Ensanguined

Chapter 3

Col’s mind drifted across the possibilities as he entered his apartment building. He was envisioning a headlong rush to his master’s aid. By the time he rolled his motorcycle out of the elevator and onto the top floor, an imaginary horde of red-smiling vampires had died a true death at his hand .

Col took a quick glance down the hallway to see if any of these vampires were lying in wait. His shoulders screeched in agony as he pushed along, and he his thoughts changed to his seconds of flight. . Col had been very surprised, after he had gone through the change, to learn that Vampires felt pain. Quite a few things about un-death were unexpected: The trances, the experience of pain, the gradual assumption of powers, the l**t for blood.

The Master had spent most of his time trying to quell the blood l**t from Col, but was not foolish enough to downplay the need for sustenance. ‘You must feed, Coldrain.’ the Master had a habit of using Col’s full name whenever discussing something important. ‘It is your strength, it is your power! Yet, it is your curse. Like anyone should know, the faster you approach the peak, the more likely you are to overshoot and plummet toward the crags below.

“So stay well fed, Coldrain. But never give into greed. The mosquito darts in for a quick bite and is never seen, but the bloated leech is always trampled.”

LIke most old men, the Master never liked to give straight answers. Everything was riddles to him, not simple questions, and every answer he gave was intended to make one think more than it was intended to fill in the blanks. Power, plummeting, and parasites, those were all understood after enough time. But Col couldn’t help wishing that the Master had been a little more straightforward.

A spot of light danced at the corner of his eye. It was then that he noticed the dark blotches peeking from the shadows; Noticed long peeling streaks of the same substance drying on the swirling marron-and-cream wallpaper near his apartment. Col’s grimace sank in deeper.

His door opened with a loud creak, releasing a wave of florescent light. Directly in the short entryway lay a jumbled pile of limbs and thick puddles of black ichor. More ichor ran down the walls. In one motion Col drew his g*n and lifted his hand to the light. His shadow squirmed against the wall then closed about the humming bulb, blotting it out.

By the time he had stepped over the piles, his eyes had adjusted, and could see through the darkness as if it were day. He pointed to the light in the entryway and ensured that his shadow would stay behind to block it.

Surprise was a faint voice somewhere in the pit of his stomach as he picked his way through each of the rooms in the expansive apartment. His path lead him though the plain living room and past a large geodesic window. From there he walked through an archway marked with blackened hand prints where pieces of drywall and concrete still remained. The rest of the mutilated archway was in crumbled piles or stomped deep within the carpet. Col peered into the open doors of the den and the study, only finding small pieces of anatomy here and there. The hallway ended in a ladder leading up into the ceiling.

He started up to the second level, eying the doorway that stood behind him. He shrugged and continued up, hoping no one was in the kitchen. Not that anyone could stand the sterile cleanliness; food suspended in its prime, dishes never once used nor cleaned.

At the top was the cool dark of the upper landing. Every wall was painted black. The only light came in from somewhere below. His own bedroom was in the middle of the hall; his Master's room was at the far end. Col readied himself as he neared it then flung wide the door. The darkness inside swallowed what was left of the light and seemed somehow in contrast to the shadows of the hall.

He reached in to shut it again, closing his eyes tightly with fear for the worst. They snapped open and he snatched back his hand as a sharp pain slit his wrist.

Before he could get a good look at his hand, the door behind him slammed open. He had barely enough time to turn and dodge the small white object that wizzed toward him. It dissapeared into the thick black of his master’s bedroom.

A figure stood in the hall, holding more of the white razors between its fingers. Wan shadows danced on the walls like thin tendrils, fluidly growing and easing.

The figure lunged, tossed two of the razors, then ducked into a roll. Col stepped aside, noting the whine of the air as one passed his ear, and the sound of tearing cloth as the other grazed his stomach. A shadowy form appeared before him, springing from a roll and punching straight. This decoy Col ignored, instead catching the strike of cold flesh that raced towards him from his left. Col grinned and flashed his canines.

“The Night is over, my friend,” said Col, and broke the creature's wrist. “Can you fight without it?”

The reply was a glimmering smile from his opponent and the distant feeling of his stomach being sliced to ribbons. The figure pulled back his fist-full of knives and prepared for another strike. Col flooded his body with strength and slammed his opponent against the wall. The vampire sank into the darkness there, disappearing completely.

This time the shadow-figure was real. Its fist hammering into Col's chest, sending him stumbling backward. The figure side-stepped into a shadow.

Vices suddenly gripped Col's collar and lifted him from the ground. His opponent held him long enough for him to see the floor beneath the ladder and watch its rush towards his head. Col reached ‘up’ and rolled away from the down-hurtling form of the Vampire, whose fist smashed into the ground. The vampire stood and glanced at the shattered razors in its fist.

Col stepped back a few paces and waited for his opponent’s next move. The enemy responded by raising its fist to its lips. The sleeve of its dark robe bulged and split along his forearm, revealing glistening razors jutting from pallid flesh. In a flash it pulled one of these from its arm and sent it hurtling toward Col.

His opponent pulled several more of the blades from its arm and lunged. Before it came within a yard of him, it ducked into a shadow, disappearing. Two dark forms erupted from the shadows, one to the front, the other behind. Col raised his hand reflexively and stepped through the one before him. He gasped.

He caught an odd sight on his hand; A nub of white protruded from his wrist and writhed expansively beneath his skin. He could feel it sinking deeper, growing larger, and yet it caused him no pain.

The vampire emerged from the left, catching Col by surprise. It grasped his arm and prepared a final strike. Col turned and slammed his palm against the vampire’s chest. As Col struck out, a blade shot from his wrist and sank into his opponent's heart.

The pitiful creature moaned and sagged. Its face began to age; first slowly, then as if decades were passing as seconds. Its flesh slipped from its bones then scattered like blown dust.

Col stood there staring at the blade, only aware enough to know that he wasn't in danger. This was a Nosferati Bonesword- Col knew- a Vampiric magic termed 'Osseo-reshaping'. Like his fully grown wings, it should have been completely beyond his ability. Thin and keen-edged, the sword curved slightly from his wrist to its pointed tip. There was no hilt, only a long stretch of ricasso carved with two Vampiric symbols: One meaning black, the other meaning soul..

“Aiku... Arakul…” he thought aloud. As a vampire, Col was still young, having only learned or manifested simple shadow or flesh manipulative skills. Bone shaping was many years beyond his reach, and though he could drink much blood to force the onset of such a power, his impatience would spell the death of many scores of humans. Yet here was this bone-sword, a ghastly, glistening pink like thin blood. Col could only assume that his attacker had somehow tainted him with his small daggers.

 It wasn’t until a sliver of dawn caught his eye that he moved again. He allowed this last thought to trail off as he noticed the light, and noticed then the blood dripping from his middle. If he did not take his rest soon his wounds would catch up with him during the day when he was weaker, nearly human. He rushed to the ladder and reached up to grab the first rung then stopped, pulling an exasperated face at the weapon jutting from his wrist. He made as if he were going to break it from him, but when he grabbed it, it began to shrink until it had completely retreated into his skin. He decided to think about it more later and scrambled up onto the landing.

His master’s door still stood open at the end of the hall. Col was contemplating reaching into the dark to close it, when the darkness rippled before him, finally becoming a set of thin-pursed lips.

“The Master?” It said with a thousand voices. “No, ‘tis the progeny; so young, so strong.”

“Then Draz is gone!” wailed a single voice from a new set of lips. “We are doomed, the day is yet upon us!”

Col grasped the doorknob firmly and began to shut the door. A thin tendril snaked out from the room and wrapped itself lightly around his arm near the shoulder. He winced and tried not to scream.

“Young one please, if you will, take pity upon we lowly shadow demons. If the light of day reaches the height of the sky we shall perish and return to the deep,” said a third mouth from above the tendril’s beginning.

Col’s master had never discussed the demons with him. He had only warned Col never to enter his room without permission or they would see him as an enemy and tear him asunder. They were his master’s last defense, strong in the darkest of magic’s, which protected him as he slept.

“I don’t know where he is, Demon, and I can’t do anything about it until I have a good day’s sleep. He wasn’t the only one to have visitors tonight,” Col replied tiredly, covering his torn midsection with his free hand.

“ ’Tis not imperative that we have the Master!” snapped the second mouth, “but without a body to attach ourselves to, we cannot survive the day. Please, strong one, lend us your strength.”

Now, Col was not so stupid as to make deals with demons, but this was a rare circumstance indeed; A demon making requests of him! Begging him, even. He took only a minute, then decided that it would be better if he himself had some defense while he rested. It hadn't yet occurred to him that the demons had not done as much for his master.

“You owe me one, alright? And don’t wreck up the place. I got everything just like I want it.”

“Oh thank you! We will keep you safe as you sleep. If it is not too much trouble please step into the darkness and we will attach ourselves to you,” replied the first mouth with a multitude of voices.

Col hesitated. “What about when the Master returns?”

“We belong to the Master, strong one, we always be his. When the Master returns we do not doubt he will claim again what is his,” spoke a fourth mouth whose voice was deep and melancholy.

Col stepped into the shadows. He could feel thousands of things crawling and slivering along his skin, some scrambling and squabbling for better positions. In moments the darkness receded, and his master’s room was a simple bedroom, filled with bed and dresser and keepsakes. Col smirked at this illusion as closed the door, knowing that though he could not see through it, it surely was too normal to be believed.

His own room was spartan, a small pallet in the very center, surrounded by stacks of books. There was a bookshelf on each wall filled with framed pictures of various people and a few leather-bound tomes. Col walked to the one upon the wall opposite the door and took down a faded picture of a woman in her thirties, sandy brown hair and dark-brown eyes above a smiling mouth. Col knew every line upon her face; he had counted the wrinkles crouching at the corners of her eyes until they were burned into his memory. He placed his lips upon the image’s forehead and murmured something softly. The pallet grew in height and girth until a simple oak coffin stood in its place. The lid sprang open as he approached, showing a soft bed and pillow within. Col removed his trench coat, folded it at the foot of the coffin and laid himself within. The lid slammed closed as his head lay to rest, covering him with the all-familiar darkness of the day.