Copyright © 2010 Christopher Newman
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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“You don’t stand a chance, woman!” it snarls at me.
The fiend limps forward and shies away from my car. It figures, another rabid Turned, flexing his mouth muscles, and trying to frighten me. It really gets old after the first few times.
“Look, buddy,” I tell him, “we do this the hard way or the easy way. Which one will it be?” My fingers tighten on the hilt of the sword hidden beneath my coat.
He vaults across the hood of my car, soaring towards me, his fangs jutting from a red tissued and gaping maw.
I guess it’s the hard way, I sigh inwardly.
Twisting my body I let the suit-wearing vampire fly past me. His out-flung arms miss my breasts by just a few inches as he soars by. He hits the wet pavement, skidding, his limbs flailing in an attempt to maintain his balance.
“Nice leap,” I taunt. “You should try out for the Olympics.”
“I’m gonna rip out your throat!” The snarl on his face looks almost convincing. If I could be convinced.
“Boy, I’ve heard that one before so many times it’s becoming a cliché.”
He stands, his chest heaving up and down in the dark, wet, parking lot while the light misting rain hisses downward. The echoes of his threat bounces around the concrete structure which is as empty as his words. I yank back my long overcoat’s left side, exposing the sharpened saber riding its scabbard against my hip.
“Hah! A sword?” He gives a mocking grin. “That’s no threat to me!”
“So I’ve been told.”
He looks surprised when I don't back away or show nervousness. Yep, I’m his worst nightmare and he doesn't even know it yet.
His next move, as predictable as the last, is to rush at me with arms stretched out before him. I can see his dirty fingernails and pale palms. I draw the saber and spin to my right in a full circle, extending the razor sharp edge out in front of me as I pirouette. I feel the tug of the blade as it strikes and shears through the graying flesh of his neck. A solid hit. Spinning to the ground in a flourish, I complete my movement with my empty hand flat upon the cold pavement and my left leg thrust out behind me. The headless figure takes several staggering steps forward before collapsing to the ground with a thump.
I ease to my feet, flicking the blade to clear it of the brackish ichor smeared upon it. I finish the job by swiping the sharp edge on the suit of the headless corpse, marring the material with long streaks of glistening gore. I sheath my sword, keeping my eyes fixed on the bowling ball sized noggin, which came to rest just four feet from the still form, while I return my weapon to its sheath. The bloodsucker’s body flops and convulses despite being decapitated.
This is the part I hate most of all. Like a fish on the deck of a ship, knowing it won't survive the night, but trying anyway.
“I’ll kill you!” he screams, his left cheek against the wet concrete.
“Without a body, I seriously doubt that,” I say. “Besides your wife paid me good money to have you tracked down and dealt with, and I intend on finishing what I started. Call it professional pride.”
“Despite you being stupid enough to go clubbing at the Uptown—a known vampire hangout—she still thought you deserved to be put to rest. Really now, Jimmy, you shouldn’t have let your little head do the thinking for your big head.”
“Wait, don’t do this!”
They always beg in the end.