The torch lit the narrow, dank passages with a flickering amber glow. There was no sound save the splashes and dripping noises of a water so foul, Carlisle dared not think about what was in it. He held his sleeve against his nose and mouth, and led the group of hunters deeper into the sewer tunnels. In his pocket, a bible. Strapped to his leg, a very sharp knife.
He had been tracking the monsters - the children of the inferno - for nearing a month. At first, it seemed impossible to him that such creatures could enchant so many of their victims. Twenty now dead. Could they not been seen for what they truly were? Perhaps those who had died were destined to their fate. Like a rabbit with a twisted leg.
Then the memory returned to him.
The first body. A young woman, barely out of childhood. Her dress was torn at the breast, and her neck and wrists were marked with deep bruises and several cuts not unlike the bite of a wild animal. The flesh around them was dry. Little blood remained in the woman. A look of horror twisted her long cold features, and marked her glassy, lifeless eyes. What had she done to deserve her death? Should one so young be punished for not yet seeing that the most dangerous things are often the most beautiful?
"A monster!" The voice of the city had cried, "Fetch Pastor Cullen!"
But Pastor Cullen had grown older, and too frail for his witch-hunts any longer. To some, it had been a relief that the old man was finished. They had seen too many innocents die by his hand. In his heart, Carlisle was among them. He yearned to be free of it all. To let souls live unhindered. To let the misunderstood live, to let the 'monsters' do as they would.
But this.
These demons were different. And he would follow them to the ends of the earth until they were destroyed and could harm no one else.
And so, Carlisle had studied them. Learned their ways through old books, nearly dust. He had watched the streets, observed the patterns of the kills. And he had found them. Huddled in the putrid sewers like a nest of rats. What glamorous, irresistible beings. Carlisle could not help but sneer behind the cover of his arm and trudge forward. Deeper into the pits of hell.
Behind him, the cowardly followers of his father shook with terror. Stepped slower. Whispered about turning back. Their fondness was for spilling blood, not having their own spilt. When Pastor Cullen was tracking beasts, it was a merry thing to them. Too many of them liked the thrill of violence, the heat in their chests, the rush of the kill. The drums of war beat in their ears, and they could see that they beat in the pastor's as well. But his son - there was something different in the son. Something they could never comprehend. Something that drove him onward. Steadily. Coldly. Something that meant he could never turn back, even if he could not win.
Especially if he could not win.
They didn't understand, and part of them feared him. That his were the eyes that could see where a monster really was. And one day, those eyes look upon each of them. And he would know.
The sounds began to change. The stillness replaced with the whistling of wind, and the water seemed to run faster beneath their filthy boots. They were nearing the river. There was a flicker of a second light. A torch that didn't not belong to Carlisle. One of the other men gasped. They had stepped too close. They would be found out for certain.
Carlisle knew it too be true.
Could they have been so blind? Walking straight to the door of their own death? This was how the demons survived. For mortal man was a fool. Carlisle cursed himself, lowered his torch and took a step back.
He never stood a chance.
A form, no more than the whisper of shadow tore the torch from his hand and he watched, dazed, as it plunged into the putrid water of the tunnels. There was only the dim light camp, now, and by that he could see as the creature grabbed one of his men by the throat and with barely a motion snapped his neck. He threw the corpse against the wall, and it slumped in the water like a rag doll.
As swiftly as he could, Carlisle reached for his knife and made to cut the fiend. But instead, the demon lunged at him. It had been long since he had fed. The others were on the hunt, looking for their next meal. They had promised to bring him something special. But the thirst was overtaking him. And then, he had smelled blood.
The vampire's lips peeled back in a greedy snarl, revealing it's jagged, white teeth.
Carlisle raised the knife, and where it ought to have sliced through flesh, it clattered. As though it had struck stone. The creature surged forward again, and with nothing left to him, Carlisle reached towards it to fight it off with his bare hands. The creature's teeth caught him in the palm, where it seemed to linger. The coppery odour of blood began to fill the air.
And Carlisle screamed.
His flesh seared with pain, as though he had grabbed hot iron. And fire deeper that any he had ever know curled into his arm like liquid death. In an instant, the pain was blinding. A stark whiteness overcame his vision and he could see nothing. Vaguely, he recognized that the weight was gone from his arm, that he had hit his head against something. The fire - the venom - felt as though it were peeling back the layers of his skin, one by one, and his hand was so hot. The agony was overwhelming.
He wished that someone would take their blade and cut it off. Or plunge it into his heart. Anything to end it.
His vision came back into focus, and he let out a low wail. Death was all around him. In the near-darkness he could make out the shape of the creature as it carried three of his men - as though they weighed no more that a sack of feathers - towards his camp. The unbearable pain still screamed in his hand, and he felt his body trying to reject it.
The river.
The river would be cold.
Perhaps it would end the pain.
He knew his strength was failing, and he could not force himself to stand. He slipped forward, and dragged himself along the ground of the tunnel. The scent, so close, was horrible. But the pain - the pain was so much worse.
The open sky was upon him, as he tumbled with the sewage into the icy water. The sun was still blazing brightly. He had thought it wise to attack in the day, for night was the devil's cloak.
He had no faith in his own wisdom anymore.
Carlisle plunged into the river, but the pain did not lessen. The burning did not stop.
Instead, it continued to spread. He cried in sorrow and anguish, and his tears were lost in the ebb of the water. Feebly, he pushed himself to shore. Why was his hand so heavy? It felt as though the flesh were hardening over. As though the skin was becoming a glove.
Finding his legs, he began to stumble along the river bank. Towards the nearest signs of release. But the docks were empty, for all the boats had gone out in the morning. There was a glint of sunlight upon metal by the side of the boathouse. A glimmer of hope. Carlisle desperately reached towards it, believing it to be his salvation. The heavy knife used for cutting nets. His lips trembled as he mumbled a prayer.
And with as much force as he could, he brought the knife down upon his arm.
But it did not cut.
The demon's skin repelled his knife in such a manner.
And he realized his fate.
He vowed he would not fall into hell so quickly. He took up the knife again, and stabbed himself swiftly in the heart. He heard the crunch of his bone, but he could not feel the pain above the all-consuming agony of his transformation. As he drew the knife out, Carlisle watched as the blood began to trickle down his chest. And he hoped for peace.
There was a sudden surge of fire, as the venom raced across from his shoulder and into his chest. He screamed again, filled with despair.
The bleeding stopped. The wound closed.
His chest burned.
He whimpered, and prayed for release. With a racking cough, he vomited blood upon the ground.
Thoughts of his father came to him. His only son was to become everything he despised. Everything he feared. And Carlisle knew of no way to escape it. The pain was clouding his mind, and a kind of madness was taking him over. He had to destroy himself. He would never become a monster.
The heavy blade rested in his good hand, as he struggled to make his way into town. Dragging his wet, bloody form through the narrow back alleys and dirt paths. Every now and then, he would try to reopen the wound in his chest, to drain more of the venom from his system, but it would never work. He was damned. Damned to an eternity of suffering. To walk the earth until the end of times in the service of the forces of evil.
Sweat beaded on his brow, and he felt the venom spreading upwards and into his neck. He was grateful that his good arm remained unaffected, and that his legs were stronger now. He clutched the handle of his stolen blade firmly and headed towards his house. He passed a woman, and she shrieked at the sight of his horrific state. He had no time to think of it. He had to destroy himself.
The home where he had grown up, where he lived with his father, look warm and inviting as he approached it. He longed to lie upon his bed and fall quietly into the dreamless sleep of death. But he knew that it could never be. He dared not enter it, for he would not cast the shadow of his cursed form upon the threshold. And he could not bear to have his father see him. The old man was so fragile now.
Carlisle had to rest. The pain was too intense. He couldn't keep fighting against it.
He was so tired.
He had to rest.
He had to let the pain take him.
The venom seized him again, and he struggle not to scream. Not to make so much noise as to disturb his father. Then something caught his eye.
A small shed, partially underground. The potato cellar. Carlisle's mind was in a haze and his entire body was beginning to burn as he closed the door to the cellar behind him. He fell upon the ground immediately, and gave up.
The fight was over.
He would not die today.