…A woman dying as her heart is pierced while Dyson looks on helplessly…
…A young man walking into a bedroom with a broad grin on his face and a joke on his tongue, only to find Dyson lying in the arms of another boy, the grin quickly vanishing from the young man’s face…
…Dyson reaching out for a brown-robed figure as it leaps through a portal into another world. Dyson screaming out a name. The brown-robed figure never looking back, only running on into the woods on the other side of the portal and vanishing from sight…
…A man losing his grip on a cliff’s face and slipping to his death as Dyson stands by doing nothing…
…Thousands of bodies dead and dying beneath the water’s surface as Dyson is unable to stop it…
“Get out of my head!” Dyson screamed, staggering backward. Trevor felt a wave of dizziness as the connection broke.
“What was that?” Victor asked, impressed. “Well, well, it looks like our young friend here has more than a few regrets of his own.”
“I said, get out of my head!” Dyson screamed, lunging at Victor, his sword at the ready.
Instantly, Victor pivoted to the side and grabbed Dyson’s sword arm, propelling him through one of the unopened French doors and out into the night storm. The young man tumbled through, shattering glass and landing sprawled across the patio’s slick stones. His sword skittered out of his grasp and down the steps, clattering onto the stone path crossing the lawn.
Victor readied to step through the glass and follow him out onto the veranda, but Trevor laid a hand on his arm and said, “He’s right, you know. You are fresh-born. You’re at your weakest. Let me.”
“He just killed John,” Victor replied. “He invaded my home and ruined my funeral. Do you really imagine I’d allow anyone else this pleasure?”
Trevor released his arm and watched Victor leap through the shattered doorway and out into the downpour. “No,” he said as an afterthought. “No, I really don’t.”
Trevor looked on as Victor grabbed the young man by the collar of his shirt and lifted him off the ground, landing a fist in his gut that sent him flying backward. Dyson smacked against one of the stone columns encircling the veranda and rebounded off it, landing with a thud on the floor.
“Well, this is exhilarating,” Victor said as he crossed to his opponent and yanked him back to his feet. “The estate hasn’t seen a row like this before.”
Dyson struggled to regain his breath saying, “Well…we are…a full-service…catering company.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for my next event.” Victor smiled at the young man, and with as little effort as if he were throwing a pillow, he tossed him off the veranda and out into the yard.
Dyson landed and slid several feet through the slush of the lawn. While he struggled back to his feet, Victor stepped down the stairs and picked up the other man’s fallen weapon. “Not so tough without your sword, are you, Mr. Dyson?”
“Yeah,” Dyson groaned, “these fair fights are a real bitch.”
The young man wiped the mud from his face as he fought to regain his footing, but before he could steady himself Victor backhanded him with a blow that sent him flying several feet into the air. Dyson came back to earth hard, knocking the air from his lungs.
Victor strolled over to him, sloshing through the puddles, with the sword resting on his shoulder. “Well, Mr. Dyson, I hate to cut this short, but really I’m going to have one hell of a time salvaging these shoes.”
“Yeah, I’ve got plans tonight, too,” the young man said, trying to rise to his knees. His body gave way, and he crumpled back down with a splash.
“Normally, I’d relish drinking your blood, but really, severing your head with your own sword seems much more fitting an end, don’t you agree?”
If the waiter had an opinion on the matter, his words were lost in the jumbled heap of his body on the ground.
Victor laid his head back, the rain slapping his face and soaking into his hair. He spread his arms wide, the sword extended in his right hand, and shouted, “Oh, Mr. Dyson, wouldn’t you agree this is quite the poetic end?”
He raised the sword, ready for the kill. But before he could land it, a streak of lightning connected with the blade and sent a jolt of electricity through him. His body locked in a perverse, jittering dance before crumpling to the ground.
Dyson slowly rose to his feet as his opponent lay moaning on the grass. He retrieved his sword from where Victor had dropped it and yanked the other man’s head up by a hand-full of his long, dark hair and said, “Personally, I never liked poetry.” The blade sliced through the air and connected with Victor’s throat, severing it. Dyson let the head fall to the earth with a splash and said to no one in particular, “I always thought it was for fags.”
After a moment Trevor waded out onto the lawn to where the young man stood over the body of his fallen friend. Finally he said, “Huh.” And then, “So lightning won’t kill us after all.”
“Guess not,” Dyson agreed, “but it sure came in handy.”
Trevor looked up from Victor’s body and studied the assassin. “Forgive me. I assumed I was getting a petite blonde—stereotypes and all.”
“I get that a lot,” Dyson said, wiping away the stream of blood continuing to trickle from his mouth.
“I left the details of the matter to my associate, you see.”
“No worries. Has the money been transferred to my account?”
“Already done,” Scarlet Harvey said as she joined the two men on the lawn.
“There she is,” Trevor said, applauding. “A most impressive performance.”
Scarlet laughed and took a bow before sharing her umbrella with Trevor and snaking her hand around his arm.
“I especially thought the scream was quite lifelike,” Trevor offered.
“Well, I should say so, what with John’s fangs at my throat.”
“That was a bit unexpected, but a useful entrance for our friend here.” Trevor said. “Did he sign the papers?”
Scarlet gripped the leather satchel to her chest. “Congratulations, Trevor Whitworth. You are now the sole beneficiary to Victor Goodman Crowley’s estate and all his holdings.”
A phone chimed from Dyson’s pocket. He pulled it out and read the name that appeared.
“Your boyfriend?” Trevor asked.
Dyson smiled. “I said I had plans tonight.”
“Well, you shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Trevor suggested.
“He’ll be all right,” Dyson said, pocketing the phone.
“Love is a fickle thing, Mr. Dyson,” Trevor said, glancing to the woman on his arm. He gripped her small, dark hand in his own. “It never comes as you expect it to, and it can leave just as quickly. You should never take it for granted.”
“And when it leaves, you what?” Dyson asked. “Kill everyone left behind?”
Trevor looked at Victor’s body lying dead on the lawn. He watched the blood pool onto the grass, the rain diluting it before it vanished into the earth. It seemed that with that blood a lifetime of regrets washed away. Finally, he said, “My resolution for my next life: a fresh start.”
Dyson snickered as the rain continued to fall. “Fresh starts don’t have to come with a body count.”
“In my experience I’ve found you can’t escape your past if it can still show up unexpectedly for a visit.”
“Maybe so,” Dyson said, “but it seems to me you’ll never escape your past as long as you keep making it your future.” He glanced at the woman entwined on his arm.
Trevor turned to Scarlet. She stood studying the decapitated body. There was a look of excitement in her eyes that made him nervous. It reminded him of something, of someone. Before he could ask himself who, Scarlet glanced at him and grinned, tightening her grip on his arm. He smiled in return and patted her hand, pushing his worries far away.
Dyson watched the silent exchange and said, “Yeah, but what do I know?”
The sound of distant sirens drew their attention.
“Guess that’s my cue,” the young man said, wiping the last of the blood from his sword onto Victor’s expensive suit.
“If you head down the lawn, you’ll find I unlocked the back gate,” Scarlet volunteered.
Dyson nodded. “You sure do think of everything.”
“She’s indispensable, really.” Trevor smiled proudly at Scarlet.
Dyson turned to leave. He looked back at the mismatched couple standing beneath the umbrella and said, “Well, good luck—with that fresh start and all.”
Trevor and Scarlet watched him go as the sound of sirens competed with the patter of rain hitting their umbrella.
“We should go back inside, my love,” Scarlet said. “The police will be here any minute, and we need to be ready to greet them.” Trevor allowed himself to be steered back toward the house as he heard her say, “Soon enough we’ll be able to leave here and start our new life. Together.”
“Yes,” Trevor said. “Yes, I suppose we will.”
“What will it be like?” Scarlet asked as they approached the steps leading back into the house.
“What will what be like?”
“When you turn me.” She laughed, gently slapping his aged and wrinkled hand. “Tell me what it will be like to be young and beautiful forever.”
“I told you you won’t be young and beautiful forever. You’ll still age. Just look at me.”
“Not me,” she said emphatically. “The first sign of a wrinkle and I’ll chuck it all—on to my next life.” She laughed giddily and laid her head on his shoulder.
As he took the stone path back to the house, he realized who she reminded him of. Suddenly he felt very tired. He consoled himself with a comforting thought: if need be, he could always hire the young Mr. Dyson again.
“I’m not a pimp!” cried Bryce. “I’m a provider. A care-giver.”
“You’re trying to make me dependent on you!” Galen shouted. “I need the taste of the streets!”
“They’re trash, can’t you see? They sell themselves for a fix!”
“And you don’t? Who are you that you should presume to judge!”
“I’m only trying to save you from kids like Zane.”
“Be silent!” Galen’s voice exploded against the shadowed walls. The tall narrow windows shook behind the velvet drapes.
Bryce stood his ground. He had seen the mindless anger, the searing rage, many times. He knew what it meant. “I have kept you from becoming an animal,” he said softly.
Galen smiled, in control again. “So you like to think. If it gives you pleasure, go ahead.”
Pleasure. The word, spoken by Galen’s pale blood-starved lips, seemed stripped of meaning, an empty word with no associations.
Galen slumped back in the ornate chair, a pale hand curved over each armrest. The blast of anger had drained him. His head was bent, the soft blond hair falling over his forehead. The nape of his neck gleamed ivory in the dim light.
Bryce knew this creature was incapable of love, but the knowledge made no difference. His fanatical devotion burned strong and hot as ever. At times, he knew that Galen hated him. At times when he was needed. Like now. But Bryce still clung to one fact. Galen needed him. And every now and then, he would have to acknowledge this.
Galen raised his head and stared across the dim room, lit by the soft oil lamps he insisted on. His green eyes glowed dully. His face looked gaunt, the pallid skin stretched tight over the high cheekbones. Bryce looked away. He couldn’t stand to see the one he loved suffer, but he must. It was all he had.
“Come closer, Bryce. I’m weak. You know when I’m weak.” The voice was a whisper on the air, more like a subtle suggestion than words. “How can you turn away from me now? You know what to do.”
Bryce nodded. Even after the fights, his pain, he knew he would open his shirt and kneel in front of Galen, between his long legs. Because only then, while Galen sucked his life blood from the plastic tube inserted over his heart, would he allow Bryce to touch him.
Bryce opened his shirt and knelt. He gathered Galen into his arms, guiding the pale head to his chest. He winced as he felt the hot dry lips touch his skin, felt the first strong pull. For a moment, he swayed and had to steady himself. Then his hand went to Galen’s bent head, his fingers straying through the fine spun-gold hair. He could almost feel the strengthening pulse at the temples, under his fingertips.
Because of me
, he thought.
I am his life
. But his elation was brief. He knew anyone could perform this task. Others had before him. If he wasn’t careful, others would again. He bent his head and touched the silky hair with his lips.
With a shuddering sigh, Galen pulled away, as always forcing himself to stop well before he had slaked his thirst. He laid his head back against the carved oak. Waiting. Allowing Bryce his one act of intimacy.
Bryce slid to the floor. As he undid the buttoned fly, he forced all thoughts out of his head. He, too, was hungry, with a thirst that would never be satisfied. The damp earthy smell made his senses reel as he opened his mouth to his lover’s cool white flesh.
All too soon, it was over.
“We’re little better than cannibals,” Galen said with a lazy smile. He wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with one finger. “We feed off each other.”