Anderson was taking a nightly stroll, looking about for anything that might hint at Iscariot's reasoning for his being sent here. Yokai's reputation was good, and Iscariot would never sanction an attack on children, even non-humans. As he rounded a decorative tombstone, a student stood before him, baring fangs.
"Ye widnae want tae do that, lad,"
"You killed my uncle, and I will avenge him!" the boy cried out, lunging at Anderson, who sidestepped and pushed the boy into the ground.
"Whit was his name?" he inquired, hoping an explanation might prevent him from having to kill the boy. He understood the boy's motives, but that wouldn't stop him from killing the child if he had to.
The boy shot a look of pure hatred and rage. "You murder him in cold blood, and you don't even remember?! You don't remeber slaying Andrew Jacobson in New York City three years ago?"
Anderson remembered. "Aye, lad. Ah remember. But Ah did nae murder him. It was justice, an' Ah could nae avoid it. Sixteen people died at his hands. When Ah found him, he was slaking his thirst on a seventeenth, a little girl that could nae be o'er nine."
The boy looked shocked. "No, that's not what happened. My parents said you killed him in cold blood, because all you Catholics hate us!"
"Nay, lad, we do nae hate ye. At least, Ah dinnae. Ye are a pitiful lot, that's for sure, but Ah ne'er hated ye. Ah only kill monsters. Ye are non-human. Ye become a monster when ye begin tae kill people. An' yer uncle, he took the lives o' seventeen people. His last, a wee lass who had nae even had the chance tae begin life. My job is tae enforce the Scriptures when it says, 'Those who live by the sword, die by the sword,' Even me, one day, will have tae face that. Mah heart will be ripped oot like how Ah've the ripped the heart oot o' so many families. Ah dinnae like tae kill, but Ah do it because o' the right reasons."
The boy stood silent, thinking. After a minute, he silently walked away. Anderson did the same, heading to his room for the night. As he fell asleep, he wondered how many other children mourned their families, believing he had murdered them. And, essentially, he had. Repay blood with blood, that was his job. But where was the good in that? The victims of the vampiric attack, and the vampire's family both grieved. Perhaps, instead of justice, he should have tried to prevent those awful acts. His nightmares consisted of endless battle, a vampire who could not be beaten. Anderson himself become a monster, a crown of thorns, yet still lost, his heart torn out. That night, sleep was fitful.