The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The Right-Hand Man



Michael levelled the rifle, with the stock to his right shoulder; and the ‘scope to his right eye. He closed his left, sighting the weapon so his target sat in the middle of the crosshairs: and Michael gently squeezed the trigger…

… and, on the street below, a shambling, poorly dressed man with rheumy eyes, took the bullet in the back of his head.

Blood erupted from his face, mixed with bits of white skull and grey brain matter. And, the man dropped to his knees: ending flat, on what remained of his face – as around him, people screamed: some ran.

And, Michel smiled.

His was a mission of overt religious zeal:

For after having had his inspirational dream Paul Rooney had changed his name and become Michael Angel.

He had awoken, already aware of the plan that his Lord had in mind for him.

Then he had trained, both his body and with the tools of his new trade.

Paul Rooney had disposed of rubbish; and he had thought he’d always be in work – thanks to man’s throwaway society.

Then the recession had hit: and, his firms economic dictate had meant, ‘last in, first out’ and it hadn’t mattered that he was better at his job than other: he’d become unemployed …and it had torn at Paul.

Michael stood, after his first kill, satisfied with the result.

He slid the rifle over his neck, so the strap crossed over his chest; so it lay down the centre of his spine.

Having assured himself it sat as he wanted, Michael pulled his old ‘poachers coat’ over the vee-neck, maroon cashmere jumper and straight-leg, coal-black jeans, content the weapon could not be seen.

He stood, at peace with the world – having purged this Earth of one piece of human detritus. T here would be others: but, for now he would retire to his apartment, the boob-tube and a teevee meal.

‘Its been a long day,’ he thought, walking through the melee that had gathered round his first victim.

But, he felt content with the days work… and, that was good.

“After all,” he mused aloud, “I’m sure He would approve…”

A Fool On The Dancefloor





Olson sat on the end of the small, log built jetty, his bare feet scant inches away from the waters surface.

There was a blue sky above; it was moderately warm; and, there was no traffic on the lake.

He had succeeded in his objective ~ and, finally found a modicum of peace, after the hell of exams.

The pale young man, with lank blond hair and light two-day stubble, had been in The Lakes for just shy of a week: and it was only now that he had begun to relax,

Staring at his toes, he absently allowed his mind think of Cheryl, at Uni.

He couldn’t help it … She was so pretty; with long raven black hair; high cheekbones and eyes that seemed to stare right into your soul.

Olson wriggled his toes.

‘Cheryl:’ visually everything he could want in a woman.

“But,” he mused aloud, “she’s intelligent, as well.”

Olson was besotted: and, what was worse, he was well aware of it.

“Oh you’re wonderful at giving advice,” he said to his toes, “but can you take it?”

And, he knew the answer was, he couldn’t.

He had been warned to stay away from the end of year party – yet had he taken the advice he had been given

No.

Olson had arrived at the end of year formal after downing a quarter bottle of scotch: and, then falling to his knees before Cheryl, he had professed his undying love to her.

It was shortly after that his memory of the night ended.

But, Olson did so wish he had no recall of that particular incident.

And, she felt his wish, written with his breath on the water; and all that grew upon Her; or, understood, knew of that desire.

And Corwen heard.

He understood.

But, it was human business and of no business of his.

Corwen, a Dryad, knew his friend Derryn would be piqued with curiosity at the tale he would tell – and, he smiled.

And, abruptly he stopped walking; and feeling cheerful.

Derryn.

She would want to interfere. ‘Helping’ she would call it – and, there’d be some sort of problem that followed on from her helping.

“There always was,” he reminded himself, ruefully aware that on each occasion it had been he who had suffered, not her.

Yet even so, he couldn’t blame Derryn: she just wanted to be a human, so much.

And, he recalls when he had seen his friend hours ago, as she had walked to the edge of the woodland: she had dressed in a whirl of leaves and cobweb that approximated to a human’s attire.

He had left her as instructed – he usually did.

She would stand and watch the passers by, then return to him, with stories of the many things she would see – and, the wood nymph was concerned.

If Derryn felt the human’s pain, as he knew she eventually would she would need to help.

Not want, but need – that was Derryn.

“What to do?” He exclaimed, his anxiety showing, as Corwen danced from foot to foot.

He knew Derryn would feel the humans’ sadness – and, it was only a matter of time. She would feel it as he had once she re-entered the wood; and for all he knew that could be… now.

Corwen didn’t interfere: but had to, to save his friend from the consequences of her actions.

“After all,” he mused, “with her schemes someone gets hurt – and likely or not, it’s generally me.”

He turned and whirled, wishing upon wish that Derryn was here to say what to do. Then, quickly he knew that’d be the last thing he would want.

Her advice he could take – it was Derryns’ ‘Corwen you will do this, or that attitude’ attitude that frightened him so.

A summer older than his fifty, she seemed to know the Earth so much better than he. Yet, she liked humans – and Cowen couldn’t understand that, at all.

And, he knew he had to do something quick. Or, she would feel it and… she would she would need to help.

Not want, but need – that was Derryn, he reminded himself…

It was of the past; this pain was of the past.

“And what can we do about the pains of the heart that occurred in the past?”

Corwen muttered, knowing full well that something had to be done.

Yet, he knew that unlike Derryn, he wasn’t inventive.

And it was she who had taught him so much that he should have already learnt.

He just wasn’t like her; and such things made his head hurt.

And, his head hurt, as birds overhead sang and the sunlight dappled down through the leaves.

It was a beautiful day and Corwens head hurt, badly.

He kicked at some small blue flowers at his feet, causing them to scream as the petal flew from their short stems.

And, with sorrow, Corwen thought, ‘Sorry’ to the Forget-Me-Not.

Forget-Me-Not, is what the humans called them, ‘stupid name.’

What Derryn needed was flowers that could make the human forget the pain, the past and what made him hurt so; that could make him forget his pain before he walked much further, back into the wood.

And cursing his stupidity, Corwen thought of a spell he’d been shown that would change something into another something; that he had used upon himself many times, since he had finally learnt how to, from Derryn.

‘Transmogrify’ she had called it.

And he knelt, picked a Forget-Me-Not, again thinking, ‘sorry, this has to be done.’

Corwen stared at the flower, feeling it change in the palm of his hand.

And, as it became what he wanted, he knew what he must do.



*



Hours later, as the sun set Olson sat on the end of the small, log built jetty, his bare feet scant inches away from the waters surface.

He knew he had been heading somewhere; and then he had found his way back.

But, that was all he knew. Olson was puzzled, unaware of even his own name.

He was no more puzzled than Derryn though, who had found Corwen wandering aimlessly through the woods, as the shadows closed in around him.

She looked into his dead eyes and saw into his unconscious mind and realized what had happened: He had blown the ground flower into the human’s face, as the wind had blown… and his prevention had been worse than the cure.

Now she kisses him gently… and as Corwen’s face shows he is at home once more, she mutters to herself, “Now I’ll go and help the human.”

And Corwen can’t help but groan…