Disclaimer: I write for fun, not profit!
New York, 1997
we are roses in the garden
beauty with thorns among our leaves
to pick a rose you ask your hands to bleed
what is the reason for having roses
when your blood is shed carelessly?
it must be for something more than vanity
Whistler crammed the last few inches of hot dog into his mouth, and prepared to go to work again. This job was the longest he'd ever done. Something had to give soon. He peered into the bar.
The vampire was sitting at the counter, nursing a shot of the hard stuff. He was dressed in a dark suit and, from the outside, seemed to be well-groomed and affluent. Apart from his hair - that was still long and untended. But to the unobservant, it could have been just a look.
"Darn him," Whistler thought, "When is he going hit bottom?"
It had been a pretty close call last time. The vampire had spent months not feeding at all, not even on corpses. Living in warehouses. Plenty of rats there, plenty of places for a vampire to hide, or just waste away and die. Whistler expected the call from The Powers at any moment.
But it never came, and one day the vampire was gone. It took weeks to track him down to New York, and then today, their paths crossed purely by chance. Of course, The Powers knew where he was all the time, but their help was always the minimal kind. He must not lose the trail again.
The vampire stood. He staggered from the bar, weary, or drunk, it was hard to tell. Whistler drew back into the shadows, and prepared to follow him home.
believe me
the truth is we're not honest
not the people that we dream
we're not as close as we could be
willing to grow but rains are shallow
barren and wind-scattered seed
on a stone and dry land
Home turned out to be a one-room apartment in a grungy, run-down building. There were windows, but they were boarded on the inside. In the door, there was a hole where a flap for posting letters should have been. Whistler kneeled and looked through. It commanded a view of about two thirds of the apartment.
The vampire was sitting on a grimy red sofa, big enough to seat three. At either side of him sat a woman. Vampires. Identical, like mirror images of each other. His arms held them closely to his sides.
Left-hand vampire was unbuttoning his shirt and making small circular movements over his pale skin with a long, black fingernail. Right-hand vampire lay against the back of the sofa in a submissive pose, as he bent his head over her and drank greedily from her neck.
"Oh great. He found an open snack bar. No wonder he's looking so well."
Then a third identical vampire came into view. Somewhere in the dim distant past, when this lemon of a job started, Whistler remembered a list of sires and acolytes The Powers had shown him. Now, where had he put it?
"Anyway, there was definitely something about three identical spinster triplets he turned in the 1850's, I remember..."
The third vampire-triplet knelt down in front of him and ran her white fingers up his trousers from knee to hip. She reached to unzip him, but met the fingertips of left-hand vampire as she finished unbuttoning his shirt. The two women hissed at each other. Left-hand vampire changed, her eyes becoming almond and her fangs descending over her crimson lips. She sprang onto her sister and pinned her to the ground.
Whistler cradled his head in his hands, "Oh please, a chick-fight? Over him? This is too much..."
Unexpectedly, the third triplet laughed as her sister towered above, and then there came an answering chuckle, followed by a tender kiss.
For the first time, the vampire looked up from his meal. The right-hand triplet sank happily into the sofa, weakened and delirious. He ran a shaky hand through his long, unkempt hair, and smiled, drunkenly at the scene in front of him.
"Rose? Come here, I'm thirsty."
The left-hand triplet sat up, straddling her sister. "You just drank Rose, I'm Anne."
"And I'm Elizabeth..." added the vampire on the floor.
The vampire rose groggily from the sofa, and pulled Anne up by the neck, "I never could tell you apart. You're all Roses to me."
As he sank his teeth into her neck, Anne gasped, "Master... will you hunt tonight?"
He withdrew and looked into her face. He stroked her long, raven hair briefly, something indefinable in his eyes, before relinquishing his hold and letting her drop to the floor on top of her sister.
"You know I don't like to drink from humans any more."
"But Master..."
"I can't stand their pathetic wriggling and mewling. You drink. All of you. And come back to me."
we will be waiting
for the light arisen
to flood inside the prison
and in that time, kind words alone will reach us
no bitterness will reach us
reason will be guided
by another way
After the trio left, Whistler glanced through the door again. The vampire was sitting on the sofa, bent forward, head in hands. Then he reached behind it and pulled up a bottle of cheap whiskey. He unscrewed the cap, and drained it in seconds.
He clearly wasn't going anywhere soon. Whistler left to pursue the women.
He found his quarry strolling through the nightlife, three-abreast, arms round each other. They made an impressive sight: bright inky eyes, iridescent black hair, white, flawless skin. He kept his distance, stopping when they stopped, observing what they observed. They chose victims seemingly at random, and soon enough, they chose a victim he could really use.
A young, golden-haired, boy/man. Bounding down the pavement. Brandishing a mobile phone. Boasting to someone on the other end that his parents would never discover he escaped using the bedroom window to come out tonight. Boisterous and male and beautiful. The sisters were instantly captivated.
Whistler watched as they surrounded him, taking the phone away and pressing random buttons until it switched itself off. Running their cold hands over his shirt, flattering and smoothing. He was bewitched by them. They took his hands and led him away, down a side-street.
"There's nothing you can do. It's just one death amongst many." Whistler reminded himself. "You're here for a particular purpose. The death of that boy will help you realise it. Hold on to that."
The next day, he returned to the flat. It was late afternoon. The three sisters were sprawled at disjointed angles across the sofa, still asleep.
Their Master was prowling, restless. Waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon so he could break out from his cage.
Whistler left his message outside the door, and retreated to minimum safe distance. A few moments later, the vampire emerged, and tripped over the drained body of his acolytes' latest victim.
all in time
but the clock is another demon, that devours our time in Eden
in our paradise
will our eyes see well beneath us
flowers all divine?
is there still time?
Whistler regained consciousness slowly, and sat on the curb side as the head-shattering pain subsided.
Still, at last, his message had arrived. It was time. The vision revealed a desperate struggle between a human and a vampire. The human lost. The Slayer was dead. There was no time to be wasted.
Whistler turned into the alleyway and picked his way through the heaps of rubbish that had been the vampire's home since he had fled from the sisters a few months before. This was going to have to be the performance of a lifetime.
"God, are you disgusting. This is really an unforgettable smell. This is the stench of death you're giving off here. And the look says... Crazy Homeless Guy. It's not good..."
It was time for the vampire with a soul to find a real sanctuary.
if we wake and discover
in life, a precious love
will that waking become more heavenly?