She was your kill.
"Yeah, I didn't realise we'd decided that."
The stony red ground was unyielding and heavy. It smelt of death, more so than the blanket wrapped corpse waiting above him. That had the elusive scent of blood; almost spoiled now but lingering; tempting and calling to him in the new way he loved and loathed in equal measure.
He'd dug as ordered, mindlessly obedient for once, trying not to think about what he was doing and what he had done. The sweat was sticking his shirt to his back and he was filthy, his face, hands and clothes stained with red soil. How would he explain it to his wife? Up and coming solicitors rarely went home covered in mud. He'd think of something. He always did. He'd lied to her since the day they met.
Hal stood well clear as he worked, leaning on the car and smoking. His unnatural stillness a constant reminder of what he was and how deeply beholden to this being Cutler was. He may be new to Hal's world but he already knew what would happen if he failed to obey. Not the details – those were tailored with knowing cruelty to each victim – but the pain and terror retribution would bring. He had been precise about the grave – it must be 'appropriate'. Cutler had tried to protest but his words faded away at the look in Hal's eye. Just covering the body was not enough, it had to be deep enough not to be found and the ground must look undisturbed when he had done. He sighed at the thought of so much work but he kept digging. The blisters on his hands were bursting now. The oozing liquid making the handle of the shovel slip and tear his office soft flesh further. The pain was sharp but that and the dull ache of the muscles in his back and shoulders were a welcome distraction.
Hal had men who buried the bodies, who cleaned up the blood and burned the evidence. Cutler knew it amused him to see him toiling in the earth, the man who'd escaped that world and now wielded nothing heavier than an elegant fountain pen. Somehow he'd found out Cutler's story, one he kept hidden. He'd escaped his past, reinvented himself and ironed out the accent of his birth to an acceptable level. He had made himself a better man. A better man than the one who fathered him.
His father came home filthy after an honest day's labour and a less honest night's drinking. His hands were calloused; his muscles hard and Cutler would never forget the feel of those hard hands and the bruises they left. His mother never stopped the beatings and the attention her husband paid her child meant she was left alone. As soon as he was old enough to hope Cutler vowed to escape. He'd become as hard as his father in his own way, and he'd inveigled himself into the protection of one of his schoolmasters, a man who'd come to the failing backstreet school in a social crusade. He helped Cutler win scholarships and taught him manners, he housed and fed him, even clothed him and he was gentler in his demands than his father had ever been. At least here he was rewarded but when Cutler left for university he didn't glance back. He didn't even say goodbye.
His father had worked for the parish. No one else would have tolerated his violent drunkenness but his occasional fits of self pity when he wept in chapel made them think redemption was possible.
His father had been a gravedigger. Maybe he still was and Hal had found out. Of course he had.
"Lucky Fergus was there to finish the job."
Good old Fergus. Always around to finish the job. Damn and blast him.
Cutler knew Fergus despised him and the feeling was mutual. He thought Fergus was a jumped up lackey and he knew Fergus was jealous Hal had chosen Cutler. On the occasions when Hal and Cutler went out alone Fergus always managed to insinuate himself – as driver, fixer, procurer, whatever he could do to prove himself indispensable. Cutler would never admit it but he was often relived to have Fergus along for the ride. It meant he could stand back and Fergus' impatience would always mean he made the kill and Cutler didn't need to. He'd thought Hal hadn't noticed but he should have known better.
The evening had started with Hal's summons. Drinks, a club, wear a suit – and a tie – and do not show him up. Despite the fear of putting a foot wrong Cutler preened in front of the older vampires. Hal hadn't chosen to spend time with them. He could almost taste their resentment and the self-satisfaction helped him ignore the gnawing fear in his belly at what the evening might bring.
They shared a decanter before leaving and fresh blood gave Cutler the feeling of invincibility he relished. To begin with he'd tried to analyse it, pick apart how blood changed him but it was elusive, impossible to pin down and he gave up trying. It just made him feel… more.
The girl had been willing, too willing. Hal had picked her out and suggested Cutler take the lead. Suggested meaning ordered, of course and Cutler didn't argue. Hal preferred to watch and he liked his men to perform for him, he was always the puppet master, the one who pulled the strings. Cutler had learned to be charming; a cold, calculated charm that was part of the arsenal of weapons he used to get whatever he wanted. He'd smiled and flattered, ordered expensive champagne and she had fallen for every one of his practised wiles. Fergus had insisted on driving them and he glowered at them from his seat at the bar.
When she was drunk enough not to care that Cutler was fondling her quite openly and Hal was watching intently, they took her out of the club. Two men, one drunken girl, her dress creased and partly undone, hardly able to stand. But no one stopped them. No one saved her. No one ever did.
Cutler wanted to be stopped, for someone to ask her if she was all right. For someone to question if they were really seeing her home safely as Hal murmured to the doorman. He wanted to let her run but the blood he'd drunk earlier was fighting the few scruples he had left. The blood wanted her, wanted her in every way possible and he couldn't fight the blood. It would always win. He could see the day coming when his life would revolve around it to the exclusion of all else. Just thinking of how impossible it was to resist exhausted him.
"You like the blood though."
"Have you got any? I mean... Yeah."
Hal's satisfied smile made him realise how desperate he'd sounded. He cursed himself roundly and silently and went back to digging. He'd shown a weakness and although he would never fool Hal entirely he tried not to show him any confusion or regret.
Surely the grave was deep enough now. He wouldn't ask but he glanced over to where Hal stood, throwing the spade up onto the pile of earth. Hal didn't move, didn't speak and Cutler took silence as approval. He wiped his hands on his trousers and dragged his sleeve across his face to wipe off the mud and sweat. His hands stung, the blisters that had burst and reformed and burst again were bleeding and he could smell his own blood. It made him want more – no, it made him need more. He lifted his hand and licked the blood from his palm without thinking. It had a hint of the taste of human blood but was flat and dull, no spark of life. It piqued his appetites without sating them even slightly.
It took him several tries to climb out of the hole – out of the grave. The sides were steep and starting to crumble and the abused muscles in his arms and shoulders refused to hold his weight. The stones dug into his hands but eventually he crawled over the edge and lay panting on the ground, his eyes closed and his face in the mud.
He thought he could stay there forever. Eventually he'd stop hurting and stop feeling guilty and exhilarated by the life he'd been forced into. He'd made choices of his own that were immoral and selfish but nothing like this. He hadn't made this choice and a brave man would end it but he wasn't brave. He was accustomed to finding an angle, an advantage and he knew the blood could give him so very much. The repulsion was fading day by day, the last struggles of the man he might have been against the monster Hal had known he should be. The fight was almost over.
He heard a crunch and opened his eyes to see Hal's immaculate toecaps so close to his face he could smell the polish Fergus applied so diligently. He pushed himself upright, grimacing at the protests of his aching body. He knew blood would help, would take away the pain and heal his torn hands but it was too late. He'd had his chance and he'd failed. He could only hope Hal would give him one more time to finally prove he could do what he knew he had to. He wanted to, he wanted the blood; to taste it and feel the heartbeat pumping it into his mouth. Copper and salt, hot and glorious, the flow only slowing as the flesh failed. He wanted to know what it felt like to kill. He just needed one more chance to hold his nerve.
"You're becoming the drunk who never buys a round."
They didn't put her in the car, the last one had been sick and Hal had insisted the car was sold. Instead Cutler half supported, half guided her to a park, Hal and Fergus following them in the car. He found a bench, hidden by the darkness and the trees and they sat. She knew what he wanted – what she thought he wanted – and climbed astride him, pulling up her dress and fumbling with his clothes. He could see Hal and Fergus had walked closer but he didn't care. Why should he? She was hardly going to come crying after him later, parading a swelling belly or an angry father. He sat back and let her move, she didn't seem to expect any affection from him and she didn't get any. She moved faster, her body burning hot against his cold skin and as he felt himself get close he put his mouth to her neck, just feeling the pulse and savouring the thought of the blood. He bit down, the ecstasy of the hot blood making his orgasm seem insignificant in comparison.
But through the joy and the desperation for more and more blood he heard her screaming. Something was wrong, she should be beyond speech by now and he realised the flow of blood was slow, not the hot gush that was so compelling. He pulled his head back and realised he'd torn her neck but missed the artery and she managed to pull away, putting her hand to her throat and screaming again when she saw the blood.
There was a blur of movement and Fergus grabbed her, his hand over her mouth, looking at Cutler with a contempt that made him flinch. He finished the job. He didn't miss and when her body went limp Hal stepped forward.
"Strip it and put it in the boot. Then leave – and burn its clothes"
Fergus obeyed, grinning at Cutler over his shoulder as he dragged her away.
"Such a disappointment. I foresaw great things for you but clearly I was mistaken in your ambition."
Cutler slumped on the bench, how could he have failed again? Perhaps there were still faint traces of his human self in his inability to kill. Or was he just the abject failure Hal thought he was.
"Tidy yourself." Cutler realised his clothes were still disarrayed as she'd left them and flushed. He covered himself, tucking in his shirt and fastening his trousers.
"At least you didn't need Fergus to finish that for you."
"All we require... is everything."
He rolled the blanket wrapped bundle into the hole he'd slaved over, wincing at the fleshy thud as it hit the bottom. He picked up the spade and flung the first few shovelfuls of earth over the edge without looking.
"Wait."
He stopped, frozen with the spade raised and turned his head to see what Hal wanted.
"Evidence Mr Cutler. You need to remove the blanket and the rope." He laughed. "Oh Nick. And you a legal man. Tell me, did you buy your certificates I wonder or earn them honestly?"
No point in arguing. Cutler looked down, he'd made the hole just big enough and the only way to get the blanket back was to get in with the body. It would be easiest to jump but he couldn't. She was dead, it wouldn't hurt but the thought of landing on her body was just wrong. He slid over the edge and managed to get his feet on the ground. Fergus had tied the bundle with old rope and the knots were pulled tight. Cutler didn't carry a penknife – or any kind of knife – so he had to tease them apart, the coarse hemp tearing his fingernails. Eventually he got the rope free and threw it out of the hole. He grabbed the edge of the covering and pulled hard. The body moved and rolled against his legs as it came free, a tangle of pale arms and legs, head lolling back, the throat torn open. Her eyes were open and her face was frozen in terror.
He was staring. He wasn't sure why – he saw bodies every day now but he couldn't look away from this one. It was too real and he felt his stomach churn. He'd managed to block out that this was a girl, young and foolish but just a girl. She hadn't deserved to meet him. She couldn't have known she was his kill, or maybe his last chance.
"Are you planning to stay down there for the night?" Hal was looking over the edge at him. "She's probably not quite cold yet but you won't get much response. I suggest we'd be more comfortable elsewhere with a drink and girls with a pulse but if you'd prefer to stay..." He let his voice trail off but he was smiling and Cutler let out a deep breath in relief. He'd wondered if he'd been digging his own grave too but then he laughed too. It was a ridiculous thought - he'd need no grave, when his time came he'd just scatter in the wind.
He started to climb out; he wanted this over and done with. He wanted to bathe and scrub his nails, put on a new suit and shirt, use his most expensive cologne and drink brandy with Hal in a gentleman's club.
It took less time to fill the grave and soon he was levelling off the surface, scattering the left over soil around the trees before replacing the turf. He turned to Hal and he nodded.
"A very reasonable job, one you know how to avoid ever having to do again. You almost had the perfect kill - you seduced her and fucked her; you drank her blood, some of it anyway, and you almost killed her. You have one more chance to complete the routine. And then you might like to take time to enjoy it."
Cutler felt himself relax, just a little. He had his last chance and he'd do anything, pay any price, to get Hal's approval.
"But only one of us was satisfied by this evening's endeavours. You need to remedy that."
The relaxation fled. Cutler knew that tone; he'd heard it all through his ruined childhood. Hal reached over and pushed him to his knees, using the strength he preferred to keep hidden.
"You dig a very competent grave. Let's see what else Daddy taught you."
He knotted the fingers of one hand in Cutler's hair, the other unfastening his jacket and opening his trousers. Cutler closed his eyes but Hal pulled his hair viciously and he opened them again. There was to be no escape into his mind, to the place of plans and dreams he had found to hide in as a child. He used every trick he'd ever learned and when Hal finally groaned and sighed he felt a sense of triumph. Just for a moment he was the one with the power and it felt good.
He knew Hal demanded his complete dedication and his unquestioning obedience. Whatever it took, whatever the sacrifice and the ignominy he would do it. It would be worth it. He would have eternity – he'd be a great man, a history maker.
And in return, all Hal wanted was everything.