A tale of when Edward was on his rebellious "vigilante" period. It was 1932 in New York and Edward is targeting crooked cops and mobsters. One night, in a dark alley, a woman searching for justice seeks him out.
Disclaimer: I own nothing – yada, yada, yada.
Dirty Thirties
He loved New York. It was the perfect place for him. Millions of people coming and going everyday. Theaters and Galleries were everywhere – the Symphony – sigh. And there was plenty of crime. Plenty of wretched souls that were as black as the Devil's heart himself. He could hear their thoughts – the ones that thought they were above the law – the ones that preyed on the defenseless. They were his prey.
It was quite easy to find a meal in New York, what with all the organized crime and violence. So many depraved monsters – even more so than he – and the cruelty that humans could inflict on each other never ceased to amaze and repulse him. It was the only way he could do what he did. Ever since his creation, his father, Carlisle, had taught him to value human life. That was why they had only ever fed from animals. But that didn't mean that the thirst for human blood disappeared. No. It was impossible not to walk past a human and not think about burying his teeth into their fragile neck. To feel that thick and sweet liquid coursing down his throat, extinguishing the burn of the venom – if only for a while. Human blood was just too sweet to pass up, but he couldn't take the life of an innocent. That was beyond wrong. So the gift he never asked for, when he turned into what he never chose to be, suddenly became very useful. He could drink from humans. He would hunt the lowest of the low. He was doing society a favor, even if they didn't think so. Every time he hunted, there would be front page news about the grizzly murder of some mob boss, or crooked politician, and all the papers reported that gang wars were on the rise.
It was imperative that he fit in – that no one notice him, so he hid during the day, even when it was cloudy, because he didn't want anyone to notice his face. He was handsome in human terms. That was for luring in prey – the humanly impossible good looks. It also made him stand out, despite his blood-red eyes – which were terrifying in the extreme. So he only came out after dark, wore dark clothes that everyone else wore, wore a dark grey fedora – just like everyone else, wore his hair slicked back with that awful pomade, all so he could fit in and not be noticed.
He stood silently on the rooftop of the three storey tenement. His long overcoat fluttered silently in the calm breeze. He was listening for evil, hunting for his next meal. He wasn't picking up much though, just everyday run of the mill thoughts from the tenement, tired mothers, penniless fathers, obnoxious children. He sighed, and considered moving on to another part of the city, when he caught a stray thought that didn't belong.
Lord, please don let me die. Lord, please don let the creatcha kill me.
What in the hell was this woman talking about? He dug deeper into her mind, so that he could look through her eyes at what she saw. She was walking briskly along the street, the next block over, and she was headed in this direction.
Please let me be righ' Lord, don let 'im eat me.
His curiosity was aroused. What was this woman fearful of? What did she think she had to pray for? What was going to eat her? He was amused at the superstitions of humans. Obviously this woman thought there was something out here that would harm her. He laughed to himself. Maybe she thought there was truth to the silly story in the paper the other day about alligators in the sewers.
He continued to watch through her eyes, smiling bemusedly at her train of thought.
Please Lord, let me make it home to the child.
She kept up her brisk walk, turning onto the street on which stood the building he was currently standing on. Her footfalls were quick and light, he doubted if a human could even hear the soft clicks her shoes were making on the cobblestones. He on the other hand had no difficulty hearing her. He could even hear her heart pounding and he could smell her fear, even over the stench coming from the river. He left her head to watch her progress with his own eyes, still listening to her thoughts. Well, I'll see that she makes it home in one piece. This is no place for a lady to be walking alone at this time of night, he thought to himself. Granted there's nothing out here that would eat her, besides myself, and that's just ridiculous.
So he was stunned when she turned down the alley he was overlooking, and even further stunned when she stopped right in the middle of it. She was of average height for a woman, and everything about her was as dark as the night, from her ebony skin to her raven hair, to her clothes. In the dark alley below, to a human, she was just another shadow. He could see her perfectly, could see how she nervously twisted her hands in front of her as she stood there, waiting.
Please Lord…
What is she doing? He was frustrated, unable to fathom what she could be doing down there, or what she was waiting for.
"I know you is 'ere." She said quietly to the night, as if whoever she was speaking to were right beside her. But there was no one here except for him, and she had no idea that he was watching her. "And I's know you can 'ear me." Her thick Creole accent made her words run together in ways he wasn't used to hearing. "I ain't goin' no where 'til you talk ta me." Please Jesus, don't let the creatcha kill me.
An image flashed in her mind of a dark shape attacking a man in a business suit. The dark figure was wearing a dark overcoat and fedora. And the hair and stature was shockingly familiar. As was the man in the business suit…he'd killed him last week. The woman below had somehow seen the murder of Sergio Vallera. But that wasn't possible, he'd killed everyone. Rule number one was that there were no witnesses. No one to direct attention to young men in overcoats, instead of at fellow criminals.
"I's kin wait out 'ere all night, iffen I 'ave to."
He didn't understand. How had this woman seen all that? She would have had to be standing in the room, and that wasn't possible. He growled low in his throat. This woman was a threat to him.
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms nervously, looking around the dark alley, as if she'd heard him growl – which was another impossibility. He had two options, go down and dispatch of the human, or flee. He didn't want to hurt her, she didn't have any evil thoughts, she was just frightened. So his conscience won. He would not harm her, he would just leave. It would be easy enough to jump from roof to roof to get away – he did it all the time – it was easy. It was her next sentence that stopped him in his tracks.
"Please…I need yo' help." Der's no'ne I kin turn ta. I 'ave no where else ta go.
Against his better judgment, hell, without even thinking about the consequences, he vaulted over the side of the building to the alley below. He landed, a dozen feet from her, with nothing more than a soft click of his shoes hitting the ground and a quiet whisper of fabric as his coat shifted around him as he stood.
She had leapt back in fright, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. Her heart was jack-hammering, and her fear was perfuming the air of the alley so that his throat burned with need. He stood to his full height, glad for the darkness of the alley so that she couldn't see his face or his ruby eyes. He looked at her face. Eyes wide with fright, thin cheeks, like she hadn't eaten much lately. Thin all over, really. Her clothes were threadbare, under her long coat, what little clothes she wore. And suddenly her profession became clear. Why she was out in the dark of the night instead of at home like most women. She was a prostitute. He didn't agree with the profession, but most of them only did it because they had kids at home that had to be fed, and this was a job that a woman could do in this city. Besides, the Ladies of the Night didn't hurt anyone, so he left them in peace.
Dear God, he's rilly 'ere. Da creatcha.
'What are you doing here?' He asked softly, his voice soothing instead of menacing. He was fighting every instinct he had to not attack her. Carlisle would be disappointed if he killed an innocent woman. To be honest, Carlisle would be disappointed that he would kill anyone, even the human monsters. But he would be disappointed in himself if he harmed her, so he tried to calm her so that her fear wouldn't trigger his more basic instincts to feed.
She pulled her hand tentatively away from her mouth. Her eyes were still wide, and her mouth was opening and closing without sound. She was likely in shock.
"I's need yo' help," she repeated herself from earlier. Her voice was small and weak, now that she was facing the creature she had sought to hunt out.
"What makes you think I can help you?" He asked silkily, keeping a careful distance between them. He didn't want to hurt her and her sweet, beautiful fear was causing the venom to well up in his mouth.
"Yo' da only one who can, I tink." Give me strength, Jesus.
"What is it you think I can do for you?"
"Der's a man what murdered my sista." Ev'l bast'd of a man he is. Her face hardened at this thought of a red-haired man.
"You should go to the police." Why am I still standing here? I should just go. But he had to stay and find out how she knew about him.
"I did. Dey send me away." Crook't cops.
He was intrigued now, he hated dirty cops. It was their job to protect the people, not subjugate them. "Why won't the police help you?"
"Dey say dat nobody care 'bout who kilt some black-ass whore." Her eyes narrowed as she thought of a burley man in uniform laughing at her request for help. "But she my sista," she spoke through gritted teeth, "and I care." She thumped her fist against her chest in emphasis. "I can't 'bide by some man kill 'er and get off free. I wan justice." I wan dat son bitch to pay fo what he do.
"What makes you think that I'm who you need?"
"I's know what you is…and I's know what you ain't."
"What am I?" He raised an eyebrow, intrigued against his better judgment. If she knew what he was, he couldn't allow her to live to tell others.
"You a Rugaru – but you ain't no monster. You only go afta da bad men."
After he had first been changed, he found he had a profound interest in what other supernatural beings might exist. He had spent months pouring over books, researching. A rugaru or Roux-ga-Roux, was a creature from the Louisiana French legends. It was a man that was changed into a beast-like creature, and fed on human flesh, bone and blood. The rugaru was supposed to live in the swamps, only coming out to feed on human flesh. It had the body of a man, but as it ate more and more flesh, the body changed to be more animal-like. The more it ate, the more it mutated into a wolf-like beast, until there was no humanity left. The virus was supposed to be passed on by being bitten by the creature, and being able to escape before it killed the victim. So the storyline was very similar between my kind and the rugaru, although, since the rugaru ate the entire victim, it was much more economical than my kind, which only drank the blood and left the rest to rot.
The woman in front of him obviously thought he was a young rugaru, as there was nothing beast-like about his appearance. He was impressed by her creativeness, she wasn't that far off the mark. She was also still very fearful that he would bite her.
"I think that you are mistaken, Ma'am." He tipped his hat at her, turning to leave. "Good evening." He tossed over his shoulder.
"I know you did da durty cop dey fished outta da riva." She followed. He turned angrily but she didn't back down. "And I's know you took out Vallera's whole crew – made da cops tink dat Black Angus do it." She added, shrinking back when he growled and bared his teeth at her. God, I's wen too far.
"Why do you think that it was I that did these things?"
"'Cuz I saw you."
In her thoughts, flashes of his hunts/crimes, were running rampant. She saw him as a lethal killing machine, moving too fast and too strong to be anything other than a monster. He was amazed that she knew every kill he had made in the last couple of weeks. But how did she see him?
"How?" He asked sharply. "How did you see me?"
"My Grandmere, she 'ave de sight. An I gots it too." She was twisting her hands against her chest again as she looked into his face, and he realized that he was standing too close to her, towering over her in fact. He stepped back a few paces to put some distance between them. Her fear was nearly irresistible.
He swallowed thickly, the venom burned its way down to his stomach where it bubbled and churned its displeasure. When he was still human, he would have scoffed at someone saying they had something as ludicrous as 'the sight'. He also would have laughed at anyone foolish enough to say they believed in vampires or werewolves – or mind readers. Things were different now. His eyes had been opened to an entirely new world the day Carlisle decided to 'save' him, and he was skeptical about this woman's claim to have a gift of clairvoyance. Was such a phenomenon possible? Could someone really see the future, or did this woman see events as they unfolded?
"What do you mean…The Sight?" He asked softly.
"I's has visions. Terrible thins sometimes." She shuddered as a vision of himself tearing into a throat swam across her mind. "Sometimes, I's awake. Sometimes, I's wakes up screamin."
"If I were what you think I am, and you came out here looking for me anyway – you are either very brave, or very foolish." He whispered, her fear spiked and the scent of it called to him.
"I's not brave. I's jus wan justice for ma sista." She pleaded. "She din deserve ta be beat ta death. She din deserve to be left there ta rot like yestadays trash." Her eyes were swimming with tears now as she pleaded with him. "I woulds do it myself…but he'd likely kill me too, and I's can't leave the boy alone – with no'ne to love 'im.'
"The boy?' He asked, as the face of a young child, maybe three, floated in her mind.
"Anton," she answered. "He's ma sista's boy, and I's all he gots."
"What about the boys father?"
She shrugged, "Who eva he is."
He had suddenly taken a strong position on her case. The man who killed her sister, not only beat her to death, but he left her son orphaned. "What is your name?'
"Mississippi Jones," she replied. "But every one jus calls me Missy."
"Well Missy," he started, backing up another pace – space was good right now. "Tell me about the man that killed your sister."
"His names Mickey Quinn," she said with a sneer. "He runs a gang a orphaned pick-pockets down by da riva." His face floated in her mind, predominately his red hair and imposing scowl. He had a cruel face. "He a bad man. Beats da whores and da kids that works for 'im." Mean bast'd.
"So why don't the police do anything about him?"
"Cuz he pays dem off. Dey don care what he do as long as dey gets dey money, an he don botha no'ne important."
"Tell me more about Mickey Quinn." He asked, the man seemed like a perfect candidate for his next meal. He had a certain disregard for abusive people.
"Him come 'ere from England two year ago. Him wanted for murda there, and he catch the first boat west so he don hang." She swallowed thickly. "Da otha girls, dey learn quick to not goes off with Mickey. Him likes to beat his whores, and no'ne likes a whore with a black an blue face. Most times, we sees Mickey comin, we's walk da otha way."
"So what happened that your sister was with him?'
"It rain all las week." She said sadly. "Thins gets slow when it rain. We's had no money left, and Anton needs food." She wiped at the corner of her eye. "We's see Mickey walkin our way, and I grabs 'Zona's arm ta pull her away, buts she wan go up to 'im."
"'Zona?" That was an odd name.
"Arizona," she corrected. "So I's try ta get her ta walk away, but she yank her arm outta mine, and says dat we need the money. By den, Mickey is standin in front of us. He hard up, cuz no whores goes wit him no more, and he pays 'Zona double to come wit him. She make him pay up front, and give da money ta me, so dat he don beat her and take da money back." She sniffed, 'Dat was da last time I sees my sista alive."
"Are you certain that this Mickey is the one that killed her?"
"Yes, I's is positive." A vision flashed across her mind, a red-haired man punching and kicking a black woman on the floor. The woman was undoubtedly Arizona, she had the same features of her sister. "I has a vision of it. I's see da whole thin." She stepped closer to him, beseeching him. "I's goes ta Mickey's place, and she der, in da back next to da garbage bins." Tears were streaking down her face. "I's almost din recognize her, she beat so bad." Her face crumpled, and she started to cry in earnest. "I wan justice for ma sista! Dat animal kilt 'er wit his bare hands! For no reason t'all! We nobody ta him, why he kilt her for?"
Her anguish was palpable and he felt himself softening to her cause. "Where can I find this Mickey Quinn?" He asked smoothly. He could go and watch him, see if he really fit the profile, and dispatch of him if he did.
Her face brightened as she clutched her hands to her chest. "You take cares of 'im?"
"I'll look into him." He qualified.
That seemed to be enough for her. Perhaps she'd already had a vision of his meeting Mickey. "You finds 'im on Huntington Street, near da fish markets." She looked confused for a moment. "How will you knows 'im?"
"I'll know." He said softly as he turned and strode into the dark of the alley, away from Mississippi, and her fear and hope sweetened blood.
TBC…