Page 4 of Vampire Savage

The moment the town car pulls around the corner and out of sight, I let go of the ceiling, twisting in the air to land on my feet with ease. Straightening my jacket with a tug and rolling my neck, I consider leaving for the night. My goal was complete when I realized Oberon wasn’t showing and I’d established my presence enough to unsettle Wren.

There’s something about her though that makes me excited to play a little bit more. Introducing myself tonight is sooner than my original plan, but what is near immortality without a little chaos?

I run, faster than any mortal or shifter, hitting speeds only the vampiric are capable of. Hell, I’m faster than most vampires even, with Ambrose’s blood in my veins thanks to my mother turning me centuries ago. I’d already hated him for turning her, even if it meant she lived through the flu and pneumonia racking her body.

And when I lay on her hearth, delirious with fever from the rot in my gut, burdened by hatred and guilt and anger, how could I have denied my mother when she asked me to allow her to change me? Her, the woman who has loved me at my darkest and cruelest.

Many would say the world would have been better off if my mother had let me die that night. Even I would agree. I’m not blind to the monster I am—the monster each Child of the Night is deep down. Before I became a monster in flesh, I’d seen the evil human men are capable of.

I’ll never be the weakest monster again.

Topside, called such by those in the Barrows because of its location to the north of the river, passes me in a blur of bright lights and a symphony of city life at night. Voices, cars, dogs barking, ambulances, shouting, glasses clinking; I could pick out the smallest detail if I wish, but I ignore it as inconsequential. All that matters is I make it to Kells before Wren.

I estimate it will take her driver fifteen minutes at the most to reach Kells, but with my unnatural speed, I slow to a stop in a dim service alley a block away. Eyes darting along the building walls, I mark the security cameras and ensure I appear to stroll out of their blind spots. It may be odd to see a man dressed like myself in an alley used primarily by service workers, but footage is rarely watched live and only ever reviewed in the event of an incident.

One quality I appreciate about Topside, or Newgate as most residents know it as, is how clean it is. Even this alley is hardly an offense to my nose. There is no refuse beyond what is stored correctly in the dumpsters, no puddles of piss and vomit or blood and bodies. It is a city that cares about its appearance, even its darkest parts.

Many of my brothers and sisters in the Nightshades either revel or are ambivalent to the blood and gore around us, accepting it as a product of our nature. Even Ambrose, our illustrious vampire king, will not hesitate to insert his entire arm into another creature’s gut to pull its brains out through its intestines.

Then again, there is always a time and place for sheer brutality and I will not hold back when Jurgis Demencius is in front of me. In fact, I will fucking revel as I become the creature of nightmares that humans believe vampires to be.

Wren Foster, his daughter, is my key to his destruction.

I believed I was the only one who’d miraculously survived the explosion and subsequent house fire all those centuries ago when I was still a human soldier. A group of trappers had been close enough to hear the explosion and come to offer aid. They’d pulled me out and tended my wounds, saying I was the only one they found. The only comfort I’d had was knowing General Jurgis Demencius, the man who’d led us to our deaths without hesitation, had died in the flames caused by my actions.

Five years ago, I learned he’d survived. Not only did he survive the explosion, but he has continued to live through the centuries without being turned into a vampire or giving his soul to a demon.

For five years, I’ve studied him as he grew Benoit Tech Industries under the name Oberon Benoit in Newgate. He’s been prolific through his centuries of life, and I still do not have the entire understanding of how he’s survived all this time. What I do know is that it has to do with the very relic he had my regiment searching for in 1652, the one he ordered us all slaughtered to protect before I sought to end us all.

Unfettered rage darkens my vision as I stride towards the front door of the pub—because a pub is what the place is in every sense of the word. I force the anger down, just as I have for the last five years, but it’s easier now. Now I have started down the path that will lead to his death, his lasting death.

Music and conversations flood my ears when I pull open the heavy oak door; a live three-man band is set up in the corner on a slightly raised platform. One taps out a tattoo on a hand drum, another dances their bow across the strings of a well-worn fiddle, and the final member strums the acoustic guitar while warbling into the microphone. It’s a Friday evening, so the pub is filled with people who are clearly regulars by the slouch of their shoulders and those who are more eager for a night of revelry.

The walls are red brick and covered with sports memorabilia along with photos of the pub throughout its history. Green leather booths line the walls, otherwise the floor is filled with four-tops, nearly all of which are currently occupied. There’s a small area in front of the stage for dancing, but beyond three drunk women, everyone sits at their table with drinks.

Inhaling, I filter through the scents of overly fried food, burnt burgers, hoppy beer, body sweat, and hormones. There is no trace of another supernatural, not even the sinus-irritating haze of ozone of charms meant to ward creatures like me away. Not that the wards and charms Topsiders purchase are strong enough to really deter someone like me, especially since I’d fed the night before. My concern isn’t for humans who are anti-supernatural, not when they pose as much of a threat as a newborn calf still covered in afterbirth.

Having the place free of any other supernaturals allows me to work more freely, though. I wouldn’t have to be concerned that anything that happened tonight would get back to my dear old grand-sire, Ambrose. As much as I am the collector, the spy master of sorts, for the Nightshades, I understand Ambrose does not trust me blindly.

The feeling is mutual and always has been.

I ease through the crowd, spotting Niamh Wilder—Wren’s best friend—sitting at a table in a row between the bar and booths lining the wall. It offers a view of the performers, but the bar offers some barrier to the music, making it easier to have conversations, it seems. Her friend’s eyes glide over the crowd, clearly looking for her friend, and when they pass me, they dart back, wider.

Good. Her friend notices me. But I don’t make any show of noticing her, moving towards a half-circle booth occupied by a handful of men who are already ruddy cheeked with a collection of empty pint glasses in front of them.

“Gentlemen.” I greet them with a curt nod and slide off my jacket before draping it over my arm. “Your evening here is over.”

Two of them stare at me as if I’m speaking a different language, another is frowning with confusion, and the one closest to me at the end turns redder as he glowers at me.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” he spits out, his breath rancid from cheap beer. I refrain from rolling my eyes and stare impassively. Clearly, he’s the supposed leader of the group, seeing how the others are looking to him for direction. The first two are beginning to understand the situation. “You can’t just show up here in your fancy clothes and expect us to leave.”

I tilt my head, amusement twisting my lips, and it only makes the lad bristle hotter. I clasp the man on the shoulder, digging my fingers in hard enough that he whimpers as I bring my face closer to his, never breaking eye contact.

“Be a good boy and run along to your next stop on your night of supposed debauchery,” I speak low but clearly. “Unless you really wish to fight, which I do not have the time or patience for this evening, in which case I will simply slit your throat the moment we step outside and certainly rid your mother of a boorish irritant.”

The young man’s blue eyes fill with shock, and he tries to break free of my grip, but I let my nails lengthen into sharp points and dig in deeper and smile at him.

“What the fuck are you?”

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