn’t threaten them. Like Crispy. She smiled.
“That’s a pleasant surprise,” Gillian said.
Solange looked up at her handler. “What?” she asked.
“That smile. I’m not sure I’ve seen one since the day you walked in here wanting intel on Alastair.”
“Oh. Well, believe it or not, no matter how I resist, they do sometimes come upon me.”
“The smiles?” Gillian asked grinning.
“Yes, damn stubborn things, just continue to plague me when I least expect it.”
Gillian, misreading the smile as a sign that Solange was relaxing a little, becoming more at home in her new role, suggested she take a week two to visit with family. “You should take some time. Visit with your grandmother. You’re twenty-one now, go out, blow off some steam, you’re in the right city for some exciting nightlife. But at the very least, rest up before you’re off on your next hunt.”
Solange shook her head. “No. I’m good. Just tell me where I’m off to next.”
“You should take a little time off, make sure you don’t get burned out,” Gillian suggested again.
“I’m fine. I have vengeance to deliver. What have you heard? Where am I going next?”
Gillian sat back in her chair regarding Solange. Finally she decided to tell her the truth. “We don’t know. We haven’t heard anything since you came so close to him in London. I can send you elsewhere, and you’ll be successful no doubt. But these missions won’t be Alastair. At least not until we pick up his trail again.”
“Okay. Where am I going?” Solange asked.
“You’re sure?” Gillian asked.
“Completely,” Solange answered firmly.
Gillian shrugged as if to say, ‘okay then.’ “Italy. Seems several tourists have disappeared over the last month. Interestingly enough, they were all on a tour of the catacombs. Three of them, different days, different tours, but never seen again — alive at least. One of the bodies was found among the ancient dead there. No blood. None at all. Tiny puncture marks on her neck and wrist.”
“I’m in,” Solange said.
“I’ll book you on the next flight. I’ll text you the details.”
“Good deal,” Solange said, getting to her feet.
“Solange, this obituary… I’m sorry that this case is so personal. It had to be a shock coming across this. But it is one of the main reasons we recruited you.”
Solange nodded, glancing down at the familiar photo in the old newspaper. Her heart hurt as she looked down at the photo of her mother, published just above her obituary in the newspaper dated twenty-one years before, the newspaper itself crumpled and smeared with bloody fingerprints.
“It means that he is at least aware of the female he is constantly trying to replace,” Gillian said.
“I know,” Solange answered.
“And it also means that he’s aware of you. You’re listed in this obituary… ‘infant daughter’, it reads.”
Solange nodded.
“Just be careful. He’s missing. He’s gone underground. And he knows you’re out there. Somewhere in his twisted mind, he may decide you belong with him. Keep your guard up.”
“I always do, Gillian. I’ll be waiting for those details,” Solange said quietly.
“Here,” Gillian said, holding the newspaper out for Solange to take. “I’m supposed to catalogue this and keep it in our files. But I think this particular piece belongs to you.”
Solange reached out taking the newspaper from Gillian. She looked down at it, then she offered Gillian a small smile. “Thank you,” she said softly before turning and moving toward the front door on her way out of the office.
Gillian’s voice had her pausing. “I worry about you, Solange. You’re alone all the time. You should make some friends.”
Solange turned at the sound of Gillian’s voice, and she watched Gillian’s face as she spoke. Gillian was sincerely concerned for her. She debated opening up about her plans a little later this evening. She’d not told anyone, she never did. Her life had always been and still was, a mystery to any who knew her — need to know basis only.
“Does it bother you that much, that I care what happens to you?” Gillian asked.
Solange shrugged slightly. “I’m not used to it.”
“Makes you wonder what I want from you?” Gillian asked, smirking.
Solange met Gillian’s eyes and smirked right back at her.
“Nothing. That’s exactly what I want from you. Other than your friendship.”
Solange stood silently for a moment before deciding to trust Gillian with just a touch of information. “I’m meeting Rozlynn later for a drink,” she confessed.
“Rozlynn?” Gillian asked, surprised. Then she nodded. “Makes sense. She’s a lot like you. Neither of you trusts easily and you prefer being alone to any company at all. Maybe you’ll find some common ground to bond over.”
Solange offered a slight smile. “Maybe.”
She opened the door and let herself out of the office, feeling surprisingly good that she trusted Gillian enough to tell her she was meeting Rozlynn later.
She heard the street car approaching and hurried to catch it before it left the stop just down from Gillian’s office. She made it in plenty of time and stood there waiting, her face up to the sky, taking in the sunshine many of her lineage couldn’t tolerate without sudden death. They’d end up crispy.
And crispy had her thinking about Crispin. He’d seemed entertained by her, not in the least intimidated by her threats. He’d obviously meant her no threat. He could have launched an attack at any time, yet had made no effort.
Crispy, she thought again. He’d not seemed to care for her nickname for him, and she couldn’t help thinking of him shouting affirmation of his name to the empty room as he burst back inside it. She smiled, thinking of the male again, for the umpteenth time since leaving him standing completely confused in the basement flat in London. He was a handsome male — blonde hair, tanned skin, which indicated he must have been tanned at the time he was turned. He couldn’t possibly have been a vampire at birth, or a tan would be impossible. He was well built, well enough to indicate hard work had given him a strong physique. And he’d seemed lonely. Something in his demeanor, and in his eyes, his red eyes, gave her the impression he was very alone.
The streetcar approached on its rails, the bell ringing to announce its arrival. Solange stepped forward, waiting for her turn to board, and banished thoughts of the male that had held her curiosity for almost two weeks now. Or she tried to. She sat in her favorite seat at the back of the street car, her hair blowing in the warm, humid breeze kicked up by the movement of the car, the oak trees standing as stately markers of a time gone long ago, and watched a couple sitting a few seats up from her. The man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and her hand was lifted, her fingers twined with his where it dangled from her left shoulder. She looked up into his face as he pointed out and explained all the sights they were seeing as they went by them. He looked down into her face and kissed her lips gently. “I love you,” he said, meant for her ears only. “I love you more,” the woman answered, smiling up at the man.
Solange looked away. Such things weren’t part of her life. Would likely never be. There was no point in fantasizing about it, or longing for it just because she happened to see it on the streetcar. There was no place in her life for a lover, a man of any type, much less a husband. She stared out of the window, watching the familiar shops go by, and didn’t even realize her mind had started to play a mini-movie just for her. In it, she sat with Crispin and he h
ad his arm around her shoulders, holding her near. It was Crispin who whispered, ‘I love you,’ and kissed her lips.
The bell rang five times, the driver’s way of letting his passengers know they were approaching a stop.
Solange broke her reverie and stood as they approached St. Charles Avenue. She made her way to the front of the streetcar and thanked the driver, then got off the car and didn’t even look back as she walked away. Her mind had already moved on to other things. She had to pack. Her instructions should arrive shortly.
9
Nine Days Later
It was before dawn when Solange sat in the front pew of a small church in the village of Ricetto di Candel and listened to the bell in the small steeple calling to its parishioners, letting them know it was time to start a new day. She allowed her eyes to wander discreetly over the altar and the old statues representing the saints and the blessed mother. She’d been here for a little less than a week and each day both began and ended the same as the one before it — nothing happened. Ever. But, she’d done her homework. She’d been over and over each of Alastair’s attacks, and she believed she’d discovered a pattern. East — he moved always east. And when he did, he chose towns that reminded him of a time long gone. This town was practically medieval in appearance, and in function for that matter. Unless she’d miscalculated, and she rarely did, it was only a matter of time until he struck here, or somewhere near here. And she was ready. She’d get him this time.
Tired from routinely patrolling the surrounding countryside night after night, she stood slowly from the old, wooden kneeler. She cast one more glance at the image of Jesus, held in his mother’s arms, where it sat illuminated behind the altar. She wasn’t one for religion, but she did have her own complicated faith. She crossed herself and muttered a quiet prayer to whatever deity may hear her. She made her way from the church and walked down the quiet streets that were just beginning to come to life with the first rays of the morning’s sun. She greeted a few shopkeepers that she’d become familiar with and bought herself a soft, fresh roll dripping with butter and honey for breakfast, or in her case dinner. She greeted all she came across with smiles and nods until she arrived at the small bed and breakfast she’d been staying in, and finally, tucked herself in for some rest. She could only rest in the daytime. The nighttime was for hunting.
Alastair loomed over the long dead girl staring sightlessly up at him. He cocked his head first one direction, then another, twitching his nose at the heavy scent of death filling the small, dingy space. “Wake up, Mouse,” he whispered, as though waking a child.
Alastair snarled, seizing the girl’s corpse and shaking her. “I said to wake!” he demanded.
When the girl’s head lolled about on her shoulders, his eyes squinted, his lips pursed. “You are not Mouse! You are but an impostor! Worthless!” he spat, tossing the corpse away from him. He wiped his hopelessly dirty and stained hands on his filthy pants and wondered what to do next. Far in the distance he could hear the bell of a church as it reminded all within earshot that it was time to start the day and would soon be time for worship.
Alastair laughed sinisterly. “Perhaps I’ll worship with them. Oh! Mayhap my Mouse is there, as well!” He was still laughing, his face a twisted threat in itself, as he faded from view, following the sound of the church bells as it called to the faithful.
The day’s heat was permeating everything in existence as Crispin moved through the eerily silent, natural-stone home. He held a handkerchief to his nose as he explored first one room, then another, sure he’d finally found Alastair. He eyed the blankets covering the windows and nodded to himself. No one, other than a vampire, would have purposely thrown heavy blankets over the windows this time of year. Someone had been intentionally blocking the sun, despite the lack of breeze that blocking the windows caused.
He inhaled again, as lightly as possible, through the perfumed handkerchief he kept pressed to his nose. It had to have been Alastair. He opened another door and winced. There was what appeared to have been an adult male, and his sons — both of them — dead and rotting. The father had been torn apart, literally. The sons simply drained to the point of death and dropped where they’d been. The bloating of the bodies, the insects feeding and replicating on the bodies, the stench… it was more than any living being should have to be faced with. Quickly, Crispin pulled the door closed and stood in the hallway, his hand braced against the wall, wondering how in hell Alastair had lost all of his humanity. Even after all the time Crispin had wandered the world, looking for anything to help him feel rooted, he’d never, ever considered so viciously slaughtering anyone, much less an entire family.
Family… that had Crispin realizing he’d not yet found the mother. “I’d bet she’s tall with brown hair and dark eyes,” he said to no one but himself. He refolded his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose once more. He’d already explored each bedroom and found only the father and his sons. He’d not yet checked the kitchen, so he steeled himself, and headed there next.
Crispin could hear the flies buzzing, and smell the decay before he entered the kitchen. He stopped short at the sight that greeted him. Splayed out on the dinner table lay the mother. She’d been raped, brutally, and both her hands lay at an odd angle. Crispin took a few steps to get a better look.
The woman’s wrists had been ripped so savagely open, that her hands practically dangled from the ligaments beneath what was left of her skin. The bones had snapped with Alastair's assault on them in what must have been a vicious effort to get at her blood while he raped her. Crispin stepped forward, and though no one in the family was left alive to see the woman, he pulled her skirt down to hide her modesty. No one deserved to die like this.
He looked around the kitchen and took note of the blood sprayed on the walls — yet more evidence of the violence of Alastair's attack. There was no reason for it. The vampire needed to be killed. He needed to be stopped. “I will stop him,” he whispered to the dead woman. “I give you my word.”
A slight scratching and squeaking caught his attention as he stood paying his respects to the woman. Crispin turned his head to better catch the sound. He stepped around the woman and opened a narrow door. Just inside the door were a set of steps going down toward what appeared to be a basement. Sure that he’d found Alastair, he started down the steps to the basement.
Before he made it down the dozen or so steps leading to a root cellar, he knew Alastair wasn’t there. The smell of death was heavy here as well. As he approached, rats scurried away, squeaking their irritation at being interrupted. Then he saw the source of the stench. A girl, perhaps still in her teens, dark haired, tall and slender — just like all the rest he’d seen before this one. She’d been thrown against a wall and left to rot, but it was obvious that she’d not been dead as long as the rest. Decay had just begun to set in.
Crispin forced himself to take a deep breath and hold it. Then he gathered the girl in his arms and brought her up the steps. He placed her on the floor of the kitchen, then lifted the mother from the table and laid her beside her daughter. Hurriedly, he left the kitchen, then the house. Stepping outside into the glowing darkness just before dawn to retch until he finally got himself under control. Then he gathered up all the kindling he could find and took it by the armloads back inside. He lit one of the candles sitting on the window sill in the living room, and built a pile of kindling around it. As it began to roar, he once again left the home.
Standing outside, beneath an old tree, he watched as the house burned. The contents of the home, the roof and all that could possibly burn, along with the bodies of the family that once called it home, being erased, and hopefully getting some peace. The stone walls that sheltered them would forever be scorched black from the flames and smoke, a testament to the darkness that had stolen their lives. “I’ll find him,” he promised the spirits of the family.
It was late afternoon when Solange finally emerged from the boarding house. She’d slept most of the
day, albeit restlessly. Now, it was time for her to start her hunt. Hunting was what she did best. The only problem was that sometimes her prey hunted her back.
By the time Solange had patiently walked through each of the small village’s alleys and walkways, paying particular attention to each home and its state of existence, the shadows of the evening had begun to fall. There was no indication that any vampire was afoot, much less Alastair. There were no heavy hangings in the windows to shield the occupants from the sun. There were no frightened or weeping town folk to indicate that an unexpected death or tragedy had taken place. There was nothing but quiet and life as was expected here in this small village.
Having checked the last home considered to be within the village, Solange set her feet on the path leading into the foothills surrounding the village. There were a few homes and families tucked away here on farms and small tracts of land, that while not actually within the village, still depended on it and participated in its bartered commerce almost daily. As she walked, she lifted her face into the night breeze and smiled at the scents and sounds of the surrounding flora and fauna of the region.
It was beautiful here. If not for her love of her native New Orleans, she may consider transplanting herself to this little village permanently one day. As she walked, her ears were piqued for any unusual sound, her eyes for any sudden unnatural movement. But none assaulted her senses.
Eventually, she came across a large iron gate. At first glance, the gate was somewhat overgrown with vines and flowers, but, as she’d seen the first few times she’d visited it, they were carefully planted moonflower vines and the flowers would bloom in the bright moonlight. The grasses were a little high around the gate and fence, but, that was normal unless one had a goat to keep the fence lines clean and neat.
