The creature sniffed around on all fours, humanlike traits forgotten as its spindly arms padded over to the fallen man. It had taken quite a blow, or so its disheveled locks and gore-seeping wounds implied. Those would heal, and were healing, soon enough, leaving behind moon-pale skin and pretty eyes, fetchingly matched by rusty streaks of dried blood. It was sniffing about with vigor, trying to find recompense amongst the widespread carnage for an unaccountably feeble sense of smell. Still, its path was unerring; it found its man. Gangly white fingers touched cool fabric, poked about at semi-warm flesh cooling under the influence of a bitter night and blood loss. The man was either just living, or newly dead; the creature’s senses were too poor to tell the difference. It got its grip around the man’s clothes, and pulled him over onto his back, neophyte knowledge only allowing it an effective kill from a mark as obvious as the veins of the neck. It wasted no time, well aware that noise and movement were a predator’s first grace, and it was no true predator. Taking out its tiny fangs, it tried to sink its teeth into the man’s neck. They didn’t sink, no matter how it gnawed. It seemed to be having some trouble with his vest.
About that time, Remi woke up and plunged a six inch piece of hardwood into its chest, at right about the normal location of the heart. He rolled over to get the job done, proper pressure and all, and, vaguely recognizing the particular wood as one of his ‘long stakes’, wondered where the other six inches had gone. Some idle feeling about on the ground while the creature scrabbled and screamed the last of its damnéd life away told him it had smashed on the ground under him. Bits of it were stuck in his vest, making him glad of the little planks of wood he’d sewn into it. He felt the slobber on his neck and was even happier for his invention. It he could invent a slobber-proof neckerchief next, he could die a happy man. His head hurt, no doubt from the same cause that was making the world wobble like it was doing, and his arm was damnable sore. The creature next to him shot up some impressive jets of blood, much of which decided to rain onto Remi, and lay still. Remi took a sniff of the air, and decided it had been a carrion-eater. Well, that explained the porcelain pale skin.
Your average vampire wouldn’t allow the wan carrion eaters to be so near their hunting grounds, finding them as detestable as Remi’s sort found the average vampire. They were fallow, worthless creatures, whose lack of instruction in the black arts of the blood-sucker left it animal-like and cowardly. Such creatures were usually killed by elder vampires. Still, it confirmed Remi’s idea that this had been a highly unusual set of vampires, and some well worthy of his attention. The very fact that they were a group was odd enough; the vampire was a creature naturally averse to society even of its own kind. Their tolerating the sort of dregs that fed off others’ kills was another Weird Battlement to add onto the whole Castle of Peculiar that had been his stay in this quiet hamlet.
His right arm hurt a whole lot. Turned out a good three of the missing six inches, give or take a few inches of girth, was sticking through it. Some blood squirted out. At least he hadn’t lost it. God forbid, right? The stick, not the arm. There was still a good chance he could loose the arm. Gangrene, and all that. Still no cure for gangrene. All this development in medical fields -Hell, even a cure for Vampirism!- and there weren’t no cure for gangrene yet.
Granted, the cure for Vampirism was Remi and his assorted ilk. Turns out some family members would rather have horrible sick monsters than peacefully cured, albeit entirely lifeless, corpses. Weird, weird, weird.
But, gangrene, yes. Didn’t have a cure for gangrene, was probably going to die. There were worse ways to go. One of them involved meeting Remi and getting certain organs smashed inside you, but there were a lot of particulars that had to happen before that. Regardless: glad it hadn’t happened that way.
Deciding whether or not to die right there took some time, after which, Remi was feeling much better. He couldn’t do much about the stick in his arm. Moving it was inadvisable. Moving himself was highly advisable. He was fairly certain he’d gotten all of the creatures in this particular coven, but you never could tell, as vampires were sneaky little buggers. Liked the dark, they did, and liked sneaking up on you, as that big dead bloke over there had tried to demonstrate. They were supposed to be good at it, too, being creatures of the night and all that. Luckily Remi was jumpy, and his first instinct was to shove a hardened pointy block of wood at vital bits rather than squeal or freeze or any of that nonsense. Long practice, that’s what it took to do this job; long practice and a whole lot of pokey bits of wood. Whole forests of ‘em. A whole pack full of sticks of various lengths. Lots of hard wood. Remi snickered.
Never mind his arm, he was losing his mind.
“Good God, Remi, what did you do?”
He jumped, but it just made a bit of blood squirt out of his arm. Harry dodged the pointy bit of wood that was lobbed rather ineffectually at his chest. The sharply dressed vampire obliged Remi’s profession by not using his highly honed agility, but rather by stepping a bit to the side and ignoring it. Good man, Harry was, for a freakish monster.
“Have at you, foul beast, come no closer or I’ll breathe Italian herbs at you!” Remi was in no condition to shout, as a bit of blood squeezed out of him again.
“Really, Remi, let’s not be childish. You’ve really done yourself in, this time.” The foul hell beast took a few dainty steps over the carrion-eater’s corpse, keeping his heels out of the muck, and took Remi’s good arm.
“...And it’s garlic, Remi, garlic’s the one that’s supposed to drive us mad. Why can’t you ever remember that?”
Remi really had no idea how it was that Harry always seemed to be following him. He knew, of course, that it had something to do with his idea that he’d be the one to ‘turn’ Remi. There was also the potential that it was something else, that Remi had strictly forbade himself from thinking of, and had slain quite a few beasts about, but which Harry seemed not to have any qualms with, but then again, he was a Soul Damned to Hell on Earth, so you couldn’t reckon things always right with him...
“Could’ve sworn it was Basil,” Remi giggled. “Hey, get it? I say, ‘Basil’ remember him, the one who...”
“Yes, yes, not only the lamest pun you’ve possibly ever come up with, but also the man who cleared the Champs-Elysees of vampire scum and died of the syphilis on his mistress’s beauty-spotted bosoms. I do remember. And I also remember that both of those legendary events happened in a single night and that you hated him.”
“He was nuts.” Remi goggled while he tried to stop the flow of blood out of arm. “You liked him, you nancy bastard.”
Harry shrugged his elegant shoulders. “He tasted good.”
Remi gave a little roar, but Harry stopped the attempt on his un-life with yet another stake retrieved from God-Knows-Where by stepping out of the way.
“If you must know, I was rather punning on dirtier thoughts than my undead predilections.” He stepped behind Remi and lifted him by the shoulders. “Now, up, up, my laddie, can’t have you wallowing in that final victory just yet.”
Remi squirmed, but it was no use. For all their slenderness, Harry’s arms meant business, and there wasn’t the slightest strain in lifting Remi off the ground. Putting his feet down proved to be worthy of concentration though; the ground was slick with bloody runoff and his knees were numb from the uncomfortable position in which he’d fallen unconscious. Harry was patient, surveying the body-strewn battlefield.
“Have been outdoing yourself, haven’t you? What exactly was going on here? Surely whoever it was didn’t manage to turn this many people while you were having it out.”
Remi shook his head, willing his left ankle to quit flopping around. “Surely not. ‘Twas a coven, likes of which I’d never seen.”
Harry grunted, still holding most of Remi’s weight while he turned his attention to his right foot, which seemed disinclined to remain solid.
“Yep,” Remi continued, “Bet you’ve never heard of the like either, you great black sinner. See yon carrion-eater? He was in on it too. Came sniffing around while I was out. Seems I didn’t please him.”
Remi’s laughter was a loud bark of success as he finally caught his feet. Harry obligingly released his armpits, letting him stumble a few unsteady paces. The pale man’s lip was turned in a sneer as he surveyed the former beast. “Disgusting. What self-respecting vampire would tolerate it on lively hunting grounds?”
It was good he wasn’t well, or he’d have wondered what Harry knew about the ‘liveliness’ of the local hunting grounds. Remi cradled his wounded arm, trying not to let the waves of lightheadedness overtake him. Surveying the battlefield was really quite a thrill. No less than six full-fledged vampires (though to be fair, only a few were decently aged) left dead by his hand, not to mention the carrion-eater and the hounds the wicked coven had trained to defend them. He’d never encountered a group so large outside of a major township, and certainly never one that was in active cooperation. It was both a credit to him and a noteworthy discovery to the Brotherhood of Slayers. Next time he found enough of the crazy bastards to count as a quorum he’d have to tell them. Or maybe he could just send a bunch of letters. It was dangerous to group them up like that.
In truth, though, it wasn’t the news for the Brotherhood that livened his thoughts. If he was to be honest with himself, it was the sight of so much evil slain, so much good done at once, that perhaps, just perhaps, it could count as some good for his soul. Some virtue to overtake the evil that constantly threatened him from within, the evil that he could neither root out, nor entirely resist, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many evils conquered, the lust that he’d been told stood as a black mark on his soul, the filth that lived within him, leading to this quest for atonement...
Some of his own blood spurted through his hand onto the ground. He watched Harry’s too-bright eyes follow it, then lock onto his own. Remi touched the sure wood at his side...
“That is an awfully deep wound, Remi,” Harry said, handsome face turned just so, topped by a coif of fine red hair set to a copper shimmer by light blue eyes, letting the falling moonlight catch a delicate jaw, skin too well measured against the bone, fine throat, gently curving shoulders, arched just so... “I could ease it, cure it, and cure you. Forever. No more suffering, but languorous peace...easy solitude with the best of your years, or perhaps, if you wished....companionship...”
Remi’s face set into a frown, stake held easily in his left hand. “Not while I have but some strength left, monster.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You won’t stake me, Remi. You’d feel bad about it.”
“Wouldn’t,” Remi returned, face set in a dolorous pout. “Not a bit. Do it right now, I would, in a second.”
Harry took a step forward, and Remi raised his stake. The vampire set his hands on his hips. “Really, now, must we?”
Remi nodded once, stake held over his shoulder. “As long as you’re unready to accept your due redemption, vampire.”
“Vapirism isn’t the worst of either of our problems, Remi,” Harry muttered, though his face broke into a wicked, fanged smile. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat and raised his well manicured hand. “I promise I won’t bite you, Remi, not while you’re so scary with your sticks and crosses and oregano.”
“‘Snot oregano,” Remi said, poking the pouch at his hip with the end of his stake, although that did explain why the vampires he’d thrown it at had looked confused rather than hurt before he’d staked them. A distraction was a distraction, he guessed... “Leastways don’t think it is...”
“If that isn’t oregano than Grandma Papadopoulos wasn’t an old Greek lady. You’ve been cheated. Come now, let’s get you to the surgeon.”
Harry offered his hand, but Remi swung his injured arm away, stubborn blood leaking all over his clothes as he hugged it to him. “I’ll walk myself, thank you. Don’t need any unnatural help from the likes of you.”
“Oh, good God.” Harry kneaded his forehead, but refrained from helping. “You’re probably going to get gangrene and die.”
“Now we’ll just see about that,” Remi said, setting his jaw and wheeling towards the dark forest path that led back into the hamlet he’d just defended from the Minions of the Devil, all without them having to ask. Harry took the pace of a leisurely stroller, nocturnal eyes letting him look casual as a mid-day dandy as he followed Remi into the forest. Remi was leaving a blood trail that would’ve been a beacon to any other vampiric predators that might’ve been on the loose, but he could rely on Harry’s presence to keep them at bay.
Not that it was particularly pleasing to rely on, but he knew, at least, that Harry wasn’t about to let anyone get their fangs into Remi before he did. Not the best of thoughts at all, especially in his weakened state. He worried if he fell in the forest, blood loss or the trickery of the dark, what the lithe vampire would do. He trusted him to help, surely, when Remi fell, Harry was there to help, but if he succumbed perhaps, to the black, if his right thoughts fell away and the vampire was the only one there, hands checking a weakening pulse, perhaps the lure would be too strong, Remi’s body would fail him...
Awful lot of ‘ifs’ there. Still, he set the homunculus version of himself to slaying his sinful thoughts posthaste. The flying of its tiny stake and mallet lasted all the long way through the forest, or at least as long as Harry strolled beside him.