by T. H. Hunter
Table of Contents
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Author’s Note
Works by T.H. Hunter
Scarlet Curse
T.H. Hunter
Book 1 in the Slayers and Vampires Series
Copyright © by T.H. Hunter
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.
First published 2017.
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Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
Author’s Note
Works by T.H. Hunter
1
How long he’d been a prisoner, he didn’t know.
The cell he lay in had no light at all. He’d lost track of time almost immediately after he’d been thrown in here. For all he knew, it could have been weeks or even months. The steel walls and the utter darkness were his only companions, except when the guards brought him food and water and the artificial light from the corridor shone in. He had grown to fear the rustling of keys, for sometimes there was no food, but instead men in white entered. They’d extracted blood or skin tissue from him. At first, he had resisted them violently. But they had drugged and beaten him until he had passed out.
So when the clanking of doors and footsteps heralded yet another visit, fear rushed through him. The door of his cell swung open. He was blinded by the sudden light and could only make out two large shadows in front of him.
“Vampire, come with us,” one of them said.
“Let me free,” he murmured weakly. “I told you before you’ve made a mistake. I’m not…”
“The Boss wants to see you upstairs,” the guard said, ignoring his protestations.
They pulled him out of the cell, his feet dragging behind him.
***
Colonel Bradshaw got up from his seat and began pacing the waiting room. He reached into his jacket pocket, fumbling for the small silver cross he carried around with him wherever he went. It had belonged to his father, and his father before him. A constant reminder of their holy mission, it had guided them before him, and it would guide him now through these dark times.
He took it out of his pocket with his gnarled fingers. He had often wondered how it must have been back in the old days. The misery of innocents, sucked dry and left for dead, to be found lifeless by their loved ones. Avenged by nobody, until brave men and women like his forbears had come together to put an end to the Vampiric menace. The Slayers’ League. He would do anything to preserve it. Even this.
The door opened and a pleasant young secretary asked him in.
“Mrs. Criswell will be ready for you now, Colonel Bradshaw.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly.
The wall behind the desk proudly boasted the corporate logo: Criswell Cosmetics, artfully intertwined in elegant black and white letters, with the city branch London underneath.
Mrs Criswell, in a smart business suit with matching colours, looked up at him with a broad smile. Beside her, leaning casually on the desk, was her son, simply referred to as Criswell Junior after the death of his father. Colonel Bradshaw had never liked Criswell Junior, never trusted his sly smile and the deceitful eyes that habitually darted from side to side.
“Bradshaw,” Mrs. Criswell said, beckoning him forward. “How very nice to see you. Such a long time. You know my son, of course?”
“I do indeed,” Colonel Bradshaw said as courteously as he could, giving a nod of the head that was returned immediately by a smirk that extended from ear to ear. That little snake hadn’t changed a bit.
“I hope my last payment arrived in time?”
“It did, Mrs. Criswell,” he said. “It means a lot to me and my organisation.”
“Excellent, just excellent! Always glad to help. Such an old and prestigious institution as yours deserves to live. After all,” she said, throwing back her black hair and showing off dazzlingly white teeth in a smile that didn’t extend to her ice-cold eyes, “how could any of us sleep at night if it wasn’t for your valiant service to humanity?”
“It is a duty and an honour,” Colonel Bradshaw said, unsure whether she was making fun of him or not.
“There is a slight problem, though, Colonel,” Criswell Junior said, mirroring his mother’s toothy smile, though his unnaturally large mouth made it appear more as a parody. His voice was raspy yet high-pitched, almost like a child’s whisper. “You see, we come from the world of business. The nobility of your cause alone cannot, I’m afraid, quite cover the bills, as it were.”
Colonel Bradshaw remained silent. This was perfectly true, of course, though it sounded a thousand times worse coming from Criswell Junior. The generous loan from Criswell Cosmetics had been his last desperate attempt to preserve the League.
“As a result,” Criswell Junior continued, “my mother and I have come up with a strategy we’d like you to consider. We do know how much you favour your independence, Colonel. I think we might have a solution that is mutually beneficial.”
“What do you mean?” Colonel Bradshaw said. He couldn’t help nor hide the suspicion in his voice.
“A demonstration, perhaps, mother?” Junior said, his face gleeful. “I’ve had him brought up by Harper.”
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Criswell said. “Why don’t you bring in our… special guest? I think that might help to clear up some of the queries Bradshaw might have.”
Criswell Junior gave a fake, theatrical bow, disappearing through a door at the far end of the room.
“He really is a charming boy, don’t you think? He always was, from the day he was born,” she said. “I don’t know what his father had against him. So clever. Cigarette?”
“No, thank you,” Colonel Bradshaw said.
“Well, why don’t you sit down? I think it might be better,” Mrs. Criswell said.
“I’d rather stand,” he said stiffly.
“My, my, you are stubborn, aren’t you Bradshaw? I like it. Ah, here they are.”
The door opened. Criswell Junior entered, followed by two grim-looking men, dragging behind them a figure whose head was hanging limply forward. They lifted him onto a chair close to the desk. Colonel Bradshaw wasn’t squeamish, he had seen action several times, but it was evident from the bruises that this man had been seriously brutalised, even tortured. His thick long hair was plastered with clotted blood and his arms bore severe bruises.
“You are looking at the solution to all of our problems,” said Mrs. Criswell, folding her arms in triumph.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Colonel Bradshaw.
“Bring in the table, Harpe
r,” Mrs. Criswell said.
One of the guards immediately left the room.
But Colonel Bradshaw couldn’t keep his eyes off of the figure sitting next to him.
“What did you do to him?” he asked grimly.
“We had to soften it up a bit, Colonel,” Criswell Junior’s soft voice floated through the room. “Vampires are dangerous, you know.”
This was the last straw. He wouldn’t play games with this young buffoon any longer.
“What are you talking about? This isn’t a vampire.”
“Oh, but I assure you, it is,” Criswell Junior said, his perpetual smirk widening even further.
“I’ve seen actual vampires dozens of time, boy. More than you ever will. None of them bled like this. Their blood doesn’t clot,” he said. “He’s missing all the other signs as well. There’s no …”
“Colonel,” Criswell Junior said softly, lifting his hand to interrupt him, “please, there is no need to get excited. I should have been more precise. You see, this is no ordinary vampire. It is – what shall we say – a new variety? It’s neither born nor bitten.”
The colour drained from Colonel Bradshaw’s face.
“What? That isn’t possible.”
“But I assure you it is, Colonel. From what we know so far, this specimen has contracted Vampirism later in life. Like a disease.”
“Nonsense,” the Colonel said, “never heard anything like it. You must be mistaken.”
At this point, Mrs. Criswell rose from her chair. Her eyes glittered dangerously from behind the desk. Any semblance of a smile had vanished completely from her face.
“We do not make mistakes, Bradshaw. I did not build Criswell Cosmetics on that basis. We consider everything, do you hear me? Everything.”
She got up and slowly walked around her desk.
“You see, it is you who are mistaken. You have become sloppy. Negligent. Old,” Mrs. Criswell said, almost spitting the last word in disgust. “And you’ve made peace with the scourge of humanity that you vowed to eradicate.”
“I ended a war that cost thousands of lives,” he said, his voice rising.
“You have ended nothing, Bradshaw,” Mrs. Criswell said. “Your stupid little truce has given the vampires nothing but breathing room. While you’ve swallowed their little fairy tales about change and reform, they’ve been rebuilding – right under your nose.”
At that moment, Harper returned, pushing what looked like a hospital operating table. Large metal restraints dangled at either side of it.
“Fixate him,” Mrs. Criswell ordered.
For a flicker of a second, Colonel Bradshaw thought she had meant him but Harper pushed roughly past him to get to the prisoner. They lifted him onto the bed, clamping him into place.
“Take a look for yourself, Bradshaw,” Mrs. Criswell said. “You might learn something.”
Her son sniggered in the background.
She approached the table, producing a syringe from one its drawers at the side. She rammed it into the vampire’s arm. Colonel Bradshaw couldn’t help himself. He had to make sure.
Approaching the table, he saw Mrs. Criswell draw blood. Or whatever it was, for it certainly didn’t look like regular blood. Its colour was bright red, a luminescent scarlet even. After the syringe was full, Mrs. Criswell turned to him.
“This, Bradshaw, is a very special kind. Our tests from the lab show that it has remarkable qualities.”
She clicked her fingers at Harper, who quickly produced a small scalpel from the same table compartment and took the syringe full of blood in return. The figure on the table, though heavily drugged, began to stir and moan nervously.
“But that is not all,” Mrs. Criswell continued, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Our scientists think that we can reverse the aging process by extracting the blood vessels.”
“You want to kill him for a beauty product? You’re mad. Barking mad.”
“Am I, Bradshaw? Just think. All those millions of people out there desperate to buy our little crèmes and lotions, spending billions each year fighting a process they know they can’t possibly stop. This is greater, much greater than that. It is the Holy Grail of the industry. Eternal youth. Immortality.”
“And you need to kill him to do it,” said Colonel Bradshaw, tight-lipped and scowling.
“Now, now, Bradshaw, we mustn’t be sensitive about these things. “In Service of all Humankind” – isn’t that the motto of your organisation? I’m giving the people what they want – if they can afford it, of course.”
She laughed, and for the first time there was real enjoyment in her eyes.
“This is murder,” said Colonel Bradshaw. “I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“Oh, but you will, Bradshaw. Remember who has been funding your organisation. I own you. And you will do as I say. Otherwise, I’ll have to withdraw funding immediately. The League will die, a hundred and fifty-year legacy wiped out because of your weakness, Bradshaw.”
She moved over to her desk and produced a single piece of paper.
“This is a list of names with all the people we know to have the giveaway symptoms. Hospital staff are quite forthcoming with their patient records – in return for a little financial compensation, of course. You will assist us in capturing them one by one.”
Colonel Bradshaw took the paper. There were only three names on it. They knew nothing of their condition, nothing of their fate. That they would be captured within hours, and dead within days.
The first name on the list was Rebecca Flynn.
.
2
“Rebecca, are you there?”
It was my grandfather calling from downstairs. I loved him very much, but he just didn’t know when I wanted to be alone. Especially when I was in my room reading.
“What is it grandpa?” I said loudly.
“Rebecca?”
Poor old grandpa, deaf as a doornail. I’d better see what was the matter. Last time I didn’t he had somehow dropped his false teeth into the soup. Pretty disgusting, though we both had a good laugh about it over freshly ordered pizzas. That reminded me, I still had to make dinner.
I opened the door and walked over to the stairs. He was standing in the hallway, looking like a lost – admittedly white-haired – puppy. How could I not take care of him?
“Ah, there you are, Rebecca. Sorry to bother you, but I just can’t seem to find my slippers. I knew I had them when I was sitting down, but…”
“I’ll have a look, grandpa. Are you hungry yet?” I asked, coming down the stairs.
“Please, Rebecca, you do so much already around the house. I really don’t know what I would have done without you after Margaret died.”
His eyes watered slightly, as they always did when he mentioned my grandmother. The loss of her had hit us extremely hard.
I had grown up with my grandparents, they were my parents. My father had died from babesiosis, a rare but deadly blood infection, when I was still a baby, so I couldn’t really remember much about him. My mother had been devastated by the loss, my grandparents had told me. She just couldn’t cope, and so they brought me up as their own child, while my mother drifted from place to place.
It was strange but I never really felt that deep connection you should have with your mother. I wanted to, desperately, all my life. But every time she came to visit, it was so fake. She tried. And so did I. We went on short trips or visits to the zoo. But I think neither of us could ever forget that she had abandoned me.
Eventually, she drifted away completely. A postcard in the mail told us that she had moved to the United States, though I don’t know whether that was true or not. She told a lot of fibs, my mother.
My grandparents had to pick up the pieces for her. But I could never have wished for anything better. They had loved and cared for me. They had provided me with a home and a family. I was grateful and very fierce about repaying that debt. And so when the time came, after my grandmother’s death, when friends
and relatives asked me why I just didn’t put my grandpa in an old people’s home, I didn’t. It would have been a betrayal. And I wasn’t like my mother.
***
My grandfather loved meatballs, or ‘keftedes’ as he insisted on calling them. That’s what they say in Greece, and he had lived there for some time when he was young. They were already sizzling in the pan when he came into the kitchen. He was in charge of making the salad.
“I almost forgot, Rebecca, that young man called. Now what’s his name again, I keep forgetting.”
“Peter?” I asked, dully poking one of the meatballs.
“Yes, that’s right. Peter. Nice boy, good manners. Will you be going out together?”
“Well, he wants to.”
That sounded a bit mean, but I really wasn't in to him. And he somehow didn’t get the message.
“But he seems like such a steady young man.”
“That’s the problem, grandpa. He’s boring.”
“You’ll want to settle down sometime, don’t you? You’ll need someone dependable, reliable.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I wish there was someone I really felt something for. Peter is ”
“You can’t have it all, Rebecca. But perhaps it’s just as well. Good things come to those who wait, you know.”
He chuckled affectionately. He knew that these empty old wisdoms drove me up the walls.
“I’ve been waiting long enough, grandpa, I know how boys are,” I said, intentionally taking the bait. “All of them.”
“A comprehensive study, excellent. What is your conclusion?” he asked conversationally as he was chopping up some tomatoes.
“Either too nice like Peter. Or...”
“Yes?”
I flushed scarlet and quickly hastened to put more oil into the pan, which was totally unnecessary. He looked at me curiously, but thankfully didn’t ask any more questions.
All summer, I had tried to push away the thought of Ryan and the humiliating disaster at the prom. Or the school ball, as my grandfather preferred to call it. Old school all the way.
