I hide in shadows, sweat dampening my clothes as I nervously destroy the cuticles on my fingernails in anticipation. Today, on el Dia de Muertos, the ancient celebration of the Day of the Dead, I worry that I will soon be numbered among them.
Earlier, I succeeded in tracking him to his new abode. I had come across his trail of destruction on the Internet, of all places. Reports from a Mexican city near Juarez told of an unusual number of missing among the homeless and prostitutes, fitting his standard modus operandi. As I had only recently lost his trail near the border in New Mexico, it seemed likely that he had continued further south.
In his dotage, he had become sloppy, demasiado confidente, and he appeared not to observe me as I followed him from his latest human slaughter to his current shelter. An untrained eye would not have been able to distinguish him from the surrounding environment as he traveled, for he had dispersed his essence into little more than a small vapor. My eyes, however, had been schooled by many previous bloody encounters with him over the years, and were not so easily confused. The billowing form moved from a rat-infested alley on the outskirts of the city to a more rural hacienda, secluded and encircled by well-stocked animal pens. Centuries of existence had taught him well, to maintain an alternative supply of food in times of scarcity. A small, polluted stream meandered on by the livestock, supplying a cheap, readily-accessible waste disposal service. He slipped from my sight under the sill of a low stained glass window, undoubtedly heading to the basement.
I bide my time in a copse of nearby ficus trees, waiting for the night to end. A lone lackey, a male bug eater, tends the animals. Imbued with a small fragment of his master's eldritch essence, the bug eater has begun a slow path to conversion. Though still essentially human, he will have strength, stamina, and reflexes beyond human. He will also have begun to acquire his master's needs. Not yet able to subsist solely on sangre, on human blood, he will satisfy his cravings with smaller lives, spiders and flies and beetles.
As dawn crests on the eastern horizon, poking meekly over a lingering cloudbank, I leave the trees. The bug eater is distracted, digging with his fingers into the soil of a small embankment, retrieving thick blood worms which he inhales with vigor. I remain undetected as I scuttle up behind him, crickets creating enough ambient noise that his senses do not register my presence until it is too late. I slip my left arm around his throat, pivoting at the elbow, using my bicep and forearm to cut off the arterial supply of blood to his head. My right arm wraps around the back of his skull. I join the two arms and squeeze for extra pressure. The bug eater is not amused. He rocks back, lifting me into the air and spitting out the worms. He frantically tries to gain leverage to throw me off, but fails. After a short time, he collapses in a smelly heap beneath me.
Before he can wake, I plant a booted sole into his throat. Grabbing his left arm, I pull, snapping the neck. There will be no resurrection for this one. I dust myself off and make for the hacienda, careful to avoid the muddle of half-eaten worms.
The front door, thick and heavily lacquered, yields unlocked to my sweaty hands. If I am correct no more bug-eaters will be assigned to guard the house. My opponent is so confident of his own abilities that he now ignores the strictures of his kind, forsaking a daytime sentinel, preferring to meet any challenges on the merits of his own substantial abilities. I enter.
The house is huge, filled with winding stair flights and spacious corridors. Sin sorpresa, unsurprisingly, it lacks both carpet and furniture. He does not suffer guests willingly, thus tables and chairs and the like represent unneeded accoutrements. His condition requires him to be constantly on the run, never settling long enough to attract attention, never able to truly call a place home.
The air inside is humid, heavy and unsettling. A malingering odor of old decay riles my senses. I ignore a staircase that leads to a second story I will never tread upon. The door I seek, that which leads abajo, to the cellar, is to my right.
Again, the door is not locked. I do not attempt stealth. If he has not already succumbed to the death sleep, his senses will alert him to every breath I take. Each wooden stair groans in succession under my chemically-enhanced mass. I feel no shame for having administered steroids and other muscle enhancers to my body; I use whatever materials I can to increase my chances for success. As it is, my augmented strength is only effective in dealing with the bug-eaters. Even the most freshly-turned of his muertoes andantes has several times my power. His own strength is nearly incalculable, bordering on godhood. Still, prosigo, I continue.
When I take the final step down, it is I who am surprised, if only slightly. He is not alone. In the obscurity of the basement, he stands jauntily by his ornate sarcophagus, a red and black cape flowing down his back in the tradition of a Hollywood strigoi. A slight smirk graces his thin, ashen lips, while his neatly-tailored arms are folded defiantly over his deep chest. On the concrete floor before him, one of his female blood slaves worries at the shredded face and neck of a maimed farmer, probably a neighbor. Her eyes are dead black, seemingly without pupils, while vermillion drops besmirch her comely peasant attire. Not more than a few days ago she might have been a typical young woman of this region, concerned with small worries such as schoolwork and friends, ignorant of the shocking evil lying hidden just behind the world she imagined. Now, reduced to no more than a walking appetite, she is consumed by feeding and pays me no mind.
He steps forward, elegant black shoes echoing eerily in the discomforting quiet and heat. There is no need for dialogue between us, as words between old acquaintances are often wasted. Throughout the years we've met many times, each encounter more violent than the last, spawning a widening circle of corpses and mangled bodies in our wake. He waves a deprecatory greeting, sweeping his arm down and across as he bows, then assumes a more predatory stance, one foot forward for balance, hands tensed, fingers hooked. He smiles, as if relishing the thought of impending battle.
I prepare to parry his charge, but it is the female who attacks first. The corpse she had been emptying is cast aside like a used corn husk to shatter emptily against the cellar wall as she rockets toward me. The world is so much different from the movies I have viewed in the cinema. Filmmakers portray the enslaved strigoi as a sluggish creature, its will so dominated by the sire that it hobbles around like an enfeebled zombie, slow-moving and incapable of causing true harm. In fact, the creator's domination only enhances the creatures' innate powers, its will tightly focused by an unnatural passion to fulfill demands not its own. It does not hesitate, it does not second-guess itself. Like a shark, it is the perfect killing machine.
The dead do indeed travel fast, as the old saying goes. I would never argue the point. I gauge her rush by past experience rather than sight. Even so, my actions are too slow. I retrieve the bag of ground witchbane plant from my waistband and toss it in the air in front of me, just before I am tackled to the ground by the creature. Pain flashes white hot in my skull as she effortlessly palms my head and smashes it backward into the floor. Fortunately, the herb takes effect quickly, burning through the pores of her skin and into the dead veins underneath. Through the haze of my blurred vision, I see the dead woman rear back and scream in immortal pain. Her open mouth reveals the wicked canine teeth characteristic of her breed. I have been lucky. A moment slower in reacting and those teeth would have buried themselves en mi cuello, drunk deeply of my blood.
The blood slave's shrieks continue unceasingly, playing havoc with my eardrums. Her face is now a wrecked mass of charred flesh, the skull and facial bones exposed. Despite the pain, the creature remains single-minded. A petite, porcelain hand snakes out with fluid grace and wraps around my throat with the power of a dozen men. Like a child, I am lifted into the air. The glacier-coldness of her touch discomforts my skin. Her free hand, now equipped with unnaturally long and sharp fingernails, flashes through my cheek, flaying the skin from the bone like a knife. The force of the blow rocks my head back.
She whirls and tosses me with contemptuous ease, sending me crashing unceremoniously into a thin plaster wall. Pain erupts in my left shoulder as I strike, crumbling a large section of the wall, and slide down amidst the billowing plumes of white dust. Past experience warns me that the bones in that shoulder are broken, the clavicle and scapula shattered, the arm now useless. I focus, ignoring the pain and the onset of nausea as best I can, coughing as the plaster dust invades my mouth and lungs. I concentrate on the greater goal that has always guided my actions, el proyecto mayor.
The dead woman launches herself at me once again, sensing my defeat, practically flying across the distance that separates us. The flesh of her face has already begun to heal over, newly-pink flesh standing out in stark contrast to the rest of her clown-white features. Her clawed nails extend out from her fingers, lethal daggers poised to shred my flesh with deadly precision. Yet once again, tengo suerte, luck is with me. With my good arm I retrieve one of the long teak blades I have collected in my travels over the years and extend it in front of me. The woman does not sense her danger, her attention focused solely on tearing out my throat. She makes no sound as the blade shears through first skin and then muscle, through the bones of her rib cage as she falls upon me, finally settling into her black, unbeating heart.
The presence of the teak paralyzes her, preventing further movement. What is it about wooden weapons that makes them, under the proper conditions, so effective against the strigoi That the wood, like the strigoi, was once alive but is no more? Common metal, whether sword or bullet, causes incredible harm to the living, shredding skin and bone and freeing the blood. For the strigoi such weapons represent only a temporary inconvenience, unless a limb is severed. The metal disperses through or bounces off the strigoi flesh, but is usually incapable of delivering critical trauma. If the blade is withdrawn, she will attack again unfazed, her rage only greater. The removal of her head, the immolation of her remains, will bring final rest.
I shrug off the blood slave's body and draw a second blade, staggering slightly as I stand. Blood flows freely from my maimed face and drops unceremoniously to puddle on the floor. His eyes betray amusement as he watches me. He senses that I am greatly weakened, that once again the odds are tilted lopsidedly in his favor. It seems to me that it has always been thus, perhaps it will ever be so. I pay the thought no mind. For every battle I lose, for each life of mine he snuffs out, mi corazon, my battle heart, remains committed. A day will come when he too will know the losses I have felt, the unfathomable pain he has caused me. I will take from him that which he holds most dear, that to which his entire existence is now totally dedicated: The prolongation of his unnatural life, at whatever cost necessary. He has spent over 5 centuries fleeing from death, feeding on the sick and the diseased and those who will not be missed for sustenance. I will ensure that eventually he and death become reacquainted.
But not this day.
He glides toward me effortlessly, his arms cast wide as if to embrace a lover. I grasp the tip of the blade, gauge its heft and weight, and snap-throw it with my good hand. It travels unerringly toward his chest. Only his preternatural reflexes allow him to slightly pivot his torso, enough so that the teak weapon punctures his left lung and not his heart. He takes a step back, slightly stunned, and then continues forward. His face does not betray the pain I know he feels as he withdraws the blade with a single hand and contemptuously casts it aside. In truth I have caused him no real damage, he has long since stopped drawing breath other than to speak.
Rage consumes me. I cast myself into his arms and hammer his eternal face with my fist. He laughs derisively at my efforts, choosing not defend himself. My blows connect repeatedly, causing damage only to my hand, the carpals and phalanges splintering on contact with bones that seem forged from iron.
Reason slowly reasserts itself. I attempt to dig into the witchbane bag at my waistband, my teeth gritted as the warped bones of my hand, now improperly aligned, rub uneasily over each other. I fail as an inhumanly strong hand grasps my wounded shoulder and wrenches it gratingly from the socket. Now it my own cries that echo in the uncaring chamber.
Seeking to prevent further injury, I reach behind my neck, into my coat, and retrieve a kukri blade I have secreted in a sling there. Such weapons have served the warriors of Gurkha for centuries, capable of decapitating a man with a single blow. It is no man that I face, though. He chose to become something else, something forever set aside from humanity, long ago.
One fluid backslash opens his throat from ear to ear, splashing cold black ichor onto both of us. His eyes go wide in shock. I attempt another strike at the wounded area, hoping con suerte, with luck, to sever the spine. He grasps the wrist and stops the swing without apparent effort. Casually, he breaks the arm, his dead eyes locked intensely on mine. Once again my screams echo hollowly off the callous walls.
I am hoisted easily into the air by a single hand. The wound to his throat, inflicted with impure metal, has already healed. Through unbidden tears I see his calm, sallow face. He recognizes me despite la diferencia en mi aparencia, despite the youthfulness of my current body. He, of course, is unchanged, his face as youthful and cruel now as it was when he died centuries ago. He speaks, one old soul, one brother to another, the tips of his fang teeth barely touching his lower lip. His words come slowly, couched in pain, almost a whisper.
"Hermano, when will you tire of this game? If I could take it back now, I would. One meaningless life among the thousands I have taken, a face now I cannot even recall. Can you even recall her, Arnaldo? Do you remember her name?"
I laugh quietly through the tears caused by the pain of broken shoulders and arms. And of a love long lost. Of course I remember her name, how could I ever forget? His words bring back images long suppressed, a face that haunts me still. Almond-brown skin; tiny, cherry-red lips; midnight-black hair that flowed like a dark river down her back. Soft words of reassurance and commitment. A companion heart in a heartless land. Time does not heal all wounds.
"I remember all too well, Alano," I reply, the words forcing themselves through gritted teeth and clenched, bloody lips. "I remember her scent, her laugh, her kindness to all, even to you. Imaculada, Alano, her name was Imaculada."
He sneers at me in disgust, the sentiment with which he has long regarded me, but his eyes look away, as if shamed. I continue.
"Most of all, though, Alano, I remember her death. I remember who took her from me, and why he did so."
He shrieks as if wounded, his long arm flailing out, launching me again into the damned basement wall. This time when I slide to the floor amidst more white powder, I do not get up.
"Oh, how the mighty, pious Arnaldo has fallen!" he shrieks, predator teeth exposed, his eyes wild and crimson. He slowly walks toward me. With great effort, I raise my slumped head to meet his gaze.
"Speak to me brother! Enlighten me with your wisdom! Always preaching, weren't you Arnaldo, as if you possessed some great insight into the meaning of it all? 'Don't neglect your studies, Alano, you'll disappoint father. Don't hang out with those people, Alano, they lack proper morals. Keep this behavior up and you'll never amount to anything.' Do you know what an ass you were?"
"I tried to help you, Alano. Dios me ayuda, God help me I tried. You never listened though. You left mother and father, went roaming overseas with your new friends, and look what became of you. You courted a corpse. Look at yourself! Neither living nor dead, an unnatural, irredeemable, evil creature that must feed on others to live – more beast than man!"
"What business of it is yours, brother? Why in hell do you follow me? How many times must I kill you to be finally rid of you?" he rages, grasping my collar with one hand and raising me without difficulty to the tips of my feet. His eyes bore into mine, his mental faculties concentrated on trying to sap my will. I am not unsettled.
"YOU MADE IT PERSONAL, BROTHER!" I spit into his shocked face, my strength momentarily reinvigorated. "Nobody made you return home. You did so of your own will. You could have remained there with your corpse lover, shared the same casket, fed for centuries without notice. Instead, you traveled back to your native land. You knew the love I shared with Imaculada, how my life was devoted to her. You came on the night of our wedding, reeking of the grave you had left less than a week before. I welcomed you in as a brother, gave you the invitation inside our house that I've eternally regretted since. You returned the favor by acting the part of the assassin."
He smiles slightly, his upper lip drawn back from his teeth. "Well, you know me Arnaldo, I could never stay too long in the same place. Too much of me to share."
"Is that what you call it? Sharing? One minute we were speaking man to man, brother to brother, talking of our travels and loves and dreams, what had passed since we last saw each other. Then you attacked me. You broke me Alano, raised me up with your new strength and broke me across your leg like a piece of kindling. You knew I was paralyzed but still alive, capable of seeing what you did to Imaculada. She was screaming as you propped me in the chair, striking at you with her tiny fists. For her troubles you struck her and threw her on our bed. You tore her dress and removed her clothing, raped her in front of me. She screamed my name, begging first me, then God to save her. I tried to move, to save her from you, but my body was wrecked, slowly dying. When you were finished, you fed on her, taking her virginity and her life on the same night. Our wedding night, bastardo!"
He laughs, then responds, nonplussed. "It was always me she wanted, Arnaldo, me she truly desired. You were the elder, entitled to father's lands and property. What was there for poor Alano? Scraps from the family table? I think not. I took what was mine, took what I wanted! It just happened that what I wanted was your wife. You with your weak limbs and fleeting life, how can you understand the passions of an immortal? I don't have to explain myself to you, an inconsequential insect. A god does not concern himself with the problems of lesser beings. Be content that I did not raise her up to live beside me."
"It wasn't for lack of trying, bastardo! You forget, I had to suffer through every minute of your ineptitude. Unfamiliar with your new existence, you drained too much. I saw you fumble like a juvenile, slashing your wrists and trying to feed her. It was too late, Alano, you'd already stilled her heart. She was as dead as you are."
"ENOUGH!" he screams. His mind drills into my own, silencing my lips, while his head flashes like lightning to my neck. His huge teeth tear into the meat there, arcing arterial blood into the stifling air. My mind, temporarily dulled by his mental domination, reacts to the pain of having my neck shredded and becomes focused once again. He begins to feed. Soon, the throbbing in my neck begins to recede, replaced by lassitude and an icy numbness.
Satisfied, Alano pulls back, his gore encrusted mouth smeared with my life's fluids, la sangre de vida. His black eyes, infused with the power of my blood, pinion me. He speaks to me with his mind.
Tonight, Arnaldo, our long blood feud ends. Tonight I get it right. He cradles me like a child with one arm, while his teeth open a dead vein on the other. After a few seconds, sluggish black ichor seeps from the wound. He places the bloodied arm over my slack mouth and taunts me.
Think of it brother. My blood will not only raise you from death, but also anchor your soul to an undying body. No more will you pursue me, no more will I have to dread an unexpected attack from an unfamiliar face. I will chain you in silver, rope you with witchbane, scald you with running water. I will torture you as you have tortured me these many centuries, hound you as you have hounded me. Each time you approach final destruction I will stop and feed you fresh blood to heal your wounds. You will live through eternity sustained by the blood of pigs. That truly immortal soul you are so fond of will have finally found an immortal shell to house it. You've always fancied yourself a strategist, but tonight it is I who am the true chess master!
With the death of my body, my soul separates from the shell. My consciousness is caught in a whirlwind, sucked up and out to look down on my shattered body, held in the arms of a bloody fiend. It is a sensation I have experienced dozens of times in the past, one I am quite familiar with.
As the ichor falls from his ruptured vein into my mouth, however, the direction of the whirlwind is reversed. I find myself slammed back into my dying shell, the rancid tang of his blood gagging me as it winds down into my stomach. He seeks to bind me to him, to make me another of his blood slaves. Ingesting his blood will ensure that. I gag, trying to expel the fluid from my body.
Be still he screams in my mind. I force him out, seeing his eyes close with pain. That I can never do, Alano. Not as long as you exist. Using the last vestiges of fleeting strength in my spent body and the final traces of air in my empty lungs, I spit his foul ichor back into his face. The body dies, and I am again lifted out of it. As I depart, I hear his haunted cry, a mixture of loss and dread and anger and frustration, echoing unendingly off the basement walls. ###
A continent away, a child is born in an urban hospital to a dying mother. Its tiny, fresh body houses an ancient soul.
Hate, like love, is eternal. The vendetta continues.