Capetonification

Dr. Collins had stepped through the wall and was now checking the floor beyond. The dead man's voice sounded in Shadow's mind. "It's clear."
In response, Shadow kicked at the door that led from the stairwell to 63rd floor. The lock snapped under the impact and the door ripped off it's hinges.
Suddenly all hell broke loose.
A burst of automatic gunfire ripped into Shadow. He threw himself back out of sight again.
Hundreds of bullets slashed through the doorway into the wall of the stairwell.
The sound was deafening. Even so, Dr. Collins' laughter boomed in his ears. The spirit joined him as he sat bleeding from a score of wounds.
"You fucking asshole!" Screamed Shadow.
Dr. Collins was cracking himself up. He doubled over, seemingly struggling for air (Even though he was a ghost and he didn't really breath anymore), cackling like a witch.
"It's not funny. You're supposed to be helping me."
Dr. Collins wiped the tears from his eyes. "Oh relax, you're immortal."
"They can still blow my god-damn head off! What good am I to you then?"
Dr. Collins nodded. "Valid point."
Shadow examined the damage. He had been hit 16 times. The wounds began to heal almost instantly. After all these years, he wondered how much lead was floating around in his body.
He looked back up at Collins. "How many?"
"Four. They all have Uzis."
"Fuck."
The gunfire ceased.
Dr. Collins peered through the ruined doorway. "Oh. One of them's coming now."
Shadow got to his feet.
A pale face appeared - level with the barrel of Shadow's Smith & Wesson M&P45. He squeezed the trigger and the head imploded. Shards of bone and brain painted the wall of the stairwell red and the body dropped like a robot who's batteries had run out.
Shadow caught the corpse, hoisted it up like a shield and bolted through the entrance.
He hit a wall of lead, the body rocking in his grip as it absorbed all the damage. A scan of the room revealed a large foyer area, with several soft couches placed around a low but wide square table. He caught a glimpse of a shooter near the elevators and pumped two rounds into his face. Agony tore through his right leg and he stumbled. Shadow dropped the body, threw his weight onto his good leg and dived for cover behind the closest couch.
The firing stopped for a second as the remaining two Vampires reloaded.
Dr. Collins knelt next to Shadow. "They ripped your leg up pretty good."
Shadow nodded. "Let's even the score."
He dropped onto his belly and spun round to face the couch, his chin touching the floor. He saw two sets of feet slowly heading toward him. Drawing his second gun, he took aim and opened fire. He blew away everything below their ankles before they dropped, screaming.
Shadow struggled to his feet, grunting against the pain even though the muscle and bone was re-knitting.
The vampires tried to bring their Uzis to bear, but Shadow dispatched each of them with three shots to head, removing their skulls from the jaw up. He let out a sigh and dropped onto the couch directly opposite the big black double doors that led to the main rooms, waiting for his leg to become functional again.
"Nice work." commented the spirit, staring down at the formerly undead corpses twitching uncontrollably.
Shadow ignored him and ejected the clips from his guns, loading up fresh ones. He flexed his right leg, straightened it, brought it back down. The pain was dissipating. It was about right. He stood and limped to the big black doors.

The Aston Martin rolled slowly to halt in front of 70 Pine Street, engine burbling with a barely suppressed growl. The city seemed to be deserted at 03:00 in the morning, but the high street lamps kept it well illuminated, just in case someone felt the need for a midnight stroll.
after all these years, Shadow was back in New York again. He thought he had left this city and all it's shit behind for good. Shadow let out a sigh and looked through the driver's side window, his eyes climbing the 67 storey skyscraper, counting the floors. It was a classy building, old in style, completed just before the end of the Great Depression. He stopped at 63.
That was it: Alucard's home. He picked up the file provided by the Seeker and flipped through the pages until he came to the art depicting the son of the Lord of Vampires. It was a sketch by some japanese video game designer. The face was androgynous, hair long and white. Shadow couldn't take it to be true. All the Jap anime characters looked like that. The other photo showed Alucard wearing a crimson suit, with a matching fedora. This was also anime. He seemed like less of a fairy in this one.
Which one would prove to be more accurate, he wondered?
The engine died as he removed the key and stepped out of the vehicle, making his way to the trunk. In it was his arsenal of weaponry. He strapped on his leather shoulder holsters which held the twin Smith & Wesson M&P45s. Would he need extra clips?
Probably. Better safe than sorry. He wrapped the ammo belt around his waist. It contained six extra magazines.
Next, he took the Katana blade: Old faithful, no ammunition required, 2000 years old. A work of art from the ancient world, and the sharpest mother-fucking blade in the west.
This he hung between his shoulder blades. Previously the Katana had been enough, but Shadow had no idea what waited beyond those doors. Seeker's report stated that the building was owned and managed by a corporation that seemed to have a penchant for blackholing information. That was ominous enough and indicated that the security would, in all likelihood, be of the undead kind.
Shadow lit a cigarette. As he stood, sucking back on the death stick, that familiar rush started to creep in. His limbs became charged, his muscles taught, his awareness heightened, his senses became honed. He clinched jaw, parted his lips and gave a Death's Head grin.
"Dying time, Fuck heads."
He had one more drag before flicking the Marlboro away. There was no need for subtlety. These cocky slut-sons would never consider escape. He suddenly broke into a run, arms pumping hard, legs blurring. He crossed the wide street in split seconds, his speed increasing. There was a wide rotating door leading to the reception area. It was flanked by large windows bearing the emblem of the building. Shadow aimed for the one on the left. At full sprint, Shadow drew his right hand pistol. The crack of gunfire ripped through the silence of the city as he pumped three rounds into the double plate glass. Shadow leapt head first, his arms coming up to shield his face, and smashed through the window. It disintegrated upon impact. Shadow curled up, twisted and landed on the other side. He rolled on his shoulder and came up to his knees, both pistols drawn. Two security guards jumped up from their seats. It seemed slow and clumsy, almost comical. They were human, half-asleep, and panicked as they fumbled for their own guns.
Shadow squeezed the triggers and the tops of their heads disappeared in a spray of blood, brains and bone.
The bodies dropped. Shadow waited.
...
...
Nothing.
He stood and walked to the elevators. He marveled at the beauty of the lobby, marble tile eveywhere: on the floors, the walls, the desks, the turnstiles. On the way he stopped to check the building directory. Alucard's floor was not listed. He moved on.
The blood from the dead guards spreading like an ink blot along the tiled floor of the reception. Shadow stepped over it, careful not to get any on his white Lacoste sneakers and vaulted the turnstiles beyond them, coming to the elevators at last.
He pushed the UP button on the control panel. The first elevator's doors opened.
And a figure stepped out. Shadow almost fired at it.
"Fucking Christ's clit Collins!"
The spirit shook his head. "You're going to need all the help you can get on this one."
"Well, where the fuck have you been?" demanded Shadow.
The spirit's face became angry. "I come and go when I please! Not when it suits you, you ungrateful little shit. And just because you don't see me, it doesn't mean I am not there. Maybe I should drop the shield I have erected around your mind and see how you do when the Vampires start frying your brain!"
Shadow shrugged. "Whatever. So far none of this has been too tough. There was so much hype in all their published shit. I expected these guys to be a bit more hardcore. Ill tell you something though, these guys really took some creative liberties. Even Lestat was a pushover compared to what I had read."
Dr. Collins nodded. "Alright. But now you're coming face to face with one who is only rivalled by the great Dracula himself. Alucard's powers are astounding, and have developed beyond merely the physical. He can exert mind-control, telekinesis, teleportation..."
"Ok, Ok, Doc." Shadow broke in. "I read the wiki. Thanks. But once again, there is so much hype and bullshit surrounding these guys, I have a hard time figuring out what's real and what isn't."
"Well all I can say is that you should expect the worst."
Shadow selected the 36th floor from the digital elevator controls. He went to the next elevator and selected 27. At the third he selected the top floor, 67, and at the last he selected Alucard's floor.
He let them go and then headed for the stairwell, leaving Collins behind.
As he pushed open the door, Collins was waiting for him on the other side.
"Cool trick." Remarked Shadow.
"Do you have a plan?" Asked the spirit.
Shadow nodded. "Kill everyone and cut Alucard's head from his shoulders."
"You call that a plan?"
Shadow ran up the first flight and said. "Kiss."
Collins followed, puzzled. "Kiss?"
"Keep It Simple Stupid."
The spirit wasn't impressed. "You're a fucking idiot."
Shadow grinned and continued to climb.

It was another hotel room, in another drop dead town in the middle of America. A place where the insignifcant lost souls of an earthly super power came to slowly fade from existence, one day at a time. Why else would anyone go there?
Shadow stretched out on the bed, the hard mattress supplying little comfort to him. He pulled out the Macbook and attached the 3G card. It managed to get GPRS. It was slow, and painful, but Shadow was grateful to get any sort of internet connectivity at all.
He signed onto Gmail with his Dopey99290 account and waited for the page to load. Three minutes passed. A chat window popped up. It was the Seeker.

$33k3r: I take it you were successful in locating Lestat de Lioncourt?

Dopey99290: yup. got his head in a bag next to the bed

$33k3r: LOL! You're a crazy kid, Dopey. I really thought I would never hear from you again. Congratulations!!!

Dopey99290: thanks. i got to admit though, for someone nicknamed the FAG, he held out for longer than i expected

$33k3r: What did you do to him?

Dopey99290: 8 hours of torture

$33k3r: Wow.

$33k3r: Did he give you anything?

Dopey99290: yup. a name. alucard. he was screaming it near the end.

$33k3r: Alucard. Dracula spelt backwards. There was a Castlevania game featuring him on the Playstation. I think it was called Castlevania X. Let me google it quick.

A few minutes passed. Then:

$33k3r: Yeah. Dracula's son. He features in a Manga Anime series, and like I said the Castlevania game. In the anime series, he IS Dracula, who was caught by Van Helsing, turned to the side of good, and then renamed to Alucard. In Castlevania, he was sired by Dracula with a human women. His name is Adrian Farenheights Tepes (WTF?!?!?), but is called Alucard. In both versions it seems he is always at odds with the rest of the vampire community. Either way, he is a big fish.

Dopey99290: so he might be dracula himself

$33k3r: Yes. But remember, even though the Vampires created the stories and myths from their own lives, humans have gotten involved and developed them further, unknowingly straying from the fact. It's difficult to discern which of these two are true, or should I say closer to the truth.

Shadow sat back from the keyboard. Seeker was right. This was big. Either he'd get the Lord of the Vampires himself, or he would get his son.
He was almost there.

$33k3r: You still there?

Dopey99290: yes

$33k3r: How are you going to proceed?

Dopey99290: find alucard.

$33k3r: It's not going to be easy. If he's royalty, he's going to be in hiding.

Dopey99290: what are you saying

$33k3r: This will be triple my usual fee.

Dopey99290: done

$33k3r: I'll be in contact.

Dopey99290: any news on the one lestat calls mekare

$33k3r: You know as much as I do. I'm starting to think that Lestat made her up. I don't think there ever was a Queen of the Damned. Did you ask him about it?

Dopey99290: yes. repeatedly. he gave nothing up

$33k3r: A single Vampire, who if destroyed, will wipe out the entire race of vampires? That's a bit rich. Maybe he was just using poetic license to give his books some much needed drama?

Dopey99290: i need that confirmed. you can charge me whatever you like if you find her

$33k3r: Oh, I will. Trust me! :P Later Dopey!

Dopey99290: thanks

$33k3r did not receive your chat.

The Seeker had already signed off. Shadow closed the chat window and went through his mail. There was one from his former zNetworks colleague, Eddie. It read:

Hey Tony,

How you doing my man? Where have you been? I went to you place the other day and there were new tenants living there. What the hell is going on? It's like you disappeared over night and nobody knows where you are. You didn't even let me know you were moving. I tried talking to Jill, but she's distant and unwilling to share anything about you. What happened between you guys? It really looked like you were into each other.

Myself, I hooked up with a girl named Clare. It's been a month now, but it's going really well. I think she might just be the one. She even plays WoW with me everynight! It's incredible, I've never met anybody quite like her.
Work as always is a bitch. Joel is still up our asses everyday. I swear I think the guy hates me. I don't understand why though. I don't give him any trouble.
The work load has increased, and they still haven't found anyone to replace you. Things are not the same at zNetworks. The office is quieter, less friendly even. Harry Porter is always in a mood. His wife left him by the way. No one knows why. It's supposed to be private. Mario says 'Hi'.

Life is just not as simple as when you were around. I miss all the shit we used to talk about, all the lunch breaks together, just hanging out.
I hope you reply to this mail.
Looking forward to hearing from you old pal.

-Eddie-

P.S: Finally got my Druid up to lvl 80. Now I'm in the Arena BABY!!!

Shadow had a half curled smile on his face. Eddie's mail brightened his mood. He closed Gmail, disconnected the 3G modem and put the laptop into standby mode. zNetworks seemed like the memories of another man. A normal man. a happy man. Not the fucked up freak sitting in this motel room. Anger came, as always, and he tried to quell it. But it would not be quelled. He had given up another life to delve into darkness. He was happy at zNetworks (or as happy as a working-class man could be). He had friends, and a girl. He enjoyed the simple life it allowed him, a life rich in emotions. The same emotions he buried all those years ago under the grief and self-pity of his vengeance. As Tony Conrad, there were no complications, no super-powered freaks out to kill him.
Now zNetworks was gone, Eddie was gone. And Jill was gone. It was all gone. Again.
It was your choice to go on this quest, he said to himself.
There was never a choice, he argued back.
That's what you always say. It's called 'Being a Victim'. Grow up. Take some fucking responsibility.
I am taking responsibility, that's why this has to be done.
Then don't bitch about it.
Shadow leaned over and pulled the Jack Daniels from his bag. He cracked the seal and drank straight from the bottle. It was good. Too strong to enjoy, but good none the less. He finished about a third of the bottle in under an hour before laying it down at the bedside. His mind was swimming. He tried to take his Lacoste sneakers off, but failed. Instead he turned oh his side and pulled the blanket over him. Within moments he fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

There wasn't enough of him to identify, but Darius knew it was Lestat. He flicked the jacket open with the tip of the pen in his right hand and peered closely. The remainder of the clothing that covered the scorched, decapitated, disemboweled corpse was signature. The vampire had been using the same tailor for the last fifteen years. Darius rose to his full height. He was tall, over 6'3, and thin, his limbs long, almost spider-like. He wore a dark suit, a black coat over it. It was still dripping water. The rain in New Orleans had not let up for the last week and even now he could hear it slashing down on the tiled roof of the church, making it hard for him to think. He turned and was surprised to find that the priest was still present.
The man was freaked out of his mind. He believed that it was some satanic ritual that had taken place, desecrating the alter of the Lord. His eyes were closed, and Darius saw him mouthing silently.
Prayers will not help the damned, thought the black garbed man.
Darius left him to shit himself a bit more and continued have a look around. It was eerie. In a house of God, all the bloody tools of a torturer's trade lay carelessly scattered around the corpse. There was a blood covered hack saw, a spent blowtorch, some clippers and an empty canister of hydrochloric acid.
After completing a sweep of the church hall, there was still no sign of the vampire's head. The slayer must have taken it with him.
It was the first time this had occurred.
This whole mess was just plain fucking bizarre.
In none of the other vampire murders had the killer walked away with any of the body parts. Was Lestat different? Was this perhaps a trophy? Or did Lestat manage to get to the killer, thus causing this deviation in his M.O? And why torture? Previously the slayer had left behind only cleanly killed corpses. Sure, at times, when Darius came upon the scene, it was a fucking mess, but it was a quick kill - over in seconds.
The slayer had taken his time with Lestat. Was the torture purely for his excitement or own joy? Or was there a purpose behind it?
Darius had been trying to put a profile together, but this now caused him to re-evaluate his findings. Lestat was one of their kind's most deadly, ruthless and efficient killers.
At first, it had seemed that this was the work of another rogue vampire at war with his own kind. It had happened before, vampires with personal vendettas or age-old disputes, settling scores through violence. But then it continued. The targets seemed to be random at first, nobodies in terms of the hierarchy. They were scattered too: first in L.A, then Las Vegas, Phoenix, then L.A again. They were all killed by what seemed to be a sharp bladed weapon. After studying the cuts, Darius deduced that it was a Japanese Katana blade. Whoever it was seemed to have a penchant for the Blade movie trilogy. A vampire with a twisted sense of humour maybe?
A few months went by. The trail went cold, nothing more happened and Darius thought it was over. Then news came from Salt Lake City. This time a whole coven had been wiped out. A quick string of bodies appeared in New Mexico, then Texas. Once again they seemed random, so it didn't raise any alarms with the community.
The murder of Edward Cullen changed all that. Alucard himself contacted Darius. He was upset at the murder of Cullen. The two men had been lovers for over three decades. Alucard made it clear that Darius' career depended on the capture of the slayer.
And now Lestat de Lioncourt was destroyed. This individual was treading ever closer to the vampiric royalty.
More shocking and important to Darius was that the slayer had bested Lestat. He would never have imagined such a result.
Darius now knew, without a doubt that this killer was no mere vampire. The evidence at the murder scenes seemed to support this. None of the slain had stood a chance. The slayer had managed to end their existence with a minimum of effort. He was something else entirely, something far deadlier.
So who or what was at work here?
If he wasn't vampire, he was human, and a disturbing possibility began to evolve: the vampires had been discovered.
Or someone had talked.
Darius couldn't believe this was a mere man. For a human to take on a vampire, any vampire, meant certainty of death. Each of the species were deadly: Faster than the human eye could follow, hardy to the point of being invulnerable, amazing regenerative properties, and then there were the individual traits that each of the kind were able to develop over time.
No human could stand a chance.
Darius was frustrated. After all these months he was still no closer to the slayer.
And probably the most important question of all was: Why?
He had not even considered this yet.
Darius produced his cellphone, flipped it open and dialed a number.
The New Orleans Chief of Police answered.
"Cobler here."
"Cobler. Darius. You can send your people in. I am done here."
"OK."
Chief Cobler hung up. Darius pocketed the phone and turned once again to the priest.
"Thank you for your time, Father Connelly. The police are on their way."
The Priest nodded dumbly, not making eye contact.
He knows, thought Darius. Despite being so far removed from their original purpose in this world, the Men of the Cloth still retained an unconscious ability to sense the Darkness. The tall man's palled lips curled into a smirk and he crossed the large room, skirting between the pews.
He exited through the large wooden doors at the front of the Church, into the slashing rain of the storm.

Two hundred years of life infused him with the wisdom to wait for his prey. It could be called patience, but he thought of it more as a polite gesture of respect. The last moments of anyone’s life should be cherished and he allowed his latest victim the same privilege. He sat in the bell tower of the ancient Roman Catholic Church and waited.
Lightning sundered the night-dark sky, pulsing for a heartbeat, bathing the city of New Orleans in an eldritch light. Lestat the Vampire let out a long sigh as the thunder sounded, a raw wall of sound causing the world to vibrate.
New Orleans was a city he could call home. He had been a patron of its offerings time and time again. It had changed much in his lifetime. It had grown old, and the face of a new city emerged in recent times. The older bits became refined. And then it was smashed.
The floods saw so many dead, so much destroyed.
He had been out of the city at that time, but when he returned it was forever changed. He walked through the nigh, and he saw the haunted look that crossed the faces of so many of the city’s dwellers.
Lestat almost felt pity for them.
He was more afflicted by the ravages to the old familiar structures. Places he had frequented many times, whorehouses, clubs, restaurants. They had all aided in creating a golden memory. Now they were gone.
A great tragedy.
Lestat considered New Orleans a long-time lover to whom he would return when he felt the need of it’s familiar embrace. Only now that embrace was limp, and empty. The world had moved on, and as always, Lestat had a hard time keeping up.
The rain came down in waves and Lestat watched dispassionately as a homeless man loped down the back alley of the Church. He was completely soaked.
He spotted a dumpster and ambled toward it. He opened the flap, peered inside, and then fell forward. Lestat saw him disappear.
A hand appeared and pulled down the flap.
The vampire suppressed his disgust and considered offering the man a release from his sub-human existence.
The thought lingered for as long as the lightning flashed.
Then he shook his head to himself. He was in no mood to lay his lips on that unwashed body.
Instead he focused once again on his prey.
He closed his eyes.
The pulses of it’s ebbing heartbeat tickled the hairs of his skin.
Lestat felt arousal flooding him. It was like the soft breath of a lover whispering against him.
He filtered the man’s thoughts and realized that he and his partner were now ordering from the dessert menu.
Not long now.
Weeks had passed since the vampire had first spotted Craig. He was part of a blues band that played every Thursday at the Creole Corner Bar in Magazine Street.
Lestat had been sipping a gin and tonic when he heard the lilting tunes the man’s fingers elicited from the guitar he carried.
It was beautiful.
Lestat, as always, fell in love with this act of living art.
He soaked it up, experiencing near-orgasm at the peak of the performance. The music dropped away, and Craig went into his solo. Lestat watched him closely.
Craig was completely focused. He didn’t play the guitar. It was an extension of his being. And it was a medium through which Craig revealed his soul.
Lestat found it to be beautiful.
At the end of the performance, the applause was thunderous.
From then on, Lestat became his shadow.
When he was born one of the gifts he developed was being able to read the minds of lesser beings, such as his prey. It allowed him to glimpse the inner working of his prey’s mind. It afforded him the opportunity to glimpse their life, understand their current situation.
The more time he spent trailing Craig, the more he learned, the more he fell in love with the man.
Craig was bi-sexual. Throughout his young life he’d been with a string of lovers, and it always ended with him having to choose his art over his heart. It created a sad individual, but one that was hopeful and determined. He was currently involved with another man called Julian Fairchild. He was a New Orleans resident, older by twenty two years, and wealthy. He had genuine affection for the artist and helped where the younger man allowed. But Craig was proud, and plodded financially along. He was, after all, a struggling artist, and embraced the life as a consequence of his sacrifice.
Craig was an only child and moved to New Orleans after his widow mother died. He sought the moody inspiration the city offered, and in it his talent flourished. He was pushing the band to success.
Lestat saw all this and more. He felt Craig. He experienced life through his eyes.
And now his time was drawing to and end.
Lestat wanted that essence inside of him. He needed that.
It drove him.
The rain eased, and after a few minutes disappeared completely, leaving the city sparkling in the electric lights.
At Craig’s table the bill arrived. Lestat sensed Craig’s irritation mixed with appreciation as Julian settled it. They finished off their drinks and got up to leave. Lestat’s eyes fluttered open as he watched them step out into the rain-washed streets.
From his vantage point he could see all the way up Camp Street. Craig and Julian headed north.
Lestat leapt from the bell tower, landing lightly on the grass in front of the great wooden doors of the ancient St. Patrick’s Church. He vaulted the stone fence and set off in pursuit.
He cut through the alleyway next to the restaurant they had just left and emerged into Church Street, moving in an adjacent direction to his prey. He knew where they were headed, and he knew where to cut them off.
The vampire travelled with a blurring speed. No one on the street even noticed his passage. He hugged the shadows and became part of the darkness.
Lestat reached Girod Street and cut left onto St. Charles Avenue. He continued along it until South Maestri, where he turned right, converging on Camp Street once again. At the corner he paused and waited.
They were not far away.
He calmed his excitement.

Lestat heard them nearing, the volume of their voices increasing.
Craig and Julian stepped into sight. They saw the dark garbed vampire, and conversation died away. Except for the three of them, the street was deserted. Lestat calmly stepped out of the shadows. Julian was closest to him.
He punched through the older man's head and the face disappeared in a spray of blood and brains and bone. The leftovers belched out over Craig, and he suddenly screamed.
Lestat blurred toward him, clamping his right hand over the artist's mouth. This snapped his jaw. Lestat saw his victims eyes go wide in pain and terror.
His left hand gripped the stricken man's throat and ripped sharply to the right, breaking his neck like fortune cookie crust.
Craig went limp and Lestat caught him, cradling his body like a little child.
His teeth sunk into the man's jugular, slicing into the skin, puncturing the giant artery.
Warm blood squirted into his mouth, the rich metallic taste exquisite.
Lestat's vision swam. It had been months since he had last fed and his body quivered as the strength of the man's blood was absorbed.
He felt the heartbeat begin to fade but he wanted more. He hugged Craig closer, crushing him, hearing his ribs crack, organs bursting, forcing out the last of his essence.
At the very last second he released, and the pale corpse fell to the pavement.
Lestat struggled with the overwhelming sense of fulfillment. It was a drug, and he was O.D'ing.
His eyes rolled back into his head, and a rasping shudder escaped his bloodied lips.
A shiver cut through him and he was rocked by a series of convulsions.
Colours danced at the edge of his vision, and his undead dick became hard.
He stood there, in the rain soaked street, two freshly killed carcasses around him and energy, the life of another, coursed through his veins, revitalising him.
He was earth's deadliest hunter, it's most savage killer.
He was immortal, undying, the pinnacle of perfection, a fusion of heaven and hell.
The relationship between a vampire and his chosen victim was special. To Lestat it was a love affair. He courted Craig, got to know him intimately, learned his habits, discovered his hopes, his terrors. And in the end, when he took him, and Craig surrendered all he had, the erotica was unequaled in it's potency, it's sheer raw emotion.
This was his gift.
He had become a master of love and death, and he reveled in his own magnificence.
Lestat dragged the back of his hand across his face, smearing the crimson away.
Now he had to get rid of the bodies.
One at a time.
He remembered the church, and the vagrant who had crawled into the dumpster. It would make an apt hiding place. Lestat hid Julian's body and leapt to the rooftops. He bolted across them, his pace breakneck, despite having to carry the tall form of the now pale and deceased Craig.
He leapt high, clearing the distance accross the street with ease and landed lightly on the roof of the apartment building, barely making a sound. Lightning pulsed not far away, silhouetting the figure and it's burden. Thunder rolled as Lestat gathered speed for the next jump. High atop the church spire, he crashed, his feet scrabbling for purchase. His right hand snaked out, gripping the base of the iron cross that rose into the night.
A savage thought crossed his mind: Saved by Jesus.
The irony was beautiful.
He floated down to the grass patch. He dropped Craig and stepped toward the dumpster wrenching it open.
Aside from the trash, there was no sign of the homeless man.
He must have left when the rain eased up.
Lestat collected the body, folded it in half and dropped it in the dumpster.
He was about to leave to collect Julian when he saw the figure of the homeless man watching him from the doors of the church. He was surprised. He did not sense the presence.
Lestat swore. Now he would have to kill him.
"Wrong place, wrong time my friend." Lestat told him, a trace of resent in his voice.
"I'm not your friend, sweetheart." came the reply.
Lestat laughed. He tried to focus on the face to see if the vagrant was intoxicated, but a hood covered his head, hanging low.
He focused on the vagrant, trying to read his thoughts, his emotions. And for the first time in his unnatural life, he could not pierce the man's mind.
A flicker of doubt crept along Lestat's heart. But then it was swamped by his arrogance.
This was just a mere man. Even less. He had given up on trying. He was a derelict of society. Nothing.
Lestat was disorientated because of his recent feeding. The effects were still strong upon him.
The vermin spoke: "I know you like the boys, but are you just going to stand and stare at me? Or are you planning on doing something?"
Lestat smiled. But there was no humor in the gesture.
The man took the stairs from the church doors to join him on level ground. Again the scene was painted in shades of black and white as the arcing lighting rent the atmosphere.
"You seem to underestimate the situation, my friend." Lestat revealed.
"One of us is." countered the man in the tattered coat and hoody.
That was enough. Lestat leapt at him.
And was shocked as the human side-stepped. It robbed Lestat of a few split seconds of reaction time as he considered this. He knew how fast he moved. It was faster than the human eye could follow!
The man's left elbow hammered into Lestat's face. It was like running into a brick wall head first. His teeth, his precious teeth, were shattered on impact, the splinters spearing his lips like a hundred shards of glass. He felt the cartilage in his nose disintegrate as it was ground to powder. The pain was immense.
This was wrong.
This is not how it worked.
Lestat stumbled away. The intensity of the unexpected injury forcing him re-evaluate the situation.
Was this another Vampire? He sought to buy some time.
He turned to face his attacker. Once again he stood waiting, his coat fluttering in the wind that blew around them.
"How di' oo moov tha' fash?" Lestat asked. His injuries made it almost impossible to speak, but even now they were beginning to heal.
The vagrant shrugged. "That wasn't fast. You were just slow."
His fury cut through the pain and he flew at the human, this times his claws were extended, sharp and wickedly curved. His left hand slashed out, aimed at the hooded face - and the arm it was attached to spun into the air, no longer part of Lestat's body. Blood pumped from the terrible wound and the pain caught up. Lestat howled.
The human held a Japanese sword and he twirled, the silver of the blade exploding into a white flame as it reflected the light from the bolt of electricity that broke in the heavens. Lestat leapt high but, just as before, he could not match the man's speed. The blade sliced cleanly through both his legs, amputating them just above the knees.
The thunder rumbled.
Lestat screamed, more from fear and frustration than from the pain it extracted from him.
He fell uselessly to the grass, and used his remaining arm to drag himself away from the attacker.
The blade ripped into his back, slicing cleanly through and into the grass below, pinning him in place.
If he remembered how, Lestat would have started crying.
It was finally over. All over.
All his long life, all his deeds, his triumphs, his tragedies, they were all coming to an end.
The Immortal would be no more.
He swallowed hard.
So be it. He would face his unmaking as he faced all his challenges.
"Finish it, you slutson!" He screamed at his tormentor.
This was greeted with a chuckle, and a booted foot crunched down into the small of his back.
The katana blade was removed and the vagrant spoke: "Not so fast, pal. We got some talking to do first."
Lestat was about to curse him, and instead he let out an unearthly howl as the last limb was cut from his body.
Once again lighting flashed. Thunder erupted. And the rain came again.

In the church, Lestat awoke to find himself chained to alter of Jesus Christ. He looked around, his limited mobility allowing him to glimpse the empty pews to his left and right. The only light came from the burning candles over his left shoulder and the cross with the Saviour hanging on it was just above his head. He spotte the man with the sword out of the corner of his eye. He sat close, the hood no longer covering his head. His hair was short, styled, and he wore a dark pair of sunglasses. He had a two-week old beard which further obscured his face. But he did not look like a vampire, or anyone Lestat had ever seen before.
The man stood and Lestat hissed loudly at him.
"Down, pussy cat." joked the human. "
Lestat didn't understand why he still existed. "What's going on here?" He demanded. He spoke with force, but his words were empty. He knew that he was still fucked. He could not escape in this state.
The human scratched at his neck. The two week beard stretched down the length of it, looking like a scarf. "You're an arrogant bastard. But then again, I suppose you're an arrogant race."
The vampire had no idea where this was going. He kept quiet.
"So why Anne Rice? Did you just make the name up?" asked the human.
Lestat's books. The Vampire Chronicles. His great works. The story of his life and his friends, his enemies. "No significance. Just random. The name wasn't important."
The human nodded. "Just the content. I get it." He reached down and Lestat heard a long zip being drawn. He couldn't see what it was. There was the sound of rummaging, and then the human came back into view. He carried a canister. No. It was a blowtorch.
If Lestat's heart had a beat, it would have quickened.
The human continued to talk. "You all seem to love the lime light. I suppose you started it, didn't you?"
Lestat didn't answer.
"How did you feel when they cast Tom Cruise to play you in the movie version?"
"Fuck you!" Lestat roared.
The human laughed. "It's very clever. Your following has now reached cult status. Vampires are now ingrained within society. When we see a pale looking, goth freak in the street we think it's just another person with a hard-on for Dracula. The thought that it is a real vampire never crosses our mind. You can move around in absolute freedom."
The human lit the blow torch, and a thin high-pitched whoosh started. He adjusted the flame. Lestat watched him intently. Lestat hated fire. He had endured it before. It made him stronger, more resilient. But the pain was terrible. So terrible.
"There's a new vampire craze going on at the moment. These Teen vampire stories. Twilight. True Blood. Seems like you've been Eclipsed old timer. Excuse the lame pun."
The human drew nearer, and Lestat flinched violently.
"So whose idea was it to hide in plain sight of human civilisation?"
Nothing from the vampire.
The human shrugged. "Doesn't matter. But you fucked up Lestat. You gave away too much information. All I need from you now is an update."
Suddenly he grabbed Lestat's long wavey hair and wrenched his head back. The grip was like a vice, and he couldn't even struggle. Despite himself, the vampire screamed. The blowtorch came down to hover over his left eye. Lestat closed his eyes, whimpering. The intense heat scorched away his eyelid, and ate into the orb beyond. Lestat started screaming again. Long and loud. The eye ball boiled in the socket and exploded. A milky, crimson streaked pus erupted over the vampire's torturer.
The blowtorch was retracted, and Lestat's howling softened, became a whimpering and finally a soft mewling.
"Now you know that I'm not fucking around."
His courage was tapering, but he held on. "Suck my dick you fucking meat bag!"
"This is how it's going to go: I will ask a question. You will answer. If you don't, I use the the blowtorch. Remember: with your rapid healing, I can keep this going for as long as you want."
Lestat became calm. He looked into the human's eyes, and saw the truth of his threat there. Lestat didn't like pain. Fire was the worst. But he was no coward. Fuck it. He would defy him. Forever.
The vampire gave a gap-toothed smile, and suddenly spat into the human's face. The former bum wiped it away and adjusted the flame on the blowtorch.
Outside, the heavy rain drowned out the sound of the high-pitched scream.