Hunter of Conscience
His eyes opened to the sight of his dear Cynthia, she stood beside his bed waiting for him to awaken with the sunset. Her loose blonde hair was still as she watched him through her deep blue eyes. It was the closest thing to love he could know, she was subservient like a child or a slave but she cared for him deeply. That is, to the extent that a will-broken servant could care for a vampire. His care for her was reciprocal, that is, to the extent that a vampire could care for or love such a weak-minded creature. That was the nature of their relationship, a cold monster that loved a low creature, and that low creature loved him in return.
"Did you sleep well Lord?"
"My rest was fine." There was a slight tremor in his voice and he knew he couldn't hide it from her.
She regarded him skeptically. "You don't sound like yourself, what's wrong?"
There was short and awkward hiatus as Donovan searched for what to say, and how to unburden himself of his conscience. "My rest has become uneasy." She looked at him with warm and understanding eyes, which somehow only prompted him to continue. "It galls my soul and I can't bear it any more. I've taken so many lives and I think if I slit one more throat, or snap one more neck, or pull the trigger one more time I'll lose it, and that'll be it, the end."
"It could only be natural, to have remorse for so many people. How many of those attacked you and you only defended yourself from?"
Donovan sat up to look at her on eye level. "And how many of those were weak mortals that could not have defended themselves from me." She was going to respond but he cut her off. "Since my death there has been nothing but death in my touch. Don't you understand! Death clings to death! I am dead and only more death can come of it. This curse has trapped me with my own prowess in ways I could not have seen. Even you have succumb to my curse, when I met you, you were vibrant and happy. Now you are just some morbid slave of my will."
Her face fell to a morose expression as she reached a hand to his face. "Donovan."
He willed her to stop and she did. "Don't touch me! My wicked and black being is an insult to your lingering kindness."
He got out of bed and hit the light switch on the wall. The florescent light flickered on as he ran his fingers through his short black hair.
"Cynthia, I'm going out. Make sure Rob is still casting those rounds I requested," He shut the door behind him and changed into his attire, that is the urban camo fatigues, trench coat, shades and beret he always wore out on the town.
Through the years he learned, that because of who and what he was he could never go any where without a weapon. He was as deadly with his hands as he was with a gun or knife, but this was his curse, and this his burden. Donovan could never be alone or at peace and this was what had come to eat at his very being and sanity. Never could he find respite in the eternal struggle against those that seemed to be naturally drawn to test his ability. Humans, other vampires, werewolves, even vampire hunters had fallen before his gun, sword, knife and bare hands. All of this was wearing on his immortal stamina and he was tired of facing his fate, and tired of fighting a tireless battle.
His hunger never alleviated his pain, but perhaps satiating it would make him feel at ease for a time being. A cab took him to the place where his lust could most easily find fulfillment, Averam's Club. He was greeted at the door as usual and made his entry to the feeding ground within. Donovan took a seat at a table in the corner of the room, he needed a low profile place to meditate his concerns and simultaneously find prey to feed the demon within.
As he was admiring the chaotic beauty inherent in the hardwood grain of the tabletop, he felt it. It was something he felt many times before; malefic eyes pierced his comfort, as they ill intently looked him over. He knew it was there, an anonymous presence that was careful and calculating, studying him and watching him. It was ready to strike from anywhere, sending him to hell for a second time. Donovan was torn for the first time, should he meet it and live with more blood, or should he run. In the past he felt a threat, or an attempt on his existence was an insult that should be regarded mercilessly. Those feeling were escaping him, and in their absence was nothing but madness.
His verdict was to run, to evade what needless violence he could. This decision came to him in the realization that to live an eternity in anything other than peace was to not live, but to drag on in a self-perpetuated existential hell. Despite his newfound philosophy he acknowledged that there would always be inadvertent bloodshed, but every advertent life he took, moved him just one step further from peace. He felt that he had already taken to many steps, and now sought another direction.
In his usual calm and collected way he got up and walked toward the door. The sensation of eyes never let up as made his way to the street outside.
"Were can I lose them?" The thought was just an inaudible motion of his cold lips. "The subway station down the street would work perfectly."
Donovan looked up and down the street, like he was checking for traffic, or in reality, checking for malicious assailants. The station entrance was a few blocks down the surprisingly empty street, and as he started he could sense it all the way there. What followed was evasive to him, but not so much so that he couldn't catch even the slightest glimpse as it receded back into shadows when he turned his head. The vampire's senses were heightened beyond that of a mortal and what perused him was aware this. His eyes darted from shadow to shadow, his nose caught the faintest diffusions of danger, and his ears were receiving every little stirring of air.
At last Donovan reached the subway station. He descended the staircase to the empty but well-lit subway plaza. It was cold, a sensation that would have chilled him all the way to his bones had it not been for the fact that he was dead. The eerie silence that presided over his surroundings was what sparked the realization. There was nowhere left to run; he had like the rabbit backed himself into a hole, and it was the weasel that followed.
The notion that at very least he tried made him a little easier. Donovan stood out in plain sight and turned to confront with full reciprocity his hunters. The paranoia that haunted him was not just in his mind, it was real and it stood before him in the form of five black-cowled figures. Each one of them was covered in a black mantle, and each one of them had a stake with which to end him.
Donovan stood with his hands in his pockets. "I forgive you, stand down and let not this rob you of your life."
The central figure spoke with fanatical connotation. "You are a foul, wicked monster. And we are here to undo a wrong, not converse."
The vampire hunter's words reminded him of a passage from the bible. Lord forgive them for they know not what they do. "I forgive you, and I will spare your lives if you let me, though I can't make any promises later."
The central figure lunged forward deftly with a stake trained on Donovan's heart "To hell with thee!"
Donovan was no longer going to reason. Like he had always done, he gave into the merciless passion of the savage beast within. He screamed. "I WILL NOT!" As he called the first part of his cry he wrenched the hunter's hand from the air. Donovan's hand clamped down on his attacker's forearm as the radius and ulna snapped inward upon each other. The vampire hunter dropped to his knees in agony and Donovan finished him with a swift crushing blow to temple from his right knee. The enraged vampire leapt like a panther, "KILL!" His heal landed planting itself into the face of another. The brittle skull buckled and collapsed inward. Donovan spun "ANOTHER!" reaching an arm around the neck of one of the scattering hunters. The man's struggle was cut short as the vampire tightened his grip shattering vertebrae in the fragile column. Donovan pulled the stake from the hand of his hunter, "DAMN MORTAL!" Then plunged it through the heart of a hunter fleeing the other direction.
Within six seconds it was done, they were dead. Only one remaining and that would be no problem to deal with. Donovan could faintly hear desperate and terrified breathing, as he walked among the concrete columns of the plaza searching for the last weasel. The weasel was backed into a corner with nowhere to go. He knew it was a woman, the way it smelled, the sound of its breathing, and he didn't want to hurt her.
"Stay away you demon, 'lest I send you back to hell!"
Donovan peered seemingly through her, and he could almost see her underneath that black cowl. She could not be reasoned with, he knew it, because he knew all to well how the cornered animal lashes out in desperation.
"I won't hurt you, I will spare your life if you let me." The problem of course was that she wouldn't let him. He knew it but it still brought him consolation that he tried.
A stake spun out of her hand, Donovan didn't dodge as she was no real threat to him, yet he carried on with his execution anyway. Her frantic state had no positive effect on her aim; this was obvious, the stake entered his shoulder. Its wooden tip pierced dead musculature and ligaments, embedding itself in no more than an irritating spot.
Donovan nodded with an executioner's respect, "so be it."
She backed herself up against a wall as Donovan took a step toward her, then landed a short volley of blows to her ribcage and sternum. His fists shattered the protective structures and collapsed her lungs. The vampire huntress fell forward into his arms, coughing and spitting blood. Donovan had the strength of five men but somehow the weight of the woman's dying body was to heavy a burden and he fell with her. He laid with her on the ground in her last few moments of life. It was slipping from her and all he could do was hold her through those last clinging convulsions. Donovan lifted her hood off of her face, and marveled at what he saw; she was a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and lustrous black hair. Her dark opalescent eyes held nothing but contempt for her murderer. Donovan watched it, he watched what he had a thousand times before, death. It took her and the hatred on her face turned to a tired and blank expression.
He sat up with her warm corpse in his arms and pressed her head against his chest. "Forgive me," was all he could say in his lack of redemption. A single crimson tear rolled down his face as he closed his eyes. Donovan let go of her and took a stand, pulled the stake from his arm and walked away.
He felt hollow and it pained him, he felt alone and it pained him, but what he realized was that he couldn't dwell anymore on those that he merely crossed paths with. Doing so would be another hell in its own way, and he decided that he couldn't live with that anymore than he could eternally live without peace. Acceptance was what washed over him and he felt as though he could return to what he had been fated to do, live and die by the honor of combat. Deep down, in this final acceptance he felt as though he lost something, a small piece of his humanity.
Donovan opened the door to his bedroom, Cynthia was sitting on his bed, reading a book that he probably wouldn't in all of his eternal life consider reading. She looked up at him, and immediately noticed that his clothes were soiled with dirt and blood.
She promptly noticed the hole in his arm, "what happened to you?"
"It was nothing, just more meaningless fools."
Cynthia looked at him like something was in place again. "Are you feeling any better?"
Donovan returned her gaze and contemplated the query for a short moment before answering. "Less complete as a being but definitely better."