E.V.I.E.: 13 Slayers, 13 Missions

by Lexi C. Foss

  Solange began to reach a hand out to touch one of the flowers, still squeezed tightly shut, when she realized something was off. The little dog who lived here with his family hadn’t come running to greet her as he usually did. Solange paused, her eyes surveying the place. The candles were not glowing warmly through the windows from inside the home. She detected no sounds of life, no clatter of dishes, no murmuring of voices — even the sounds of the creatures who lived in the foothills surrounding this home were silent and still.

  Immediately she slipped into stealth-mode, falling back to shadows to move silently forward.

  Crispin moved silently through the small alleyways and footpaths of the antiquated little town. He was searching, waiting for anything to give him an alert that all was not as it should be. Several of the townspeople, tidying up their shops and closing up for the evening, had inclined their heads and smiled at him as he greeted them on his way past. They obviously had no idea of his nature. It was simply a matter of keeping his eyes cast down as he turned his head their way and called his greeting to be sure they couldn’t see the red glow of his eyes. He’d perfected the technique centuries ago. It was a habit he performed without thought now. How then, had the little slayer known immediately what he was?

  Crispin shook his head and pshawed at himself. Did it matter really? No, it did not. He looked down at his denim breeches, casual button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up neatly to just below his elbows and his very comfortable, very pristine, white running shoes. He’d decided to modernize his look after the slayer so readily identified him as vampire, and of his new wardrobe choices his shoes were his favorite. He wiggled his toes in them, smiling at the cushioned bed beneath his feet. Why he’d never worn anything but hard, leather boots before was a mystery to him.

  He cleared his head of his wanderings, needing a sharp mind for his mission this night — to keep this little hamlet safe and free from attack by Alastair. On he walked, making his way through the village, searching for any indication they were not as safe as they thought themselves to be.

  Solange followed the fence line down the side of the property, crouching low and keeping to the shadows. She didn’t want to just materialize in the middle of an attack, unsure of where the assailant may be. Instead, she calmly made her way toward the building, slinking past the windows and doors in an effort to see what, and whom exactly may be there. It was possible the family had just gone to bed early.

  She cocked her head, listening to a very faint voice. She could just make it out. “Mouse, come out, come out wherever you are! I shan’t hurt you. You are not like the others. You are my mouse!” the voice promised raspingly. He was here. Solange knew immediately the monster inside terrorizing the family who called this place home. She glanced through a window in the back of the home and on seeing nothing but blood and bodies, closed her eyes and materialized in the midst of it all. As she took form, her lips whispered words of ancient spells to keep herself safe and unaccosted, holding all evil at arm’s length until she gained her bearings.

  She looked around at the bodies, several still slumping where they’d been sitting before the deadly attack on their family. Two little boys, the father, and mother — all dead. The father obviously tried to defend his family, his body torn and battered most brutally of all. But there was one place empty except for the plate of half-eaten food. There was no body for that place.

  “Come, little Mouse. You know you long for me as I do you. Come out and let us be once again joined. I promise not to hurt you - much,” the voice called out again.

  Solange followed the sound of the voice through the back door just on the other side of the kitchen. She saw a building of some sort a short distance from the house near the back of the fenced in property. There, that was where the voice came from. She started stealthily in that direction, carefully progressing so that her prey wouldn’t hear, or feel her coming for him before she wanted him to.

  A scream rent the night air, and all stealth was forgotten as Solange rushed to the outbuilding, pausing only long enough to glance inside. Her blood ran cold when she saw the girl in Alastair's clutches, her hands pressed against his chest to try in vain to keep him away from her as his filthy, reeking body effortlessly pulled her closer to his leering, blood stained face and fangs.

  10

  Alastair's hands were gripping the young girl by her throat, his sharp claw-like nails digging into her flesh. There were bruises spreading on her skin from where she’d fought him, either in the house, or since he’d found her in the outbuilding. The girl could have been no more than fourteen or fifteen, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she fought the monster that had killed her family and now had her in his clutches.

  “Is that any way to greet your mate, Mouse? Of course, not. Stop your fighting and welcome me like a good little mate. I have searched for you. Killed for you. It is all for you, you know,” Alastair said, his voice obviously maniacal, as he pulled the girl closer and prepared to sink his fangs into her throat.

  “Let her go!” Solange ordered, calmly, yet loudly.

  Alastair’s head snapped up, his fixation on the girl in his hands momentarily broken. His hissed his displeasure, then opened his mouth wide snarling at Solange.

  Solange raised an eyebrow and regarded him. “Really? That’s all you’ve got. Let the girl go, Father. I’m a much more worthy opponent, don’t you think?”

  Alastair’s glare took on a look of confusion as he examined Solange from head to toe. He looked from the girl in his hands, to Solange, then back again. The girl in his hands had stopped fighting him and gone limp in his hands. He tossed her away from him disgustedly and took two steps toward Solange.

  Solange waited for him. Her father, Alastair, to notice her and drop the girl he held. If he didn’t let go of her soon, Solange would have to attack while he still held the girl, and she’d prefer not to for the sake of the girl. Finally he dropped her and moved toward Solange. Still though, it was apparent he didn’t know who she was.

  “Mouse? Have you finally come to find me? What a surprise this is. I did not think you strong enough,” he said condescendingly.

  “I’ve been tracking you for quite a long time. Trained for it,” Solange said, not dropping the defensive stance she’d been holding since materializing in the outbuilding.

  “Then you’ve seen all the carnage you’ve caused. This” he said, waving a hand around to encompass all he was surrounded by, “is all your fault. You should never have left me.”

  “I didn’t leave you. I’ve never met you. But you will regret that I have now,” she promised.

  Alastair threw his greasy head back and laughed.

  And that was the moment Solange chose to attack. She was on him before he finished laughing, a strike to the larynx, an elbow to the diaphragm. She could have struck to kill him, but instead wanted to punish him, to make him hurt.

  Alastair wheezed at her blows to his body and stepped back.

  But she was on him again. The heel of her hand was shoved up against his nose, breaking it on impact as he instinctively moved away from her.

  Alastair disappeared, then rematerialized behind her, grabbing her pony-tail in one hand, while sweeping his claws across her throat, trying to slice her open.

  Before he got the chance, Solange raised a hand and braced it against his wrist, keeping him from sinking his claws into her. Her other hand reached behind herself, gripping onto his grungy clothing, and using the weight he pressed on her from behind, threw him over her shoulder in a move she’d practiced with her Sensei since she was a child. She was enjoying the battle she’d waited so long for, and mistakenly underestimated her opponent.

  Alastair lay on the ground the breath knocked out of him, momentarily stunned.

  Solange lifted a foot and slammed it into his ribs, trying to incapacitate him so she could finish him off. Instead, he’d surprised her, grabbing her foot as she pulled it back, yanking it sideways, causing her to lose her balance a
nd fall beside him.

  Alastair reached out and backhanded her across the face as he moved to subdue her at the same time she moved to subdue him. A skirmish on the ground between the two ensued with no apparent winner. Finally, Solange disappeared and rematerialized just feet away.

  “I’ll kill you, bitch,” Alastair snarled, a hand pressed to his ribs.

  “You can try,” Solange taunted. “But, aren’t you glad to see me, Daddy?” she asked, her words dripping with sarcasm.

  Alastair stopped snarling, his eyes narrowed. He examined the female before him. She was his Mouse — had to be. He squinted even more. He’d thought he’d found his Mouse many times, but each time he’d been wrong, so maybe this wasn’t really her either. He inhaled deeply, but all he could smell was himself and the rotted blood and flesh stuck to and staining his clothing. “You are not my Mouse,” he said accusatorily on a whisper.

  “No. I’m not. And you are not a father. You are a nightmare,” Solange answered. “You murdered my mother. And now I’ll murder you,” she promised, blowing him a kiss and advancing on him.

  Alastair, not quite sane enough to put together the pieces, countered, advancing on the infuriating female.

  Together, the two of them snarled, screamed and shouted as they went to blows. They each landed blows so fast and furiously that the sounds were more like slaps than the deep, hard contacts that they were. And every three or four blows, Solange reached out, her hand wrapped around a vibrant, glowing, blue dagger of light, and sliced into Alastair’s flesh. Every time she did, he’d let loose an enraged bellow.

  Finally, she’d had enough and decided it was time to finish him off. She moved in, her magical blade held chest level, the hilt held firmly, yet not too firmly in her hand, the blade extended from the bottom of her closed fist as she prepared to gut him.

  Alastair smiled sinisterly as she moved toward him. He dematerialized and before she knew it, he was standing right behind her. He raised his arms, preparing to simply tear her pretty head from her shoulders.

  Solange expected his move, and smiled to herself as she readied her hand, preparing to plunge her shimmering blade into his belly and gut him before turning to face him and cutting out his heart.

  Then a male grabbed Alastair from behind, snatching him from Solange’s reach as he shouted his own battle cry. Alastair dematerialized, the male screamed his frustration as Alastair disappeared from his hands, and Solange stabbed the interfering male in the arm. It wasn't on accident, she meant to — out of frustration.

  The male screamed in pain, turning shocked eyes on her. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? What did you do? You interfering fuck! I almost had him! He’d have been dead, unable to hurt anyone else, if you hadn’t interfered!” She recognized the male, but was too angry to even try to figure out why he was here, so far from the streets of London where she’d last seen him.

  “Interfered? I saved you!” he insisted.

  “No, Crispy! All you did was allow my kill to get away. A kill I might add that has left a wake of torture and slaughter behind him!” Solange screamed at him.

  “He was going to tear your head off!” Crispin screamed. “And you stabbed me!”

  “Which is exactly what I wanted him to believe! He was about to be gutted! I was going to cut his heart out and you saved HIM! You interfere in my business again and I’ll do more than stab you, Crispy!” Solange shouted.

  “I… I thought you needed help! Alastair is extremely dangerous!” Crispin said, realizing maybe he’d misread the situation.

  “I know that! I’ve tracked him, I’ve studied him. I KNOW him! And now you’ve let him get away. Now he knows that I’m after him, and he knows what I’m capable of. Thanks for the help, Crispy!” Solange snarled. She stalked away from him to kneel beside the girl who still lay unconscious on the floor. There was a faint pulse. She gathered the girl in her arms and stood. The girl was only a young teen and not very heavy, though her brown hair and slender build were reminiscent of the type Alastair had been hunting.

  “I’ve stalked him, too! I’ve hunted him!” Crispin declared. “And my name is Crispin, not Crispy!”

  “Not like I have,” Solange answered.

  “You’d be surprised — none know him like I do,” Crispin said. Then he had a thought. If the slayer was so focused on Alastair, perhaps she’d let him help, together they’d have much more success than on their own. “I want to help, slayer,” Crispin said, watching her.

  “I work alone. I need no help,” she answered. “And Crispy is what you’ll be the next time you interfere in affairs that have nothing to do with you. Stay away from me!” Solange ordered.

  “Slayer…” he started, watching her while she held the girl and subtly flicked the fingertips of one hand to begin the wind swirling.

  “You want to help? Bury her family,” Solange interrupted, as she disappeared before his eyes.

  “It is my right to kill Alastair! And I saved you!” he shouted to an empty building.

  Hours later Crispin opened the door of the only church in the small village. He’d searched the entire village looking for the slayer. Finally, deciding she either had to be in the church, or she had to be gone. He stepped into the little church and smiled. There she sat.

  As he moved up the aisle, she didn’t move, she didn’t flinch. Yet he had no doubt she knew he was there. Crispin slid into the pew behind and slightly to the right of her. Still she gave no indication that he was there.

  He slipped from the pew onto his knees, making use of the kneeler just as she did. He knelt there, taking in the altar in all its glory and allowing his eyes to wander to the stained glass windows fitted in the openings of the small stone church. He knew if he didn’t speak first, she wouldn’t, so he started simply, unassumingly.

  “I buried the girl’s family. Near the back of their property, beneath an old Stone Pine.”

  The only indication she gave that she’d heard was to slightly nod her head a few times.

  He sat quietly for a few moments longer, then tried again. “I’ve left letters with money to commission markers for their graves. The appropriate people will find them when the village wakes.”

  Again, Solange nodded. But this time she answered in a quiet voice. “Thank you, Crispy.”

  Crispin smiled to himself and shook his head. He knew she knew what his name was, and insisted on calling him Crispy.

  “Did the girl survive?” he asked.

  Solange shrugged. “I’m not sure. I took her to a convent. They’ll heal her, and keep her safe. If she can be healed,” Solange answered. “Did you find a small dog?” she asked.

  “No, I didn’t see one,” he answered.

  When she said no more, but slid back into the pew from her knees, he realized she meant to be there a while rather than run from him, so he did the same. He sat back comfortably onto the pew.

  Finally he smiled to himself. “My arm hurts,” he said teasingly.

  Solange chuffed a quiet laugh. “It’s just a flesh wound,” she countered.

  “True. But it still hurts.”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered.

  “For stabbing me?” Crispin asked.

  “No. But for it hurting,” she answered.

  His brows pulled down over his eyes. “If you’re stabbed, how would it not hurt?” he asked.

  Solange shrugged, then lifted a hand, waggling her fingers in his direction over her shoulder, without turning around to look at him.

  Crispin’s arm tingled where the slight wound was. He raised his other hand to press to it. But it didn’t smart as he touched it. He prodded it a bit with his fingertips, then surprised, raised his eyes to the back of her head. “You healed it!” he exclaimed.

  “I caused it. The least I could do is repair it,” she answered.

  “Thank you,” Crispin said sincerely.

  “You’re welcome,” Solange answered.

  He
looked down at his beloved running shoes. Now dirty and stained. “Anything you can do about defaced favored running shoes?” he asked.

  “What?” Solange said, turning to look at Crispin.

  “I love these shoes. Now they are ruined,” he said, almost with a pout, holding one foot up slightly off the floor.

  Solange peeked over the top of the pew and down at his shoes. “Toss them in the washing machine. It might work.”

  “Where would I find one of those?” he asked.

  Solange looked up from his shoe to glance around the church. “Certainly not in this village,” she answered, turning back around to face the altar again.

  “You know, you have me at a disadvantage,” he said gently.

  “I have you at several disadvantages,” she replied cockily.

  Crispin shook his head, then deciding to avoid her taunt, continued with his intended conversation. “What I was implying is that you know my name. I do not know yours.”

  Solange nodded. “That is true,” she agreed.

  After a few minutes of silence, he gave in and asked. “Are you going to share it?” he asked incredulously.

  “Share what? I have nothing to share,” she answered, her smile sly as she continued to face forward.

  “Your name, slayer. What is your name?” he asked point blank.

  11

  It was the first thing you learned as a slayer — never identify yourself. Never give anyone a way to trace you. She turned and looked Crispin in the eye. She took the time to really observe him. To memorize his features — the kindness of his eyes, his lush yet strong lips, his high cheekbones, his straight Romanesque nose that featured a slight bump indicating it had once been broken, and his dark blonde hair and brows. Her eyes strayed to his strong, corded neck, his wide shoulders and rounded pectoral muscles of his chest. His hands rested in his lap and she allowed her eyes to wander to them, admiring his strong, masculine fingers and hands as they rested on thick, strong thighs. Her eyes raised to his.