On the Far Side of Darkness (17 page)

“See what?” is the question from outside.

“He’s gone. No one here!”

“What the fuck?” With that exclamation, my enemy enters the room.

I drop to the floor behind David Duke and kick the door shut. My claws sink my claws into his neck and buttocks, lift him up and throw his massive body across the room. He hurtles between his thugs. A moment later his legs hit the desk with a ‘crack!’ that tells of broken bones. He cartwheels over it and disappears, smashing the chair in his careen.

Both his men turn towards me. The one on the left is a touch closer. My hand on that side stabs into his rib cage and I rip his heart out. Blood soaks me as it sprays from the wound. His eyes roll up and he drops as if his bones have turned to jelly.

The expression on the other’s face shows that he knows exactly what I am. The wide eyes and blubbering lips transmit to me the utter terror I am. The feeling his terror give me is a base, vicious joy.

He shows courage though. The big man cocks a fist and throws it at me.

I catch it in my right hand and grind his bones to powder, sneering at his bravado. I care not at all what a human can do.

He goes pale with shock, falls to his knees and clutches his destroyed hand to his chest. Tears of pain and horror run down his face. The sensation that shivers through me is almost as wonderful as when I suck down someone’s life.

The smell hits me then. The smell of what I need. Blood. My food, my joy, my passion. I tilt my head back, bring the still beating muscle in my left hand to my mouth and squeeze. The red liquid in it drips out and I swallow it down.
Mon Dieu!
It’s delicious. I’ll never tire of the taste of it.

But there’s not enough. Lowering my head, tossing the empty heart away, I look at the man before me. I can hear the blood roaring through his veins, his life calls to me. The next instant I’ve snapped his head back and my fangs are in his neck. I can taste his terror, it flavors the blood with a sweet, dark savor.

It takes several minutes to drain a man this big. But soon I let the limp corpse fall. A sound catches my attention. Mr. Duke is trying to crawl past me.

“Yoo hoo!” I call to him. He stops moving, his head swivels towards me. He’s weeping in fear and pain. Again, malevolent joy shivers through me as I observe the effect I have on fools like the one blubbering before me.

“Watch.” I say, tapping the still ragged wound in my midsection. Then I exert my power. His eyes grow wide and his mouth slack at the sight of me repairing myself.

“You are a fool, David Duke,” I say to him when I am finished. “The secret to power is to use it sparingly.

“Take myself for example. You know what I am, how powerful I am. But there are forces in this world that would swallow me down as a shark would a minnow. I stay in existence by being careful.

“You weren’t. You acted as if you were the Almighty himself. So you attracted my attention. Now you suffer the consequences for that.”

“God,” he whines.

“My victims have called on Him for centuries. He’s never answered. I see no reason why He should start now.”

Then I’m at his throat.

He lasts longer than his hoodlum. Which I like. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.

Finally I rise, full, and still angry. I smile as only one of my kind can smile.
I’ve got a whole mansion of humans to play with. No time like the present.

I head off for my fun.

* * * *

I’m watching the mansion from a hundred meters away and waiting. I wish my nature allowed me to cry.

All that has happened in the half hour since I left Mr. Duke’s sanctum flashes through my head.

Charging down the hall I vaulted the railing. I landed on a young woman being taken on her knees and broke my fall, as well as her back. A quick swipe opened the throat of the man who was using her.

A second later I shattered the skulls of two women with a double punch.

One of the enhanced men grabbed a sub-machine gun from a pile of clothes, leveled it and let loose a burst. Stupid. Two bullets hit me and I hardly noticed. The rest put down three women and one of his cronies.

I leapt across the room and pulled his arm off. The muzzle of the gun went under his chin and I jerked the finger still on the trigger. The top of his head exploded in a spray of brains.

Then I ravened among them like a wolf in a coney of rabbits.

It was necessary to feed before I was done. In my state I burned my power like jet fuel. The drug in the woman’s blood gave an interesting flavor. A lighter taste than the cloying sweetness of the altered.

This gave the few survivors a chance to scatter.

It did them no good. I hunted them down one by one. The last was the police chief’s wife. She was halfway across the front yard when I landed on her back and snapped her neck.

The monster withdrew then. There was no more fun to be had.

My intellect returned to me. The grief and horror that came with it drove me to my knees. It had been a very long time since I had so lost control. I’d forgotten how good it felt, and how sick it made me afterwards.

Thank the Lord, Diane wasn’t here.
Yet another layer of terror piles on my soul at that thought.
How could she still love me if she knew what I was capable of?

I’ll think about it tomorrow night,
I tell myself.

My waiting is done.

I’d broken open the very well stocked armory. Once the charges were placed I’d laid bodies across them, and soaked them all in gasoline.

With a loud thump and a tinkle of shattering glass the mansion begins to burn. There will be no evidence that something like me is involved. By the time the fire department arrives, there won’t be much more than ashes.

Another wave of anguish passes through me. I might have done some good here tonight, but the cost was so high. I straighten my back and shrug.
That’s the way it always is. Console yourself with the thought that you prevented far worse than this.
I don’t know if I’m lying to myself, but it helps.

However the killing isn’t done. One more person has to die to end Mr. Duke’s dream. His drugs are known to one other. As long as they exist, the genocide he planned could still come to pass.

I know where to look. Mr. Duke’s journal had all the information about his plans. I have five hours to dawn. Just enough time to end this. Turning my back on the massive funeral pyre I’ve created I fade into the darkness.

But I carry within me something far darker than black.

Table of Contents

Beginning

Diane Patterson closed the door on entering her apartment, then slumped against the wall of her small abode. There was a fistful of mail clutched in her hand.

She was a petite, fair-skinned woman with what had once been rich auburn hair. That hair was now bedraggled from lack of care. There were deep bags under her eyes and her face etched with exhaustion. Her body was bent a little, seeming to carry a heavy weight.

Her thought, the one that consumed her was,
Oh God. I miss him.

It had been a year and a half since they met. As so many times before, the sweet and sad reflections of him came flooding back.

Something close to joy flashed through her chest as Diane recalled the night they met, as memories of time spent together filled her thoughts. She’d almost been unwilling, which perhaps made what happened all the more wonderful.

Her womanhood warmed as she recalled the first time he had taken her to bed. It had been an experience beyond anything she had known. His delightful, passionate love making forged her affection into an attraction deep beyond measure.

A tightness wrapped around her throat as she recalled what happened next. Diane had awoken one morning from a nightmare, wandered in confusion, certain she had lost something. A student of her lover’s came by and when that woman left Diane no longer loved him. Instead there was a virulent loathing. The next time she saw him Diane drove him away, hating him for what he had done to herself and others.

The next night Diane went to the student’s house. She met another woman there, The Dean of the university where Diane worked and her lover taught. The student used them both viciously. It was an experience that came very close in joy to the first time with the man she loved.

A choked sound that resembled a sob squeezed out of her chest. The next morning what Diane had lost returned. She was horrified by what had happened and couldn’t fathom why she had done it. Desperate to apologize she had gone to her lover’s cottage meaning to plead for forgiveness. But there was no sign of him and she never saw him again.

After that, Diane spiraled downwards. She was unable to understand her actions, or to excuse them. Not having him in her life meant she drifted into a place where there were only tears and recrimination. At least until those things ran out leaving her with an aching emptiness where her life had been.

Diane refocused on today. Inside, she felt herself stoop a little more as another brick of shame and loneliness was added to her burden. She noted without real interest it would soon be too heavy for her to bear.

Without interest she checked the mail clutched in her hands. It was the usual; bills, junk…and an envelope that was neither.

She noted the stamp first, French. This puzzled her. It was unnerving as well. Her heart gave an extra twinge at the thought of France.

A glance at the return address revealed the letter originated from Paris.
Who do I know from there?
she wondered.

Then the name hit her. It was from
him!
Diane stared, trembling all over, not wanting to believe, almost wishing it were otherwise. But the letters of the name wouldn’t change.

The auburn haired woman found herself opening his message. Her hands seemed to be following their own impulse. She felt so disconnected that it appeared she was only a spectator to someone else’s life.

Three items fell from the envelope; a letter, a plane ticket and a credit card. Again, Diane watched her hands move of their own accord, flipping the letter open. She looked at the words and the sound of his voice filled her head once more.

Cheri,

Please come to Paris. We have much to discuss.

I shall be waiting at the café Le Fin de Sieclé every Saturday night at 11 PM for the next year.

The ticket is for the 10:00 AM flight that leaves JFK for Charles de Gaulle every Thursday morning. Again, this ticket is good for the next year. There is a room booked for you at Le Roi Henri IV. Everything at that hotel will be covered.

The credit card is in your name and has sufficient funds for a trip to New York. Plus a fair amount for any luggage, clothes, etc. that you might need for the journey.

As I said, we have much to discuss.

Georges.

Diane found herself kneeling on the floor. Her heart and lungs didn’t seem to work.

And she realized she still had tears left.

Meeting

It’s been four months now.

I’m sitting at my table outside of
Le Fin
. There’s a glass of wine in front of me that serves as camouflage and I scan the street surreptitiously, looking for Diane, watching the humans as they go about their lives. My nature has made me somewhat of an emotional voyeur. Indeed, if I don’t want to allow my nature full control, I have to be.

Since I’m keeping my lungs working, I sigh. You would think that I would have learned patience at my age. Instead, I drum fingers on the table, fidget in my seat, do all the things that a man waiting for an important rendezvous with a former lover would do.
Where is she?
I ask myself with a somewhat vexed anxiousness.

It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, sending that message to Diane. Our time together had ended so badly, with both of us suffering. It was my fault and so I left her. What I am, the world I live in and the events that occur in it came close to destroying her. It seemed at the time the best thing to do.

But time and distance didn’t lessen my emotions. Not a night went by that I didn’t think of her. I would think of the times we spent together. I would recall her intelligence, her learning, her passion, her love. I knew she loved me, and I discovered I felt the same way. My darling Diane possessed me and I found that I didn’t mind being property at all.

So I sent her a letter asking her to come to me, along with the means for her to make the trip. There will be no secrets this time. I’m going to tell her everything. Then we’ll make a decision. The consequences of making the wrong one will be dangerous for us both. But I now know I can’t go on without her.

My gaze glances around
Le Fin
with a proprietor’s eye. Which I should as I do own the place through a holding company. The street front café looks just the way I want it; relaxed, simple, a comfortable place where people can come to drink and converse.

This is actually the third incarnation of my establishment.

I’d opened the first in 1788. My arrival into darkness had just occurred and the full import of that was beginning to sink in. Since birthdays now meant little to me I decided to celebrate centuries instead. Hence the name.
Le Fin
was going to be the place where I celebrated my centuries.

It didn’t work out the way I expected.

I had to flee France during The Terror. Being a member of the aristocracy and a well known supporter of moderation meant the guillotine had I stayed. Not that it would have come to that. I would have burned to ashes when they pulled me into the sunlight.

I set up the second
Le Fin
in 1858 when I returned to France after a long sojourn in North America. It remained open for eighty five years and became a somewhat famous gathering place for intellectuals and artists of all kinds. Proust, Zola and Sartre frequented my establishment at times. I heard Edith Piaf perform
La Vie en Rose
spontaneously early one morning. For those moments I believed in Paradise.

That version of
Le Fin
was destroyed by the Nazis in 1943. I was running a Resistance cell from the place and they found out. They didn’t destroy it without paying a price. I was glutted by the time they were done. One less monster walked the night as well.

The current version opened in 1955. Again, it’s somewhat well known amongst outsiders and intellectuals. Whenever I can I lurk here, reminding myself how varied, how important the people who provide my food are.

My mind returns to today. I sigh and check the street once more. There’s no sign of Diane.

But there is another woman walking this way, her eyes fixed on me. A girl actually. Her clothes are conspicuously sexual, her make up a bit excessive. She’s smiling with a hard edge that falsifies the expression. Her brown eyes are wide and frightened while her knees have a tiny tremble to them.

I don’t look away. Her fear speaks to me. As always, I find that emotion fascinating.

“
Bonsoir, chérie,
” she greets as she arrives at my table. “Looking for some company?”

Ah, a working girl. Inside I feel a little tremor of pity. She’s too young to be involved in such a profession. She should be home in bed, resting up for school or a day out with friends. A mental shrug follows. Despite what I am and the power it grants me, I can’t save the world. That’s a fact I discovered centuries ago.

“
Non, merci
.” I tell her.

Her smile grows bigger and more false. Her hand comes up to stroke my face. The palm is cold and clammy. “Come on,
chérie
. I can show you a really good time.”

“Quite seriously, no,” I repeat. “I’ve someone coming and I’ve no need for company.
Pardon
.”

The brunette girl withdraws her hand with a jerk. A small whimper sounds in her chest and her eyes grow teary. Her smile becomes more wooden. She turns and walks away with her knees shaking.

When she’s three dozen steps away I stand with a sigh and follow her. I have an idea what’s about to happen and fool that I am, am going to interfere. But she’s too young for such a life. I may not be able to save everyone but perhaps I can save her.

Sure enough, as she gets to the corner a large man dressed in expensive jeans, running shoes and leather jacket stands away from the lamp post he is leaning against. He grabs the young woman’s arm and drags her into a nearby alley.

I pick up my pace and as I do a loud slap reaches me, with a woman’s gasp underneath it. What I am rises closer to the surface as my anger at what’s happening loosens my grip on it.

“You stupid little bitch,” cuts through the air. The man is speaking French, with a distinct Russian accent. “I’ve been looking after you for two weeks. I’m damn well going to be paid back.” Another slap sounds. “Get this straight, whore. That’s what you are now. You belong to me and you work as I tell you.” He strikes her again. “So don’t you ever come back to me with an empty purse again.” The ‘smack’ of his hand hitting her fills the air.

I’m at the mouth of the alley now and I step into it. The young woman is in a heap on the ground. “Excuse me,” I say.

The man whirls to face me. In the light filtering in from the street, I can see he has a broad, scarred face; the face of a man who’s lived a hard life. His eyes shimmer with a gleam that makes me doubt his sanity. Solidly built and about my height, if I were human I’d be intimidated.

“Fuck off, Frog!” he snarls. “This isn’t any of your business.”

I say nothing, do nothing.

“Fine,” he remarks as a vicious smile crosses his face. “Time to teach you, skinny faggot, a lesson.”

He stalks towards me, cocking his fists. The happy expression on his face shows he’s very much going to enjoy beating me to a pulp.

I make no move.

Two steps away, he lunges forward, aiming a punch at my head.

I step my right foot back just enough so his fist whistles past my nose. My hands come up, one grabs his wrist, the other sets itself against his shoulder. In this position, even if I were human, he’d be off balance and at my mercy. But I put a little of the monster into it and slam him against the wall.

The fool impacts with a crunching noise. His nose breaks, probably some ribs as well. I let him go and he collapses to his knees, wilts to the left, boneless in his unconsciousness.

For a moment I consider finishing him off. But I’m not hungry and it’s not necessary. Our conflict is over and he lost. Instead I walk over to the girl and kneel.

She’s breathing with sharp pants. Her body jerks as she tries to hold in sobs. The young brunette looks up, wide eyed, when I touch her. I can see bruises on both cheeks where her former pimp struck her.

“There,
petite
,” I say to her softly. “It’s over, you’re safe.”

The next instant her arms are wrapped around me and she weeps on my chest. I return her embrace, cuddle her close. Even something like me likes being a comfort rather than a terror on occasion.

It takes several minutes but she soon winds down. “I want to go home,” she sniffles.

“Where is home?” I ask her.

“Cherbourg,” is her reply, “but I’ve got no way to get there.”

“Leave that to me. Why did you leave, young one?”

She ponders for a moment. “Being stupid, I guess. My mom was being a pain. Always telling me what to do. That’s how I felt. I wanted to come to the city, make my name, be free. I had no idea what I was getting into. Like I said, stupid.”