DEATH OF AN IMMORTAL (5)

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CHAPTER 5.

In London, England, Horsham awoke at dusk, on the second.  As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, he opened his eyes.  There was a soft sound in the other room, and his fangs immediately grew, his face elongated, his claws dug into the mattress.  He leapt off the bed and was at the door in moments.  He stopped.  Took a breath.  No!  Rule #3:  ‘Never feed in your domain.’  Take hold of yourself!

He was gripping the doorknob so hard, it crumpled in his hands.  Saliva dripped from his jaws to the floor, but he pulled his fangs back in.  He rolled his shoulders, trying to relax them, looked down at his claws and turned them back into human hands.

The servant girl on the other side turned when the door opened.  Her fabled master, who she had never personally seen, came in wearing a thick bathrobe, his dark hair tousled, and an even darker look on his face.   

“You are never to be here when I awake.  Get out!”

She paled, as if realizing how close to danger she was in. 

“I’m sorry.  The paperboy was late today, so….”

“Get out!”

“Yes, sir.  Right away.”  She nearly ran across the room and closed the door behind her.

Normally, the coffee and morning newspaper were waiting in the kitchen when he woke up at dusk.  The servants and guards who protected him throughout the day were gone -- for their own protection.  Sometimes he couldn't help himself when he first woke up.  At that vulnerable moment, his hunger was always at its strongest and most instinctual.

He sat and drank the coffee in three gulps, glanced at the paper and threw it aside.

He walked to his desk and turned on the laptop.  The Internet was the Wonder of the Ages.  Take it from someone who, although he was a little fuzzy about computers, certainly knew the Ages. 

For generations Horsham had hired cadres of young women to scan the world's newspapers for stories.  He'd spent hours every week reading the stories that had met the parameters.   As the decades went by without Terrill being found, the parameters had widened.  Sometimes it seemed like reading the news was all he did.

Now?  All he had to do was turn on his computer. By the magic of algorithms, he got a complete and accurate readout of the world's news, gleaning only the most pertinent.  Even now he had to read for a steady half hour every morning because of all the bullshit people printed.  Garbage in, garbage out.

He was eight minutes into his daily routine when an item caught his eye.

Portland, Oregon.  A young woman was found murdered in a motel, drained of blood, with two puncture wounds to the neck.  A broken mirror lay nearby, and police theorized that the fragments had been used to kill her.  They didn't try to explain the missing blood.

There was a vampire story nearly every day, somewhere in the world.  But almost all gave too many details and almost always at least one of the details was wrong.  This, on the other hand, was a basic news item, with no unnecessary flourishes, and that made it interesting to Horsham.  Even the fact that the victim wasn’t consumed didn’t rule out Terrill.   He wasn’t acting like a normal vampire anymore; killing this girl had probably been unintentional.

Portland was a place a vampire might gravitate to, just as Horsham migrated to the rainy seasons in different parts of the world.

He deleted the rest of the stories, but left this one up, with a note to investigate further.

Then he got dressed and went out to feed.

 Europe was by far the best hunting grounds for a vampire: multiple jurisdictions within a few hours of each other.  In the U.S.A. with its Homeland Security measures it was getting difficult to find prey in without attracting notice.

Horsham employed a random generator, and today the program had spit out the Highlands of Scotland.  It was a five hundred mile trip from London.  He hesitated.  He could overrule the random generator, but he preferred not to.  He also preferred not to leave of record of where he traveled, or he could have taken his private jet.

He only needed to feed once a month, so a two-day trip to the Highlands of Scotland wasn't out of line.  He needed a vacation.  He certainly could afford it.  Compound interest was an immortal vampire's best friend.

He bought a ticket with cash on the express train, luxury sleeper coach.  He stayed out of the public gathering spots on the train for the first couple hundred miles, ordering his meals delivered.  Raw steak, as raw as the law would allow.  His hunger for blood was growing with every second, and now that it was about to be satiated, the urgency seemed to grow exponentially.

He'd held off for months this time, trying to instill discipline in himself.  But he didn't want to wait too long -- he had a theory that the longer he waited, the weaker he became.  Being discovered -- and having to move, reinvent himself yet again -- was less of a danger than being weak.  Weak got you killed.

That's why he'd been certain that he could track Terrill down.  Terrill couldn't afford to be weak.  At first, Horsham thought it would be a matter of days -- then weeks, months, years, decades.  Occasionally, his old enemy would slip up, but by the time Horsham arrived on the scene, Terrill had moved on.

And then, for the last two decades, nothing.  No news.  Other lesser vampires were at work in the world, but Horsham could sense that they weren't Terrill.  Sloppy and self-indulgent, these vampires were often caught and destroyed.

Terrill and Horsham were the last of the old breed.

Eventually, it would be only Horsham.

As night fell, he made he way to the dining car. 

They all looked up when he entered the car -- of course they did.  He was a striking figure.  Six foot four inches tall, solid black hair and dark eyes, with a silvered goatee. (The silver was added.)  Dressed formally, almost last century, vest and boutonniere.  Rich man affectations.

Most everyone else was in shorts and t-shirts, even the well-off among them.  He looked around for young and unattached people -- men or women, it didn't matter to him as long as their blood was healthy.  It was habit; he had no intention of feeding where he had been seen.

There was a gay couple in the car and both men eyed him.  Three tables of old couples, and one young family.  There was single female, better dressed than the other women and far better looking than the matronly American tourists.  A working girl, he surmised.

He sat down, ignoring them, waving off the menu and ordering another raw steak, no salad, a baked potato and green beans, which he wouldn't eat but would push around the plate like a six year old child.  The proximity of so much human blood was almost too much, but he didn't show his growing hunger.

He ate the steak slowly, though he wanted to eat it in one bite, grab the nearest diner and feast on him or her and then the rest of them.  Short work.  No witnesses.  He could leap off the train at speeds that would kill a man.  It would be a mystery, another mass murderer in the headlines.

A shadow fell over him, and he wasn't surprised when he looked up to see the single female.  She was new at the game, her blood hadn't yet been ravaged by disease.  She smelled like the finest meal possible.

He didn't smile at her, but simply raised one eyebrow.

"May I join you?" she said, and her voice was low and seductive.  She'd spent hours cultivating that voice in front of a mirror, he surmised.

Why not?  He could smell her, if not taste.  She was beautiful as well, red haired and heavily freckled, with deep green eyes and a formal blue dress.  He could eat her up.  No really, he could eat her up.

He smiled to himself, and she took it as an invitation and swooshed into the seat opposite him.

He took his empty water glass and filled it from the wine carafe and handed it to her.

"Thank you, kind sir."

They talked, about nothing:  Weather, school, the idiot Americans -- raising their voices slightly so that they could be overheard.  It was fun, but Horsham’s bloodlust was rising along with his horniness.

He knew himself.  He wouldn't be able to satiate the one need without satiating the other. There were just too many witnesses.

He paid for the meal, and peeled off another hundred and laid it in front of her.  "Thanks for the company."

"The night is young," she said.

He was already shaking his head.  "I have an early day tomorrow.  Again...thanks for the company.  Have a good night."

As he got up, her hand landed on his arm.  "For what you just paid me I could..."

He snarled at her.  Like a dog -- no, a wolf.  He couldn't help himself.  He turned away at the last second as his fangs extended, so at least no one saw that.  But everyone heard the snarl -- everyone's hair had probably stood on end at the primal sound.

He walked away without turning. 

He didn’t sleep that night, expecting them to storm his cabin and put an end to him.

The next day, when the train arrived in the Highlands, he was exhausted and hungry and angry.  He rented a car, headed into the bright green slopes and valleys and fell upon the first couple he saw:  Americans, on bikes, wearing the ridiculous spandex.  He took great satisfaction in devouring them, leaving only the broken bones.  He felt newly alive, and strength surged through him.  He expended some of this new energy by piling so many rocks on the bones it would take an ambitious and curious person to dig down under.  These days, that hardly happened.

He drove the rented car back to London.

Last night had been too close.  He'd almost given himself away. 

Next time, he wouldn't wait so long to feed.  It had been an experiment.  If Terrill could resist for decades, surely he could resist for a few months.

Let Terrill be a fool.  No doubt it had to do with his qualms about killing people.  It didn't show greater discipline -- it showed weakness.

Horsham would feed when he wanted -- a vampire was meant to prey on the weaker.  It was his nature.  

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