Flower, Eggs, Milk (short story)

 

Flower, Eggs, Milk

(Random 2-word prompt- egg, wreck)

 

                He needed eggs for the kitchen... for the cook.  Just one tray.  And just a short walk up the street and back.

                It should’ve been easy.  Over easy.

                It should’ve been quick.  Quiche?

                But it had all ended up a bit of a pavlova.

                Mrs Spatchcock was baking tarts for the palace, but Flower had overslept- he’d been up late working at the pier- and he’d scrambled his responsibilities; it was his job to order the ingredients, and he’d messed up.  He’d meant to order a churn of milk and two dozen eggs, but…

                “What on earth am I meant to do with this much milk?”  The cook shouted and screamed, and cracked him round the ear with her palm.  “And one egg?!”

                “Uhm… let me fix it.”  And Flower had whisked away, with a bruise on his head and some coins in his hand, to the sunny side up of town, to the grocer’s, to buy a new tray of eggs… and to escape a beating from the cook.

He ran up the street and bought the goods with haste.

                “Oi! You gotta pay for that!”  The grocer caught him poaching a roll from the counter, he was starving, as he’d left with his arm full of eggs, and he’d tossed a spare coin to the man before he walked out the door with a spring in his step and no longer a care in the world.

                But that coin was devilled; it fell, and it bounced, and it chased Flower outside.  He hummed a tune as he chewed the bread, nonchalant, unaware of the catastrophe that rolled between his feet and took the lead.

                The coin careened down the hill, and swerved left as it hit a loose stone; it rattled to a halt and waited in front of a shop.

                Flower, his bread devoured, whistled and walked.  He could see the door of the kitchens at the bottom of the street, and Mrs Spatchcock in the doorway, arms crossed and face thawing.  The morning was improving, or so he thought…

                Meanwhile, a man in a hat spotted the cursed coin, and ducked to retrieve it, but as he rose up triumphantly, the golden disc aloft in his hand, a woman burst from the shop, blinded by parcels stacked high, and barrelled into him.  The coin flipped from his grasp.

                Ignorant Flower waved to the cook with his free hand; he was almost there.

                The money continued its path through the air; it clinked onto a roof, trundled down the tiles and swung into the guttering.  It sauntered along the half-pipe, swinging to and fro, never quite risking a leap to the ground.  It swirled the entrance to the downpipe, and then clattered into the tube.

                The coin rolled out, wheeling along and between the paving stones, ringing a chaotic tune along its rim before it fell, stuck unfortuitously betwixt two slabs just a few metres in front of Mrs Spatchcock.  It stood up proud on its edge, half in and half out… and unnoticed by the cook, or by Flower.

                And as he neared the kitchens, his toes caught on the coin in just the right place, and his gait faltered and jerked, and the tray of eggs was unleashed from his grasp and into the atmosphere.

                Flower didn’t quite fall, finding his balance just before, but as he stumbled forward, his eyes caught the horror on the cook’s face as the tray flew up and back down.

The eggs smashed all over her frittatas, and she screamed.  It was shock, at first, but evolved into rage.

Flower ran, but Mrs Spatchcock was faster, and she caught him in her grip within seconds.  The buxom cook, bosom sodden with ovum and shells, accosted the short man, who shrank back in terror.

The cook kicked.

Punishment was dealt; Flower fell to the floor, clutching his bruised macarons.

And he realised that it wouldn’t just be the kitchen that needed new eggs…

Ow.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Flower and the Carousel (short story)

 

Flower and the Carousel

(Random 2-word prompt- fair, horror) 

                Flower’s boots thumped against the wooden slats of the pier, tapping a rhythm that disturbed the cold night air.  The pier creaked, objecting not just to his hurried footsteps, but to the swish and swash of the ocean that tickled its wooden toes below him.  The arrhythmic tune both interrupted and heightened the silence, which was deep and sharp, almost dangerous.   His breaths laboured, he was out of shape, trailing vapour from his lips as he moved.

He was almost there.

The carousel had broken again, a late callout, and it was up to Flower to repair it before the Queen’s party tomorrow.

He was alone on the pier, though the stars kept him company, grains of salt scattered across the dark sky, reflected in the ocean.  He could almost smell them, the briny pricks of light.  Some were obscured by elongated grey clouds, misshapen tentacles clinching the firmament, ready to squeeze.  And the moon watched on, emotionless.

Flower shivered.

It ‘d turned chilly, a sudden change from the warm and dry day, and he’d forgotten his jacket.  The cold air crawled up his spine, fingering the vertebrae, reaching into his head and digging its nails into his amygdala.  He was afraid, but he didn’t know why.

He needed to get this done, and quick.

Flower swallowed his urge to run; he approached his target.

The carousel seemed strange tonight; it didn’t look quite like it was supposed to.  An uncanny valley of a merry-go-round.  The red and white conical roof wasn’t quite as pointed as it should be, wasn’t quite as symmetrical or uniform.  The support poles beneath seemed less straight, more… bulbous.  A distorted carousel.

No.

He was tired, it was dark, and his imagination was going wild.  Flower squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force away the inexplicable vision, and blinked.

Was the carousel the same?

He took a step forward.

Something broke the silence.  A loud clicking, syncopated and organic, pierced the cold night air; it was deep and low, at first, but rose and rose in pitch and frequency.  It creaked like a heavy door on ancient hinges, a door opening to what horrors, Flower didn’t know.  And it stopped, almost as suddenly as it’d come.  It echoed in his bones, and he found himself frozen to the spot.

He could still hear the ocean, baying at the shores, biting the struts of the pier.  The wood groaned in response.  But everything was different.  The music of this night was out of tune.

And the salt in the air was stronger; it tingled the hairs in his nose.

His heart was in his throat, his breathing shallow, and he realised he was no longer alone… if he’d even been alone to begin with.

There was someone... something else here.

Flower’s eyes scanned the carousel, searching, probing the shadowy mounts trapped within its cage for something out of place.  Seahorses seemed to rear up in fright.  Sharks shrank away.  A whale opened its gigantic maw to scream.  The petrified sea life, once merry and inviting, wore terrifying faces in the gloom.  Hordes of glass eyes watched Flower from inside the ride.

He gulped down his heart and took another step.

His boot slapped and splashed into a shallow puddle that was creeping its way along the decking.  It was coming from the carousel.

He stopped again.

A pool of water, as wide as the merry-go-round, was spreading out from its mechanical carcass.  Like blood from a wound.  And now that he was a little closer, he realised the whole thing was wet, soaking, the frightened wooden creatures glossy.  Dripping.  He could hear the drips, quiet ticks counting down.

Flower could feel it now, the presence.  Something large and looming.  Hidden in the dark.  Close.

The smell of the sea was strong now, pungent.  He could taste it.

The carousel moved.  Just slightly, and not as it should.  The supports warped, and shifted, the roof shuddered.

And the clicking returned.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

It vibrated the air.  It shook Flower’s organs.  He wanted to run… but he couldn’t.

Kck kck kck kckckckckckckck.

Kckckckckckckck.

And then he saw it.

Large eyes stared down hungrily at Flower with rectangular pupils.  For a moment, they seemed to float in midair above the carousel, but then the ride transformed.  The roof rippled and morphed, the supporting poles swung up and out, tentacles, and the monster that was hidden in the night, camouflaged against the red and white carousel, revealed itself.

Kckckckckckckck kck kck!

Slimy orange skin emerged from the dark, invisible became visible.  Shape and form rippled into existence, a creature mounted on the roof of the carousel, undisguised and blatant.  It loomed.  Its big eyes, peering out from a bulbous and enormous head, examined Flower, seemingly waiting for something, and he realised his mouth had fallen open in reply, an empty scream trapped inside his throat.  He prayed to survive, but only an eldritch god consumed his thoughts.

Kraken.

A long and thick tentacle, swathed in suckers, whipped up and out, barrelled into his chest, it hurt, and Flower was thrown back.  He hit the deck hard, wind knocked from his lungs, and his body bounced across the wood before scraping to a halt.   He struggled to catch his breath, winded, broken ribs.  Bruised.  He wanted to scream, wanted to run.  He rolled onto his side, and vomited.

Kck kck kck kck kck kck kck.

The colossal cephalopod was still there, waiting, and Flower could do nothing but wait for his death.

The creature’s round head throbbed in and out, eyes narrowed, pupils focussed on him.  Its arms slithered on the wet pier, tracing slow spherical and curved paths, drawing unnatural runes in the puddles.

Flower watched in terror.

And then it screamed, a series of ear-splitting clicks that breached the night air fast and frantic.  Tentacles gripped and clawed at the wooden creatures of the carousel beneath it, ripping and pulling, tearing and rending.  The ride creaked and cracked in agony.  The kraken cried out.

The end was nigh.

Flower closed his eyes.

Silence.

A loud splash.

Salt lingered in his nose, on his tongue.  The screeching call of the monster rung in his ear.  Its cold presence lingered along his spine.  Everything hurt.

He peeked out into the night, and saw nothing but the empty carcass of the carousel.

The kraken had stolen away the seahorses and sharks, and the whale; it had caught its prey, its food, and retreated to the depths.

Flower was alone on the pier, thankfully unappetising.

The End.

Next Flower Story

Flower's First Night (short story)

 

Flower’s First Night

(Random 2-word prompt- pudding, security)

                Flower, it was his first night on the job, ran.

                It wasn’t the best start at protecting the Queen’s tarts, and he’d been warned about the ants, but he hadn’t expected them to be THAT big.  He prayed that this one was the exception; one was already too much to handle.  Not that the confectionary gods ever listened.

                He’d dropped his sword as soon as he’d seen it.  Not on purpose.  He just hadn’t expected the thing to crash through the window like that.  It’d given him a fright.  The colourful stained glass shattered, the dark wooden muntins and stiles folded like paper, and the stones of the walls shook and cracked.  A large brown oval head, garnished with gigantic snapping blood-red mandibles, burst into the corridor, followed by a huge thorax and it’s supporting elongated legs.

                Flower had dropped his sword and ran, not realising until he was around the corner that perhaps the ant’s size was the reason he’d been given a weapon in the first place.  He’d abandoned it, and the vault of sugary tarts he’d sworn to protect, in favour of his own life.  And now the large insect chased him.

Oh dear.

He’d expected monsters to scream, but not this one.  It clicked and clacked, chattering loudly like a pair of rulers being slapped against skin.  It grated his senses.  Flower got the impression that it was calling for others, other ants to join the hunt.  Oh no.  Gods forbid that any more of those insects invaded the castle vaults, but there was food here, the royal tarts, and he knew ants had the sweetest tooth.

His boots thumped against the vibrant carpet that ran the lengths of the halls, and he darted by paintings of tart ancestors, saccharine portraitures of treats long forgotten.  The bug was wreaking havoc behind him, destroying priceless artifacts, but he wasn’t here to protect those trinkets, and he had to keep running.  His breaths laboured, he was exhausted, and the ant was swift.  He felt a stitch in his side.  He kept running.  He sucked in oxygen through the pain, realising that the ant stank, something he’d never noticed before.  These passages usually smelled sweet and freshly baked, but the pungent aroma of the giant ant had consumed the air.  Acidic, like vinegar.  Intense.  It made his eyes water.

Flower ran as fast as he could, the ant close behind him, clicking and clacking, snapping and clapping its mandibles.  He tried not to scream, waste his breath, for there was salvation ahead.  If he could reach the doors, if he was fast enough, he’d be able to call for help, sound the alarm for the other guards to tackle the formidable formicidae.

He collided with the door, it winded him, and the hard carpet caught him as he fell.  Ow!  The door was locked!  Oh dear.

Flower climbed to his feet.  He wondered for a moment why the ant hadn’t caught him yet, taken his small and frail body between its mandibles and severed his top from his bottom.  He faced it.

The large ant towered over him, considering the man with its compound eyes and twitching elbowed antennae.  It was silent, no chitter-chatter.  The creatures head tilted to the side; there was an intelligence there, ancient and deadly.

Flower suddenly realised that perhaps this creature was not craving the delicious round tarts of the Queen, with their succulent and sweet fillings encased in rich and flaky pastry, but it desired the savoury meats and crunchy bones of a short little guard on his first night on the job.

Oh no.

He considered banging on the locked door, crying out, but he knew that the giant ant would have him as soon as he turned his back.

There was only one thing for it.

He’d fight.

But he needed one thing first.

Flower screamed and ran.  He ducked under the enormous thorax, weaved between long and dangerous legs, dodged around the bulbous abdomen and ran and ran and ran as fast as his legs could take him.

He looked back.  The ant thrashed against walls that weren’t wide enough for its enormous bulk to turn around, breaking the canvases and ornaments adorning them.  Its creepy voice chittered, broke its silence, and was more urgent, angrier.  The ant was furious at him.

Uh oh.

The massive monster moved forward, away from him, and it’s padded feet gripped the door and walls in front of it.  It climbed up and over, defying gravity as it reached the ceiling and then traced a spiral path down the wall and back to the level floor.  It faced him.  Mandibles snapped the air in triumph and the chase begun again.

Flower had the lead this time and he used his advantage to reach the broken window where the giant ant had first forced its way into the castle.  He frantically searched for his sword, and found it amongst broken glass.  Yes!  He gripped it tight and faced down the corridor waiting for the inevitable confrontation with the creature.

He gulped down his fear on a dry throat.

The gigantic ant neared, jaws ready to munch Flower’s body to dust.

Oh no, he couldn’t do this.

There was no way he could battle this huge creature and win, not on his first night of the job.

Flower scurried to his left, fumbling for the vault’s keys on his belt.  The pungent perfume of the ant was getting more intense, it’s skittering and chittering louder.  It was almost upon him.

He slammed the key into the vault’s lock, yelling and cursing the gods at his fate, and the door to the delicious tarts clicked open just as the insidious insect reached him.

Flower screamed.

                The creature reared up, its mandibles snapped a hungry message, telling the man he was dinner, and Flower darted into the vault.

                He slammed the door, but the ant was quicker.  It pressed its weight against the vault, fighting against his efforts to get to safety.  He pushed back, the entrance ajar, opening and closing as the giant head and jaw tried to squeeze its way in.  Flower’s muscles strained.  He braced his legs, thighs burning with effort and his arms laboured against the metal door of the vault.

                He cried out, a crescendoed battle cry to steel his resolve as he forced all his strength, all his will to live, against the door.  The insect countered with its hunger, but his need was greater.

                The vault clicked shut and Flower collapsed to his knees.

                He was safe.

                He sighed relief.

                He stood.  The room was silent, there was no way the chattering creature was getting in here.  Not through those massive steel doors.  But what next?  He was trapped in here with the beast guarding the only exit.

                Flower suddenly noticed he was no longer able to smell the vinegary stink of the monster; it’d been replaced by the sweet aroma of what he’d been sworn to protect.  The Queen’s tarts.  Their scrumptious and fragrant scent filled his nostrils, and he was suddenly a little peckish.  He’d used a lot of his stamina against that humungous monster, and it’d been several hours since he’d eaten any dinner.

                Flower eyed the stacks and stacks of tarts, hundreds of sweet treats, that filled the large vault.  Just one little cake wouldn’t do any harm.  One dessert.

                Oh yes.

                His mouth salivated.

                Flower reached for the nearest tart.  It appeared to be strawberry.  His favourite.  He took a bite, ignoring the iced lettering on its surface, but he’d soon know why the Queen had locked up her delicious puddings.

                The letters on the tart read: “Eat me.”

                Oh dear.

                She'd have his head for this.

The End.

Next Flower Story

In His Sights (short story)

 In His Sights

By T. A. Jenkins 

Q33RX steadied the barrel of the gun on the window ledge.  His cybernetic enhancements synchronised his eyesight with the muscles in his hand and arm, and he brought his prey into his sights.  It would be a clean headshot.  No collateral damage.

Nick Calon was going to die tonight.

His target looked happy, surrounded by his friends in the restaurant, a drink in hand.  Laughing.  Smiling.  But that didn’t matter.  Nick Calon had been judged guilty by the Religitron Mainframe and would face justice.  He was the enemy.

The shot was lined up, Calon’s face caught in the crosshairs.  The man smiled, almost directly at the cyborg assassin.

Q33RX stroked the trigger and… hesitated.

Déjà vu?

There was something about that smile.  Nick… Nick Calon’s smile, his face... he’d seen it before.

No.  That wasn’t right.  Of course he’d seen the man’s face before; he knew who he was going to kill.  He’d seen the mission brief.  He’d memorised the face of the man he needed to kill.

He lined up his shot once more.

But why the déjà vu?  Had the interspace teleporter messed up the wiring in his brain?  Like his arm?  He’d fixed that, but he couldn’t fix his brain.

And Calon was still there, smiling.

Q33RX had a mission.

He adjusted his grip on the rifle; the sight had slipped again, and he returned Nick Calon’s head to the crosshairs.

This was it.

Time to carry out the mission.

Time to kill an enemy of the Mainframe.

His finger stalled on the trigger; he couldn’t do it.  It should be easy.  It was his job, his mission.

Why couldn’t he do it?

Was he really that broken?

His hand held a frozen grip on the gun, ready to shoot.

Ready to kill.

This was why he was here, why he’d climbed up through the depths of the space station to get here, now.  He knew who he was going to kill.  Nick Calon had to die, no matter how he smiled, how he laughed with his friends, or how…

No.

Q33RX took a breath, steadied his resolve, and fired.

 

5 hours earlier.

 

It felt like an intake of breath, a gasp, but there’d been no air in the in-between.

Q33RX was there… and now, he was here.

A sudden, unpleasant jolt through spacetime.

It had taken a toll on him.

Colours flashed in his head; his eyes prickled as if a thousand needles had caressed the surface all at once, and his naked body dropped to its hands and knees.  He felt sick.

He’d tried to focus, to tell his cybernetic form to get its act together, but his thoughts weren’t quite in the same place as he was, almost as if they’d been left behind where he’d been and hadn’t caught up.

His stomach convulsed and he retched; he hadn’t been allowed any solid food for the last twenty-four hours and that worsened the cramps in his midriff.

He needed to move, to stand up.

He had a mission to carry out.

His blurred vision was starting to clear, and he found himself staring at a tiled ceramic floor.  It was dark, but he could still make out an alternating black and white pattern sprawling beneath him.  A chessboard floor.

The mission would be simpler than chess; an assassination, his first, but the conversion process had prepared him well.

Cyber-agent Q33RX climbed to his feet.  He was unsteady, still dizzy from the teleportation, and the robotics in his left arm had shorted out through the in-between space.  Easy enough to fix.  Inorganic material wasn’t well suited to instantaneous transport; it bore major risk, but his more human, fleshy exterior was mostly protective of his internal, non-human components.  Mostly.  He was lucky it was only his arm that’d been damaged.  He’d heard some agents had suffered complete neural overload.  They’d seen ghosts.  Gone crazy.  Failed.

He wouldn’t fail.

Q33RX found himself in a closet, abandoned, given the state of the small room.  Dried out rotten mops and decayed brushes huddled together in a corner, and, lurking nearby, a rusted bucket containing a murky and chunky liquid.  A shelving unit leant against the wall to his right, mostly empty, but he could see, amongst some other paraphernalia, the remnants of abandoned cleaning fluids and decayed toilet paper within its carcass.  An old wooden door bowed awkwardly in its jamb before him; it was closed but drastically misshapen.  Dim green light whispered though the glass panel and highlighted the word ‘MAINTAINENCE’ which was printed backwards on the surface.

He’d arrived, as planned, somewhere in the old and neglected central levels of the space station and, like many Earth cities, it had grown over time by building on top of existing structures, quite literally burying the past as the population grew.  Though in this case it had expanded outwards, an inflating sphere of twisted metal, plastic, and flesh.

He looked at his left arm, a limp limb of metal and plastic wrapped in his nude flesh.  The teleport system had only transported him.  No clothes, no weapons.  And until he made his way to the drop point, where a spy had secreted a mission case, he’d only be able to rely on his own cybernetic enhancements.  Right now, he had what he needed for a simple repair.  With his right arm he reached into his mouth and retrieved a small multitool concealed within the cavity in his throat.  He released the blade from the tool and begun to cut into the flesh of his left arm.  It hurt, but he could handle it; he needed both limbs to kill and a little pain was a fair trade off.

He got to work.  He unscrewed a panel just beneath the surface of his skin and dug into the circuits within with the tool.  He had to be quick; he knew the consequences if he failed this mission.  It was all or nothing.  He clipped a wire and swore at a painful spark.  If he didn’t succeed, or if he was detected, the Religitron Mainframe would send another cyber-agent to destroy him and finish the job.  The Mainframe didn’t accept failure.  He disconnected a couple of wires, then reconnected them onto different circuits, causing a surge through his left arm.  That should do it.  He tested every joint and muscle, flexing his fingers and rotating his wrist, extending and retracting his elbow, rolling his shoulder.  Yes, all fixed.

He found an old first aid kit tucked at the back of one the shelves.  The bandages inside were a little decrepit but would be good enough; he used one roll to wipe away the excess blood and wrapped the rest of the bandages tightly around his arm.  It was the first bit of clothing he’d worn since he’d stripped off for the teleporter.  A full set of clothes was his next step, but not because of any sense of modesty; he needed to be able to navigate the higher levels of the space station without drawing any undue attention.  Nudity in public spaces wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

He headed for the exit.  The door handle was a little rusted, and he found he needed to shove hard against the jammed, warped door to open it.  It gave way with a splintered crunch.  Q33RX stepped out of the closet into a desolate corridor beyond.

The space station was huge, a city of cities, and he only had a vague idea where he was within its depths.  The hall was lit by dim green emergency lights, a sign that no power was diverted here, and it’s non-descript walls gave little away.  Not even the station’s homeless came here.  Not even rats.

It was a place for ghosts.

And cyborg assassins.

He could see several doors in the gloomy hall, and it only took a short search to find some old maintenance overalls and a pair of serviceable boots in one of the rooms.  He couldn’t make out their colour; they may have been brown, blue, green, or even pink; it was difficult to see the full spectrum in this emerald light.  Not that it mattered.  Clothes were clothes.  Aside from what he’d needed, there’d been very little else of note to be found; most of rooms contained old computer terminals that were useless without power, or rows and rows of filing cabinets.  Abandoned admin.

As he wandered, he found himself lost, and all he could do was choose a direction and keep going until he found something to clue him in on his location.  He had five hours to complete his mission.  Five hours to kill.

It was an hour later when he was a little less lost; he found a map.  As he approached it, he thought he saw a face staring back at him from the reflective surface; it wasn’t his own, but someone familiar.  A trick of the light.  Shadows.  It disappeared almost as soon as he’d seen it, replaced with his own grim face looking back at him from behind the diagram.

It’d been a ghost, his imagination directing him to his pick-up point.

Another hour passed before Q33RX reached an abandoned office several floors up.  It’d taken much longer than expected to get here; some of the passages had been blocked by debris.  Some had collapsed entirely.  There’d been no direct route.

The office was littered with hundreds of desks, lined in imperfect rows skewed by time, all with broken computer terminals.  Most were cracked open like rancid eggs and stripped of their electronic yokes.  They were dusty and stained.  Useless.  He walked between them, checking the desk numbers, counting along until he reached the one he needed.

Zero-thirty-three.

It was almost indistinguishable from the others, though a fractured chair lay sprawled on its back in front of the terminal.  He kicked it to one side.  There was a filing cabinet under the desk, and he yanked opened the bottom drawer to find a metal box.  The mission case, just as planned.  He lifted it out and placed it on the desk next to the busted computer.

He froze, hearing the click of a trigger behind him.

“Don’t turn around,” said a man.  His voice was deep, smooth, almost comforting.  “I just want to ask you a question.”

“Why?”  He ran a finger along the metal seems of the case; there would be a gun inside.  “Who are you?”  He wasn’t sure if he’d be fast enough to get it before the intruder could fire his own.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“Are you the spy?” said Q33RX.  “Did you leave me this case?”  He wondered if he was talking to a double agent.

“Does it matter?”

“What do you want?”

“I told you; I want to ask you something.”  The voice was coming from his back left, around five metres back.  “About what you’re about to do.”  Q33RX had clocked a doorway near there, one of only a few ways into this office.  “I want you to think about your mission.”

“It’s the only thing I’ve got on my mind,” said Q33RX.  He kept his hand on the metal case, almost willing it open to get the gun.  “I know what I need to do.”

“You should get that arm looked at.”

He didn’t reply.

“Tell me, do you know who you’re going to kill?”

“The enemy,” he snapped.  He considered throwing the box at him, to distract him, skew his gun’s aim, so he could charge at him.  “Everything I need is in here.”

“Do you know who you’re going to kill?”  The man’s voice was sterner this time, pointed.  “Do you?

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

“Who are you?!”  Q33RX screamed, grabbed the metal case, turned on his heel, and threw it at… nothing.  Just an empty doorway.  He, whoever he was, had disappeared.  The box clattered into the room beyond and bounced, echoing from within, the contents rattling and rolling as it settled.

He rushed after it, hoping to catch the stranger, to find out who he was, what he wanted, why he was there, what he meant by his bizarre question.

The room was empty.

A lonely computer terminal was overturned on the floor, no chair, and to its right was the remains of a battered and rusty filing cabinet.  Nearby he found the box he’d weaponised.  He squatted and opened it, ignoring the files and pulling the gun from inside.  He cocked it.  Another quick scan of the room confirmed he was alone.  There was only a sealed-up doorway to another part of the building, but there was no way he’d escaped through there, not without a welding torch.  Besides, it was sealed from the inside.

This was impossible.

Had Q33RX been wrong?  Had the man been somewhere else in the office?  No, this was definitely where the voice had come from.

And who was he?  A spy?  Double agent?  Was he working for the enemy?  Or had he imagined the man?  Another ghost?  Had the whole thing just been a product of damage to his cybernetic brain, damage caused by the teleportation?  Like his arm?

He placed his back against a wall, keeping his eyeline on the open doorway in case the disappearing man returned, and finally looked at the mission files from the box.

Nick Calon.  That’s who file told him he was going to kill.  He didn’t recognise the name, or anything else in the man’s bio.  The cyber-agent hadn’t even been to this space station before, so how could he know who he was going to kill?  The stranger’s question had been nonsense.  He turned the page to the reconnaissance photos.  Nick Calon.  The face was unknown to him.  Another stranger.  No.  Wait.  He…

His arm briefly twinged with a short, sharp pain; he grasped it instinctively, bloodying his hand.  The pain was gone as quickly as it had occurred.

Q33RX refocused his attention.  The mission was all that was important, not the strange man and his confusing words, not the pain in his arm, and not whether he know who he was going to kill.  Nick Calon was going to die.  He spent a few minutes memorising the paperwork and photos, before burning it all with the matches left in the metal case.  No evidence left behind.  There was some extra equipment in the box, some sniper attachments for his gun, and he secreted them within his overalls.

It was time to move.

He had everything he needed.

He was armed.

He knew where to go.

He knew who to assassinate.

Nick Calon was going to die in three hours.

The cyber-agent took another look around the office with its rows of terminals, searching for any sign of his ghostly visitor, but found nothing.  As he’d expected.  If the stranger was a traitor, a double agent, it made no sense.  He hadn’t stopped him.  The man had still left the files, the gun.  If he was working for the enemy, why would he do that?  The stranger had just left him with a cryptic question and gone silent.  What sort of game was being played?

‘Do you know who you’re going to kill?’

He did… now.

Q33RX headed for his next location: a recently empty tower block in the populated upper levels of the space station.  A perfect sniper spot opposite where his target, Nick Calon, would be celebrating a friend’s engagement.

An hour and a half later, and after crawling up and along crumbled passageways and corridors, he emerged from a manhole into an alleyway just off the main concourse of a busy street.  He’d heard the bustle and chaos, the buzz and clamour of the city, almost as soon as he’d started headed upwards.  It’d been getting louder and louder as he neared his goal.  It was deafening now.  The several homeless people he’d passed on the levels just below the surface, and the one or two in the alley, were unfazed by the cacophony.  Desensitised.  Vehicles zoomed through the air above.  Cars chugged along the streets.  Dogs barked.  Sirens and alarms sang intermittently in the distance, and musical genres competed for attention.  People shouted, laughed, and talked.  And even the light boomed; bright and colourful illuminations pierced every corner, a mix of tasteless advertisements and gaudy flashing neon signs.  It was an assault on his senses.

And the smell…

He tried not to think about it; it’d been bad enough picking up its hideous gaseous tendrils as he’d moved from the musty lower depths of the space station and neared the surface, but here it permeated everything.

Q33RX entered the designated tower block through the back door, making sure to disable the security system.  Just because the building was for sale and the estate agent never showed people around on the weekends, didn’t mean he could just break the lock and do whatever he wanted.  He needed to be careful not to jeopardize the mission.

It was quieter inside, the walls protecting him from the discord outside, and he tried to revel in the silence as he rode the elevator to one of the upper floors.  His thoughts filled the quiet.  He needed to focus, to try and ignore the feelings of doubt that crept up his metal spine.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

The ping of the elevator doors took him out of his contemplation, and he quickly made his way to the room where he’d take his shot.

Nick Calon was going to die tonight.

Q33RX readied himself, opening the window and allowing the frenzied sounds of the city to wash over him.

He waited.

And waited.

He kept his target’s face in his mind, trying to concentrate only on the mission, only on killing the enemy.  It was his only purpose right now.

He waited.

And waited.

It was almost time; he’d arrived.

Nick Calon.

The cyber-agent watched his prey greet his friends on the roof of the building opposite and he kept waiting.  He waited as he watched the target eat, drink, and be merry.  Calon looked happy.

He would die happy.

Q33RX steadied the barrel of the gun on the window ledge and brought his prey into his sights.  A clean headshot.  No collateral damage.

Nick Calon had been judged guilty by the Religitron Mainframe and would face justice.  He was the enemy.

The shot was lined up, Calon’s face caught in the crosshairs.  The man smiled, almost directly at the cyborg assassin.

Q33RX stroked the trigger and… hesitated.

Déjà vu?

There was something about that smile.  Nick… Nick Calon’s smile, his face... he’d seen it before.

No.  That wasn’t right.  Of course he’d seen the man’s face before; he’d seen the mission brief.  He’d memorised the face of the man he needed to kill.

He lined up his shot once more.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

He adjusted his grip on the rifle; the sight had slipped again, and he returned Nick Calon’s head to the crosshairs.

This was it.

Time to carry out the mission.

Time to kill an enemy of the Mainframe.

His finger stalled on the trigger; he couldn’t do it.  It should be easy.  It was his job, his mission.

Why couldn’t he do it?

Was he really that broken?

His hand held a frozen grip on the gun, ready to shoot.

Ready to kill.

This was why he was here, why he’d climbed up through the depths of the space station to get here, now.  He knew who he was going to kill, didn’t he?

Nick Calon had to die.  No matter how he smiled, how he laughed with his friends, or how…

No.

Q33RX took a breath, steadied his resolve, and fired.

 

He missed.

 

The bullet shattered several wine glasses and tumblers on the shelves behind the bar; no-one, not even Nick Calon, was harmed.  But the bullet had shattered the happiness.  His prey no longer smiled, no longer laughed; he was scared.  He ducked below the tables, following the lead of the screaming and shouting guests at the restaurant.  What should’ve been a precision hit, became chaos.

Nick Calon was still alive.

The déjà vu was still alive too.

Did he know who he’d tried to kill?

Had that mysterious man, the voice in the depths of the space station, been real?  Or a ghost?  Was his cybernetic brain twisted up in knots from the teleportation?  Neural overload?  No.  What was happening to him?

He leapt to his feet and screamed.  He punched the wall, plaster exploded outward, and his fist went right through.  It didn’t hurt, but he screamed again, punched again.  And again.  And again.

There wasn’t time for this; if he finished the mission, if he killed Nick Calon, maybe these feelings and thoughts would die too.

There was no other way.

Q33RX unscrewed the sniper attachments from his gun, shortening the length, and abandoned them on the floor, before climbing out the window and onto the fire escape.

His vantage point was almost at the top of the building, and his prey was on the large roof plaza of a much shorter building opposite; there was a significant height and gap between them.

The cyber-agent knew what he needed to do.  The raw calculations from the computerised parts of his brain could be accurate, if he could trust them, but it was impossible to know every variable.  The soft, squishy parts of his brain, instinct, would compensate.

He readied his stance, one foot back, one forward; he braced his legs, preparing the cyber enhanced muscles in his thighs and calves.

He eyed his target.

Nick Calon, along with the other people at the event, were still taking cover under the tables.  He could hear sirens in the distance, and it was hard to tell if they were part of the usual melodies of the city or whether they were coming closer.  The traffic, flying cars and transports, continued undeterred, and life surrounding the restaurant continued as if no gun had been fired.  People were too concerned with their own lives and used to the chaos of this place of sin.

Q33RX leapt from the building, jumping into the gaudy illumination and the cacophonic commotion of the city.  His body fell between the flying vehicles, and he felt the whoosh and zip as they zoomed around him.  He thought he’d get hit, get knocked from his path, but either luck or his calculating brain were on his side.

He hit the paved floor of the plaza and rolled, scrambling to his feet, and keeping some of the momentum as he ran.

Someone screamed, a pedestrian, but he ignored her and pushed through anyone in his way.

He kept his focus on Nick Calon.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

He raced toward the restaurant.

Did he know?

He kicked open the door and cocked his gun.

Did he?

As he entered, he saw the food abandoned on tables, drinks spilled, and the guests huddled beneath the furniture.  He heard someone sobbing to his right.  He could feel the fear in the room.  Not that it mattered.  Q33RX kept moving forward.  He needed to complete the mission, to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy, to prove he could kill Nick Calon.

For the mission.

For the Religitron Mainframe.

For…

His prey was in his sights.

The cyber-agent grabbed the table and threw it to one side.  Plates and glasses cascaded and flipped from its surface as it smashed against the restaurant’s bar.

He took aim at Nick Calon.

Did he know who he was going to kill?

His finger pressed against the trigger.

“Quinn?” said his prey.  His voice was deep, smooth, almost comforting.

Something changed.

It felt like an intake of breath, a gasp, but there’d been no air in his lungs.

A sudden, uneasy jolt through spacetime.

The words had taken his breath away.

Colours flashed in his head; his skin tingled as if a thousand kisses had caressed its surface all at once, and his body dropped to its hands and knees.  He felt sick.

He knew who he was going to kill.

He tried to focus, to tell his cybernetic form to get its act together, but his thoughts were suddenly in the same place as he was, almost as if they’d been left behind and had finally caught up.

Flickers of moments, forgotten memories, bombarded his brain.  Romantic meals, holding hands in the park, snuggling on the sofa.  Echoes of another life washed over him.  A kiss on the cheek, laughing at the same jokes, playing games together, splashing about and having fun in the seas of a distant planet.  How could he have forgotten so much?  His smile, his eyes… how could he have forgotten?

Those eyes, that smile… they were his home.

“Quinn? Is that really you?” said Nick.

He’d lost everything to the mission.

Wiped away, converted, by the Religitron Mainframe.

His gun clattered to the floor.

“Quinn.”  A hand, a familiar and welcoming hand, touched his.  “It’s okay.”

He looked up with teary eyes; he didn’t realise he’d been crying.  The mysterious stranger, the voice he’d heard in the lower level… it had been no stranger.  Had it been his imagination?  Memories?  A ghost from his past?  His own mind had warned him with a voice he now felt relieved to hear once more.  He blinked through watery eyes to see someone he knew with all his heart.

“Nick,” he said.  “I… I…”

“I know.”  The other man stood, guiding him up at the same time.  Nick grabbed both his hands.  “Quinn, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“I was going to…”

The other man placed his finger on his lips and smiled.  Everything melted away, all the commotion and chaos, all the past and all the future; there was only the present… and the two of them.  And those eyes.  He didn’t want this to end.  He wanted to stay lost in those eyes forever.  Q33RX… no, Quinn… pulled Nick close.  They embraced, bodies and lips meeting for what felt like the first time.  Fireworks flooded his cybernetic heart.  He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten all this.  Forgotten him.

It had been stolen from him.

He was going to take it all back.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said as they broke apart.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nick squeezed his hand, “and you found me.”

“I… I failed my mission.”  He placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder.  “And now we’re both in danger.”

“I know.”

Quinn looked around the restaurant.  Police sirens were growing louder outside, and he could see Nick’s friends and relatives, still hiding under the tables, less scared more nervous.  They’d be okay; they weren’t targets.  But Quinn and Nick needed to flee.  “The Religitron Mainframe will be sending another cyber-agent to finish the job,” he said.  He nodded toward the door that led to the kitchen, and undoubtedly an exit.  He took Nick’s hand.  “Come with me if you want to live.”

As the words left his lips, Quinn knew that he wouldn’t just be saving Nick’s life, but that Nick would also be saving his, to be able to live as he truly was, and with who he was meant to be with.  He wanted to live.

The lovers ran, Quinn holding Nick tight, and he vowed to never lose him, never forget him, ever again.

He was finally home.

He had a thing for Virgins (short story)

 

HE HAD A THING FOR VIRGINS

It was a common misconception that people like him had no reflection.  He picked up the wine glass from the table and stared at himself.  It really wasn’t true.  He sighed and twisted the glass in his hand, checking that his widow’s peak was still fashionably pointed and that the collar of his velvet-lined cloak was still upright and in place.  Starch had been a wonderful invention.  One of many fascinating things in this modern era.  He glanced over to the bar and watched as one of the waiters tapped on a painting that changed with each touch of his fingers.  Fascinating.  It had certainly been worth rising from his coffin after all those long centuries.

 And here he was, a Count, sat waiting in a restaurant, dating again.  He was attracting a lot of attention, as he had expected.  A few sideways glances and whispers were aimed in his direction.  Some things never changed but of course, dating was very different back in his day.  He remembered a lot of wind swept evenings, full moons, open windows and flimsy nightdresses.  Not the best clothing to wear on a cold evening.  Then again, that was the sort of thing that was expected back then.  Not now.  Dating had changed.  Gone were the days of coy innocence.  The thrill of the chase.  The passion.  Gone were the days of midnight rendezvouses.  Of almost being caught.  Now, were the days of technology.  Instant gratification.  But he didn’t feel quite ready to let go of his old-fashioned ways, determined not let the old ways die out.  The restaurant and upcoming meal had been a compromise.  Igor, his loyal manservant, had acquired a device, a smartphone, which had painted his picture instantly to its glass face, and after only a few taps to this device had found him a virgin to... dine with.

 He had a thing for virgins.

 Igor had helped pick a particularly buxom one.

 Just like the old days.

 “Sir?”  A waiter stood to his right holding a pad and paper in his hand.  “Would you like something to drink while you wait?  Some wine?”

 “I do not drink… vine.”

 “Maybe you just haven’t found the right one yet sir.  I’m a fan of red myself.”  The Count eyed the young man up and down.  “No?  How about some beer?”  He wore the tightest pair of trousers he’d ever seen.  They didn’t leave much to the imagination and for some reason reminded him of those flimsy nightdresses from his past.  Fabric bulged and strained.  The waiter coughed, drawing the Count’s eyes back up.  “Or we have a selection of soft drinks?”

 “I vill try some… vine.”

 “Red or white sir?”

 “I vill require red… vine.  Red like the blood in the depths of the heart as it beats its rhythm passionately complimenting the music of the night.”

 “I’ll get you the house red sir.”  The waiter spun on his heel and headed toward the bar.  The trousers were just as tight at the back too.

 “You know,” said a voice opposite, “you haven’t changed one bit.”

 Sat across from him wasn’t the breasty brunette he expected.

 “Van Kelsing?”

 “Close,” said the bearded man, “but he died a very long time ago; I’m his descendant.  You, however, haven’t changed since you had that portrait painted way back when.”  He held out his hand.  “I’m Adam van Kelsing.”

 “You are the very image of my nemesis.”  The Count reached out and shook Adam’s hand.  The scion of his foe was dressed in a grubby t-shirt with a frayed jacket thrown over it.  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 The man nodded.  “Count.”

 “Forgive my rudeness but I am expecting company this evening.”  He stood and waved his arm toward the entrance.  “Perhaps another time?”

 “Please sit.  I’m sure your lady friend wouldn’t mind.  She’s not here yet.”  The Count sat back down.  “When I heard you’d risen again I thought I might come and introduce myself.”

 “And you have done so.”  He stared hard into the man’s blue eyes.  “You vill suddenly remember you have to be somevhere, something important has just come up.  You vill leave with haste.”

 “I… vill?”  Adam laughed and placed a wooden stake on the table.  “I’m afraid your mental powers won’t work on me; I’ve had training.  I don’t think Abraham van Kelsing would have lasted long against you without a few tricks up his sleeve?”

 “He was indeed a formidable foe.”

 A glass was placed next to him before being filled with a dark red wine.

 The waiter in the tight trousers had returned.

 “Some wine for your date sir?”

 “Yes.  Please,” said van Kelsing, holding up a small glass from the table.

 “He is not my date,” the Count replied.

 The waiter stood awkwardly between them not knowing what to do.

 “Come on, I haven’t had a tipple in a while.”

 The Count sighed and nodded reluctantly.  “Just the vun then.”  The waiter topped up Adam’s glass.  “But I implore you to leave my date and I to our business vhen she arrives.”

 “Will there be anything else, sir?” said the waiter, placing the bottle in the centre of the table.

 “I require nothing else… for now.” said the Count.

 “Yes sir.”

 The Count watched the waiter head back to the bar before turning back to a puzzled expression on the face of van Kelsing.

 “Vhat?”

 “You dirty dog!”  Adam took a sip of his wine and grimaced.

 “I do not know to vhat you are referring.”

 “If you say so.”  He placed his glass on the table.  “This is strong stuff.”

 “I do not often drink… vine.”  The Count held his own glass near his nose.  He sniffed.

 “I know what you drink.”

 “Vhat I drink in private is none of your concern.”

 “You’re right.”  He took hold of the stake and rolled it between his hands.  “Whatever two consenting adults get up to is none of my business.”  He balanced the wooden tip against the table and stared at the Count.  “But what you do is different; it’s monstrous and deplorable.  It’s immoral.”

 “Vhatever you think you know is incorrect.”  The Count sipped at the wine.  Vinegary but sweet on his tongue.  “You vill not understand unless you try it yourself.”

 “Was that an offer?”  Adam let the stake fall and lifted his wine to his lips.  “I didn’t think I was your type.”

 “Vhy are you here?”

 He placed the glass back on the table without touching the liquid inside.  “I want to know what you’re up to.  Abraham van Kelsing was never very trusting of your kind and neither am I.”

 “I have avoken in a different time; I simply wish to find someone to settle down vith.  As is expected of young men of this era.”

 “You are not a young man.”

 “No, but I vish to ingratiate myself back into society.  I have seen your moving paintings; this era is much more accepting of my kind.  You do not ostracise us.  If I am to succeed in my endeavour, then the first step is a date.”  The Count took another sip of wine and carefully placed his glass onto the table.  “Now, if you vill, I vould appreciate it if you vould leave me to my personal life.”

 Van Kelsing downed his drink, and picking up the wooden stake, stood to leave.  “Fine.”  He pointed at the Count.  “I’m watching you.”

 “So be it.”  He bowed his head to the descendant of his most prolific foe.  “I extend an invitation to my home tomorrow.  I vould very much like to continue this conversation.  Just not tonight.”

 “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” said Adam.  He tucked the stake into the inside of his jacket.

 “Tell me, before you leave, Mr van Kelsing, are you married?”

 “No.  And I hope that wasn’t a threat.”

 “No threat, but surely you can understand the need to find someone to quell the cries of a lonely unbeating heart and make an eternity vun vhere I can feel alive again?  Aren’t you lonely Mr van Kelsing?”

 “I just haven’t found the right person.”

 “Perhaps vhen you do, ve can date vith doubles?”

 “I don’t think so.  As I said, I don’t trust your kind.”

 “I vill change your mind.  You vill see.”

 “If you don’t…”  He patted his pocket.  The one that held the stake.

 The Count nodded in reply.

 He watched as van Kelsing left.  He seemed to also like wearing tight trousers.  It must be in fashion in this time for men to wear clothes tight enough to reveal every aspect of their personality.  Perhaps he too would try this.  Igor was good at acquiring whatever he needed, which is exactly how he’d ended up here waiting for his date.

 He poured a little more of the wine into his glass and glanced around.

 The waiter was busy with another patron of the restaurant, and fortunately the glances and whispers seemed to have died down.  He adjusted the carnation on the lapel of his cloak and looked up to see a brunette in a tight black dress enter the restaurant.  A carnation peeked up from her cleavage.

 His date.

 The Count stood and made the effort of a smile.  The lady seemed a little confused but approached anyway.  A nervous smile appeared as she reached him.  He greeted her and pulled out her chair before she sat, thanking him.

 “You look vunderful my lady,” he said as he retook his own seat, “and indeed rather ravishing.”

 “Umm…” she said looking from side to side, “I thought your profile pic was from Halloween…?”

 “I alvays dress formal; it is beneficial to one’s health to make an effort.  Do you not agree?”

 “It’s just that… isn’t that rather old fashioned?”

 “I am an old-fashioned gentleman; a man of the old vorld if you vill.  You will forgive my eccentricities.”  The Count waved to the waiter.  “Vould you like a drink?”

 “White wine please.”  She held out her hand to shake.  “I’m Wanda.”

 He took hold of her hand and kissed it gently.  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Vanda.  I am Count Vladmir Hercule Aquinas von Undervald.  You may call me Vlad.”

 “Oh!  That explains it.”  Her eyes looked him up and down, and she smiled again.  “Pleased to meet you Vlad.”

 “Sir?”  The waiter in the tight trousers appeared to the right, his little pen and pad ready.

 “A vhite… vine for the lady if you please.  The house vhite.”

 “Certainly sir,” said the waiter.  “Would you like the menu?”

 “Please,” said Wanda. “I’m famished!”

 “As am I.”  The Count could see the woman was struggling to get comfortable in her tight dress; she pulled at the top to keep her buxomness contained.

 The waiter disappeared, soon returning with the lady’s wine and a couple of menus.

 “Do you mind if take this out?”  Wanda pulled the red carnation from her cleavage and placed it on the table.  “It’s really itchy.”  She pulled at her dress again.  “So… what do you do for a living Vlad?”

 “I… I do not vork; I am a…”

 “A Count.  I remember.”  She sipped at her wine leaving lipstick on the rim.  “What do you do in your spare time?”

 “For last few hundred years I have rested.  Now I re-join this vorld.”

 “I know that feeling.”  She rolled her eyes.  “A few years ago, the company I worked for made me redundant.  I was off work for about three months.  Didn’t know what to do with myself.  It’s so nice to be back in the workplace again.”

 “And vhat vork do you do Vanda?”  He went to pick up his wine but stopped; there would be sweeter things to dine on this evening.

 “Insurance.”  The woman opened the menu.  “I know it sounds boring, but it can be quite interesting.”

 “Vhat is this... insurance?”

 “I suppose someone like you doesn’t need to worry about that kind of thing.  Being a Count and all.  Any idea what you want to eat?”

 He realised he hadn’t opened his own menu.  He flipped open the little leather book and a quick glance revealed a rather bare list of options.  There wasn’t much he could sink his teeth into.

 “Are you going to have a starter?”  Wanda was running her finger along the barren menu.  “I think I’m going to skip straight to the main.  You?”

 “Vhatever you vish my lady.”

 “Then we’ll have some room for dessert.  I love dessert!”  Wanda adjusted her dress.  “Okay, I know what I want.  Do you know what you want?”

 “I vill have vhatever you are having.”

 “Good.”  She sipped at the wine, before waving the waiter to return to the table.

 He was busy with another customer but soon joined them.

 “Yes, ma’am, sir.”

 “The lady vill order first,” said the Count indicating his date with his hand.

 “I’ll have the steak please.”

 “Stake?” The Count glanced around.  Had van Kelsing returned?

 “Oh, do you not like steak?  I can have something else if you want.”

 “I vill have the… stake.”

 She smiled at him and turned to the waiter.  “I’ll have mine rare please.  Vlad?”

 “I vill have the rare… stake too.”

 The waiter departed with their order; Vlad watched him walk to the bar.

 Wanda talked almost non-stop and he listened as much as he could.  He struggled to make sense of the topics she burned through and they seemed as expendable as they were inane.  He didn’t remember virgins being quite so talkative in his day.  They were more direct yet more mysterious.  A glance, or slight gesture, was all it took to convey exactly what they wanted.  Wanda didn’t stop.  Maybe a flimsy nightdress would be more alluring?  That had seemed to work in the past.  It was expected.  And he had always done what was expected of him.  He didn’t really know what that was anymore.  Times had certainly changed.  He looked around for the waiter in the tight trousers, hoping their food was ready.  The man was bending over to pick something up a customer had dropped from a nearby table.  He realised he was staring and the Count quickly changed his gaze to his date, who was still talking, and fortunately hadn’t seen his lapse in manners.

 “So, do you live nearby?”  Wanda asked.  Her glass was almost empty, the small amount of liquid sloshed up to the rim as she gesticulated.

 “My home is Castle Undervald.”  He picked up his own wine, which he had barely touched since his date arrived, and took a sip.  “It is deep in the Gardathian Mountains.”

 “Is that in Wales?”

 “It is in my homeland.  I have a residence here; an old church.  St. Cuthbert’s.”

 “I thought that was derelict.”

 “It is under renovation.  A home from home.”

 “That’s nice.  Do you mind?”  She pointed to the bottle of red wine.  He shook his head, and she grabbed it, tipping the liquid straight into her glass.  “I live on Oxford Road.  Not a fancy place.  Not like a church or a castle.  Just a small flat, but it’s mine.”  She wasn’t being careful with the wine; the glass overflowed.  “Silly me.”  A puddle formed and rolled across onto her lap.  “Shit.  Sorry.”  She leant forward to sip the wine and simultaneously grabbed hold of a napkin.  Her breasts almost spilled like the wine, but she quickly stood, holding her arm across her chest and dabbing at her lap with her free hand.  “If you’ll excuse me.  I just need to freshen up.”  Wanda darted away to the ladies’ conveniences, leaving him alone.

 The Count sighed.  He picked up his own napkin and wiped up the spilled wine.  This was certainly turning into an interesting evening.  He looked around for the waiter, but he was nowhere to be seen.  The sooner they had their meal the better.

 The napkin soaked up the dark red easily and the Count grew hungry.  Perhaps he should have just taken into the night and prowled the evening for buxom beauties in flimsy nightdresses.  He knew that would’ve been a fruitless endeavour.  This modern world was not what he had thought it would be.  Talk was cheap and vacuous.  No conversation.  Maybe he could just go back to his homeland and wait out another few centuries?  Igor had tried his best to acclimatise him, but he was not enjoying himself anymore.  He’d had more fun talking to van Kelsing.  Brief though it was.

 “Thank goodness I didn’t wear the white one,” said Wanda as she returned, sitting back down opposite.  “Any news on our steaks?”

 He flinched.  “Nothing yet my lady.”

 “I’m sure it’ll be along soon.”  She lifted her wine and took a mouthful.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an excellent listener?”

 “I listen like the night.  Silent, stalking, permeating the very essence of mankind.  The heart beats loud to the call of the evening, fluttering like a moth to flame, oblivious to the danger it reveals itself to and determined to answer the melody of the dark with its thundering voice.”

 “That’s beautiful.  Is it from a film?”

 “It is the great poet Valter Vexford.”

 “We didn’t do him in school.”  She took another sip of wine.  “Do you watch Inauguration Way?  I love that soap.”

 “Soap?”

 “Yeah, the soap opera?”

 “I prefer Mozart or Vagner.”

 “Are they soaps from your homeland?  We don’t get them over here.”

 Words deserted him.

 Fortunately, he was saved by the arrival of the waiter in the tight trousers.  The man placed the plates deftly onto the table and asked if they required anything else.

 “More wine,” said Wanda.  “This red is lovely!”

 “Anything for sir?”  The waiter jotted away on his pad.

 “I have enough… vine.”  He held up the nearly full glass.

 The waiter nodded, turned and walked to the bar.  The Count watched him leave before quickly turning his attention back to his date.  She hadn’t noticed his indiscretion.  He would have to be careful with his manners and keep his attention on the woman sat opposite.

 “This looks delicious,” she said.  She gripped her knife and fork ready to dig in.

 “It pales in comparison to the ravishing beauty of thyself my lady.”

 Wanda giggled.  “Aren’t you a charmer?  Shall we eat?”

 He motioned for her to begin.  “Ladies first.”  He waited until she had cut a slice of the rare meat, red juices oozing from the flesh, and she had taken a bite before he picked up his own cutlery.

 “This is nice.”  She spoke while she chewed.  Manners were certainly a lost art in this age.  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I have not dined on… meat in a very long time.”  He cut into the steak, eviscerating the flesh.  It felt rather alien to him to use the knife, but decorum dictated his actions.

 “Were you vegetarian?”  Wanda lifted her glass.  “I was vegetarian once.”  She took a sip.  “But it didn’t last.”  She giggled.  “I like my meat too much and I couldn’t stand eating only chicken all the time.”

 The Count lifted a piece on his fork and looked at.  Almost as good as the real thing.  The meat touched his tongue and he closed his lips around the metal of the fork.

 He almost choked.

 Garlic.

 The steak had been cooked in garlic.

 He fought against the burning in his mouth, every instinct telling him to spit out the poisonous meat.  He couldn’t.  Spitting would be impolite, and he couldn’t possibly upset the lady by hurling a chunk of meat at her.  He chewed.  Forcing his teeth to grind against the food.  Gums, skin and bone felt aflame, and he could feel his face turning red.  Burning.  Wanda hadn’t seemed to notice; she prattled on, her words barely registering in his ears.  He chewed.  It felt like an eternity as his teeth ground the fiery garlic steak.  He had to swallow.  He couldn’t keep this thing in his mouth any longer.  He gulped hard.  A hot hard lump forced its way down his oesophagus, and he quickly chugged some of his wine to quench the horrendous pain.

 “Are you alright?”  Wanda asked as he slammed his glass onto the table.

 The Count nodded.  He rubbed his throat.  “It was a little too… hot.”

 “You should blow it first.  That’s what my mother used to say.”

 “I’ll bear that in mind my lady.”

 “Did I tell you I think you’re hot?”

 “My temperature vill be back to normal shortly.”

 Wanda laughed.  “Hot and a sense of humour!”  She cut another piece of her steak and lifted it to her mouth.  “I’m enjoying myself immensely tonight Vlad; I hope this won’t be the last time we have dinner together.”

 “This evening has certainly been intriguing.”

 “I’m glad you feel the same way.”

 He tried to avoid the food as much as he could for the rest of the evening.  Wanda didn’t seem to notice; she just continued to talk, and he only had to nod occasionally.  He cut the food into pieces and moved them around the plate, lifted pieces to his mouth but didn’t actually eat.  He could not risk the garlic a second time.

 He sipped at his wine to give himself something to do.

 Soon the waiter in the tight trousers returned and took their plates away.  A fork fell to the floor.  The Count leant down to retrieve it and his eyes fell across the man’s bulge for a second time.  Those trousers certainly were rather revealing.  He sat back up and placed the utensil onto one of the plates with the waiter acknowledging thanks.

 “Would you like me to return with the dessert menu sir?” he said.

 “I think I have all the dessert I want right here.”  Wanda grinned at the Count before finishing the last dregs of wine in her glass.  “Can you fetch the bill please?”

 The waiter looked to the Count who nodded.  The sooner this evening was over the better.

 “So,” said his date, “coffee at yours or mine?  It’s just I’ve never been inside a castle before.”

 “Castle Undervald is in the homeland.”

 Wanda giggled.  “Sorry I forgot.  Wales is probably a little far anyway.”

 The waiter placed the bill on the table.  “Whenever you’re ready sir.”

 The Count picked up the bill and handed it back to the man.  “My assistant vill be along in the morning to settle my account.”

 “I’m sorry sir but we don’t offer a line of credit.”

 He stared into the waiter’s deep blue eyes.  “This vill be acceptable to you.  A man such as myself does not carry money and you vill vant my custom again.”

 “This is acceptable to me.”  The Counts influences had worked.  “Of course, a man of your stature does not carry money, and ve certainly vant your custom again.”  The waiter blinked and shook his head.  “I’ll sort this out straight away sir.”

 He felt something stroking his leg, reaching higher and higher.  Wanda was staring at him, her smirking face resting in her hands as she leant forward on the table.

 “You’re so masterful,” she said. Her foot had reached his inner thigh.  “I don’t usually do this on a first date but…”

 His chair scraped loudly against floor as he suddenly pushed himself away from the table. 

 “My thoughts exactly,” said Wanda, standing.  “Time to go?”

 Home was certainly more appealing.  He would escort her home and bring an end to this date.  Then he would court the night.  Alone.

 She hadn’t brought a coat, and soon found himself standing next to the shivering woman outside the restaurant.

 “You are cold,” he said.  He slipped his cloak from his shoulders and placed it over her shoulders.

 “Thank you, I’m okay.”  Wanda handed the cloak back and hugged her bosom.  “The alcohol will warm me up.”

 “I insist my lady.”

 “No no I’m fine.”  She pulled her smartphone device from her bag, almost dropping it from her shivering hands.  A glow lit up her face.  “Shall I get us a taxi?”

 “There is no need.”  He replaced his clothing and swept his arm across in front of them.  “I vill arrange travel.”

 The clip clop of hooves penetrated the night air introducing the roll of wooden wheels on concrete.  Carriage was the only way to travel in style.  It shimmered in the moonlight.  Two black horses dressed in intricate silver with black feathery plumes, hauled the similarly dressed coach along the road.  Igor, a short stout man, brought the horses to a halt in front of them.

 “My lady,” said the Count, smiling at his date.  Wanda seemed too shocked to talk; the first time all evening she had been left speechless.

 Maybe this evening was going to get better.

 “Ooh… how romantic!  They’re beautiful!”  Wanda petted the horse nearest to her, looking up to the manservant.  “What are their names?”

 Igor shrugged, grunting.

 “Mephistopheles and Azazel,” said the Count.  “You must forgive Igor; he is a man of few vords.  He does not get out much.  Sometimes I think he vould be lost vithout me to talk for him.”  Igor rolled his eyes at Vlad as he moved the lady’s side.  “They are such magnificent animals.  Strong.  Powerful.  My horses have served me ever since I was a child.”

 “I wanted a pony when I was little.”  Her eyes wandered up and down the horse.  “Never got one.  My parents told me I wouldn’t like it.  I think they were just being mean.”  Her eyes paused near the horse’s head.  “That’s strange.  I’ve never seen a horse with red eyes before…”

 He placed his arm around her waist and turned her away.  “I think it is time ve vere going my lady.”

 “They almost look like they’re glowing…”  Wanda shook him off, turning back to the creatures.

 The Count flung open the coach door.  “Your carriage avaits!”  He kicked at the foot step underneath and it popped out ready to ease their passage inside.  His arm swept out, inviting the lady to board.  “My lady.”

 “Oh... yes…”  Wanda turned to him and stepped inside the coach.  “My place is closer.”

 “Igor,” said the Count placing one foot on the step, “Oxford Road if you please.”

 “Number 23b,” called his date.

 Igor nodded, and Vlad heard the familiar whinny of the horses as he joined his date and closed the door.  He made a point of sitting opposite her.

 “It must have been nice growing up with all this fancy stuff around you.”

 “It vas not alvays this vay.”

 The carriage bobbed, and Wanda tugged at her dress. “Oh?  Have you always been a Count?”

 “Fortunes have vaxed and vaned like the lunar goddess, vealth ebbing and rising vith each svell of her radiant and shimmering breast.  The zenith...”  She looked confused.  “I inherited the title from my father; I am the last of the bloodline.”

 “So you’re looking for a long-term relationship?”  Wanda tried to stand.  “Children?”

 The carriage hit a bump.

 She fell face first into his lap.

 He whimpered.

 “Shit.”  Her voice was muffled and quiet in the depths of his trousers.  “Sorry.”  She rolled onto the floor.  “I just thought we could sit a little closer.”

 He held out his hand and pulled her up into the seat next to him.  She snuggled up to him.

 “You were saying…?” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his back.

 “Yes?”  It was not comfortable.

 “About being the last of your bloodline.”

 “Yes, I am the last of the bloodline.”

 “Oh.”

 The carriage came to a halt.  A knock on the wall behind his head saved the conversation.

 “That vill be Igor.”  The Count turned in the seat.  He lifted the small hatch to reveal the grouchy face of his manservant.  “Yes?”

 Igor’s quiet rasping voice murmured into his ear.

 “It seems ve are lost,” said the Count.  “Or rather Igor is lost.”

 “These streets can be a bit of a maze in the dark.”  Wanda turned and knelt on the seat.  “I get lost all the time.  I’ll give him some directions.”

 The evening felt eternal.  Was it never going to end?

 “You need to turn around; you’ve gone completely the wrong way.”

 He longed for the cold embrace of the night.  The carriage jolted forward.  They were moving again.  Her behind bumped his arm and the stench of the spilled wine from earlier in the evening drifted into his nostrils.  At least she didn’t have any more wine.  He did not want any spillages on the soft leather seats.

 “Then left at the top of the High Street.  Not that left.”

 Perhaps he could use his influences on her?

 “Then right into Queensway.”

 He had spent the evening avoiding mesmerizing his date out of courtesy.

 “You’ve missed the turning.  Can you back this thing up?”

 It was tempting.

 “Then can you turn around again?  Why not?  Look, you can pull into George Avenue and then take the ring road to get back to the Queensway.”

 Very tempting.

 “Alright, now left.  Left.  No.  Left.  There.  That left.”

 Unfortunately, if he was going to fit into this modern world he could not go around hypnotising young women and bending them to his will.  Not that he’d needed to back in the day.

 Under Wanda’s direction, Igor finally pulled into Oxford Road.  They came to halt outside 23b.

 The Count stepped outside, took his date’s hand and helped her down the step.  She tripped into his arms and giggled.

 He was sure she’d done it on purpose.

 He looked around.  Lit only by streetlamps, the street was empty.

 “I vill escort you to your door my lady.”  He took her arm.

 “Aren’t you coming in?”  She led down a path to the front door.  “For coffee?”

 “I do not drink… coffee.”

 “Tea?”

 He shook his head.  She let go of his arm as she rummaged in her bag for her keys.

 “I don’t want this evening to end.”  The keys jangled in her hand.  “It’s been wonderful.”  Smiling, her free hand touched his chest and she stepped closer.  Buxom pillows pressed against him.  “The night is young.  And so are we.”

 “The night is ancient, ancestral.  My progenitor.”  He tried to step back but a fence hindered his escape.  It creaked.  “I am not as young as I seem.”

 “Nonsense.”  Fingers caressed his face.  “And I’m sure one small coffee isn’t going to kill you.”

 “I…”

 “I insist.  One coffee.  I promise.”

 He gulped.  “Just the vun then.”

 “Good.”  She moved back and winked. “I make the best coffee.”  Wanda slid the key into the lock.  “Oh, there’s no parking on the street.  For cars anyway.  You better tell Igor to go home.  I’ll order you a taxi after coffee.  I don’t want him to get into trouble, poor thing.”

 “Igor vill vait.”

 “You can’t leave him out in the cold while we have… coffee.”

 “Then I vill ask him to join us.”

 “That’s a little weird.”  The door opened, and light flooded the pathway.  “I wanted it to be just us.”

 “As you vish my lady.”

 “I’ll go put the kettle on.”  Wanda stepped inside and threw off her shoes.  “Just come straight in when you’re done.”  She moved a little further in.  “Oh, and say goodbye to Mister Toffees and Hazel for me.”

 The Count returned to his carriage, and patted Mephistopheles on the rump.

 “Igor,” he said, “please return to St Cuthbert's.  I will be staying for vun coffee.”

 The manservant muttered something in reply.

 “No and it is only vun coffee.  I vill make my own vay home.”

 Another grumbled string of words came from the driver’s seat of the coach.

 “Igor!  That sort of language is not amusing.  Do as I ask.”

 The reins whipped, the horses breaking into a trot, and the Count watched as the carriage rolled to the end of the street and turned the corner.

 He sighed.

 It was only coffee.

 A wind picked up, blowing a chill air along his cloak.  He listened, hoping to hear the music of the night.  There was only the distant sound of traffic.

 Someone coughed.

 There was a figure at the end of the street just outside of the circle of light cast by a streetlight.  Stood in the dark.  A hood covered the face and a long coat hid the body.  Mysterious.

 The Count turned on his heel to head back inside.

 He paused.

 Could that have been van Kelsing?

 He stole a glance to his right.

 There was no-one there.

 He shrugged and headed for the door of Wanda’s flat.  Time to get this over with.

 “I’m in the kitchen,” came her voice.  “The living room is on the left.  Please excuse the mess.”

 Mess was an understatement.

 “Make yourself at home.”

 It was difficult to tell where the furniture ended, and the floor began.  Wrinkled discarded clothing, dirty dishes and just general clutter seemed to consume every surface.  He couldn’t move.  He didn’t want to.  Every muscle, every instinct, every bone in his body screamed at him to tidy up.

 His nose twitched at the intrusion of a strange smell.  Sour.  With a little hint of fruitiness.  Its source, whatever it was, hid deep within the mounds of detritus littering the room.

 How could someone live like this?

 Tidy house.  Tidy mind.

 Maybe if he just cleaned a little bit.  Just a little bit of decluttering.

 He couldn’t.

 He knew if started he wouldn't be able to stop; he’d be here the rest of the night.

 And probably the rest of tomorrow too.

 He carefully made his way to what seemed to be the sofa, or a sofa shaped mass of clothing, stepping over and between the various heaps littering the space around his shoes.  A little bit of black leather peeped out between the multicoloured mess.  Must be the sofa.  Unless she was into that kind of thing.

 He used his sleeve to push open a space to sit and perched himself on the edge.

 His eyes surveyed the room.  It could be a decent living room if only it were cleaner.  Patches of creamy carpet looked back at him from beneath the ever-consuming turmoil on the floor.

 He clasped his hands together and sighed.

 Some of the disorder from the room had attached itself to the cufflink on one of his sleeves.  It dangled there, contagious.  He used the tip of his fingers to unhook the frilly white fabric and realised what it was.

 Surely underwear was meant to protect your modesty.  To cover things.  Definitely not practical.  Not at all.

 He hurled them to his left, adding to the mountain of clothing at the other end of the sofa.

 Yellow eyes were watching him.

 A messy ball of grey fluff, now with a frilly pair of knickers draped across its back, was curled on the other end of the sofa.

 The hideous creature hissed at him.

 “Don’t mind Mister Tiddles,” said Wanda entering the room with two glasses of wine.  “He’s just jealous ‘cos mummy’s having a good time.”  She handed one of the glass to the Count.  Red liquid sloshed.  “Aren’t you darling?”  The cat’s angry stare didn’t abate as the woman removed the article of thin fabric from its back, and scratched behind its ears.

   “I’m out of coffee,” said his date perching herself right next to him.  Her legs pressed up against his.  “And the kettle doesn’t seem to be working.  And I can’t find any mugs.  So, I had to find something else to drink.  Wine is a much better choice anyway, don’t you agree?”

 “It vill be acceptable.”

 Mister Tiddles jumped from the sofa and the Count grimaced as it took up a place in front of his feet.  It glared at him.  He’d never seen a creature with so much malevolence it its eyes.

 “You’re not much of a cat person, are you?”

 “I am not fond of… cats.”  The thing hissed at him again.  He turned his gaze into the cat’s eyes and concentrated.  “You vill leave.”

 Mister Tiddles turned and ran as fast as it could out of the room.

 “You have a way with animals,” said Wanda.  A hand fell onto his knee.  “Animal magnetism.  It’s hot.”

 “The veak villed bend to my influence.”

 “You’re so mysterious.”  Her hand crept along his thigh.  “I like it.”  Her face was close to his and he could smell the wine on her breath.  “How about we skip the wine and go straight upstairs?”

 “Oh, vill you look at the time!”  The Count stood up quickly.  “I really must be going.”

 “But we’re only just getting started.”  Wanda grinned and grabbed his arm, pulling him back onto the sofa.  “Don’t be shy; I know how to please a man.”

 “I thought you said you vere a virgin?”

 She leant close.  “I’ve never married.”

 “I really must be going.”  He stood again, stepped forward and tripped over something on the floor.  He fell fast, landing on something soft.  It didn’t stop the glass in his hand cracking.  He felt wine wet his white shirt.

 He rolled onto his back and groaned.  His shirt was ruined.

 Wanda giggled.  “We could always do it here.”  She straddled him.  “I’ve never done it on the floor before.”

 “Er…”

 The woman leant forward, her face coming close to his.  “Shall we get you out of those wet clothes.”  Her hands reached up and unbuttoned his shirt.

 He was trapped.

 The Count quickly pushed, rolling them both and changing their positions.

 Wanda giggled.

 And then the window smashed.

 A loud shatter propelled a shadow across the room, particles of glass sparkling as they followed in its wake.  Cold night air flooded in.  The intruder was at their side in moments.

 Hands grabbed at the Count and he was thrown from the woman beneath him.  She screamed.  He tumbled.  The shadow kicked and hit at him.  Grappling, he fought back trying to get the upper hand, but it was to no avail.  The shadow caught him behind the ankle and he fell to the floor once more.  He wasn’t going down alone.  His hands reached up and grabbed clothing, pulling his attacker down with him.  The shadowy figure landed on top.  A familiar face came close and he felt the pressure of a forearm pressed against his neck.

 “I knew you were up to no good,” said van Kelsing.

 “It vasn’t vhat it looked like.”  He could feel van Kelsing’s muscled form pressing against his body, warm against his own.  Vlad was completely pinned down.  “Your stake is poking me in the hip.”

 “Excuse me,” said Wanda, “but who are you?  And why are you attacking my date?”

 Van Kelsing lifted himself up, easing the pressure from the Count’s body.

 “I am Adam van Kelsing ma’am.  And I may have just saved your life.”

 “We were only fooling around; it’s not like he was going to murder me and drink my blood or something.”

 “I really vasn’t,” said the Count getting to his feet.  “I vas just leaving.”

 “He really wasn’t hurting you?”  Van Kelsing tapped his pockets looking for something.

 “No.  We were just about to…”  said Wanda.

 “No ve vere not.”  The Count picked up the wooden stake from the floor and handed it to van Kelsing.  A confused look came back in return.  The man certainly had very blue eyes.  “I told you before that this was just a date.”

 “You were on top of her,” said van Kelsing.

 The Count rolled his eyes.

 “Oh,” said Wanda staring at them both, “I understand now.  You’re…”

 “Yes,” said the Count.  “For as long as I can remember.”

 “I can’t say that I’m not disappointed.  Some things are just not meant to be.”  She sat down on the sofa and picked up her glass of wine.  She held it up.  “You be proud of who you are.”  The glass was lifted to her lips and she took a heavy swig of the red liquid.  “You be proud of who you are.  I just don’t understand why your friend here had to break my window.”

 “Sorry,” said van Kelsing.  “I’ll get it fixed.”

 “Damn right you will.”  She took another drink of her wine.  “At least the steak was nice.  And the carriage ride.”

 “You took her in your carriage?”  The man smirked.  “You must really be pulling out all the stops.  No wonder she invited you in.”

 “I am a gentleman,” said the Count.  “I only vished to see the lady home safely.”

 “Look, I think it’s time you both left.”  Wanda finished off her wine.  “It’s been an eventful evening, but I think I want to just go to bed now.”

 “Vhat about the vindow?”

 “Just give me the money for it; I’ll sort it out in the morning.”

 “You cannot go all night with no vindow.  I insist that ve at least board it up with something.  Do you have any vood?”

 “I’ll just pin a couple of bin liners over it.”

 “But…”

 Wanda shook her head and yawned loudly.

 “As you vish my lady.”

 Van Kelsing wrote a cheque and they both left through the front door.  The Count bid his disastrous date goodbye as he walked with his foe to the end of the path.

 “We still need to talk,” said Adam, stopping on the pavement.  “I still want to know what you’re up to.”

 “Tomorrow as ve arranged.”  Vlad looked over to the man at his side.  Somehow the frilly underwear he’d tried to discard earlier was stuck to the side of his coat.  He reached for it, but other man moved away.  “You have…”

 Van Kelsing pulled a face and flicked the undergarment to the ground.  “Until tomorrow then,” he said.

 “Yes.”

 “I look forward to it.”  The descendent of his most powerful enemy smiled at him.  He turned, and started walking down the street.

 “I vill prepare some dinner,” the Count called after him.

 “It’s a date.”  He waved without turning around.

 Count Vladmir Hercule Aquinas von Undervald watched as van Kelsing strode to the end of Oxford Road before disappearing from view.

 Tomorrow would be interesting.

 He closed his eyes and transformed.

 The bat embraced the freedom of the night, flapped its long leathery wings and flew high.

The End.

Buy the book where this story lives by clicking HERE
Cover art by Tim Jenkins