Aftermath
I.
He could feel it flow through him, the anger, washing over his body like a wave, gently, lifting him up, moving him. His eyes darkened, surveying the bodies around the room, totaling maybe even forty or more. Some had been crushed by the pool table he'd helped throw, some shot and killed by himself and the others. All were dead, save Klausse, Ian, Perry, and Dulcid. Not counting himself, of course. Ian was freaking out, fang out, assaulting Perry like a madman. One quick flick and Ian fell, the man had deftly sunk a chunk of broken pool cue into the raving vampire's heart.
Then it was Perry, the Philadelphian punk's turn to flip out. Followed by Dulcid. Things were getting foul, and they didn't look to get any better, while Klausse just stood and watched, chuckling and speaking to himself in German, as he stroked his finely-made tie. This was all a mess. Police would be here soon, he could practically hear them, and after that… after that there'd be Tilly to deal with. There was only one thing to be done for it. He ran, boots beating pavement in a steady rhythm until he found his car. Without thinking, the engine roared to life – a small four cylinder, enough gas to make Washington DC, enough money in his wallet for a plane ticket, no questions asked. Just another night.
II.
Half of Norfolk had burned that night, between the explosions marking the end of logging in the Great Dismal, to the Sabbat hunt in the bar that had turned into such a fiasco. It was all behind him as he looked out across the pebble beaches of Nice. France, his home country, had always been so beautiful, he'd never really taken time to stop and look at her. Days had passed, and no one knew where he'd gone, he'd made damn sure to cover his tracks. Russell Edmund had a ticket to Berlin, with a stopover in Spain. He'd stopped entirely in Spain, taking the train into Nice. Tracking him would be all but impossible.
The beach was gorgeous tonight, calm, deserted. He had it to himself, and that suited Russell just fine. Boots made slight crunching gravelly noises as he walked along, tails of his black coat barely whispering against the pebbles of the beach. One gloved hand lifted almost unconsciously to brush away a stray bit of brown hair, then stopped to tuck a cigarette neatly between his lips, before the other lifted to light it. Laura had been informed, he'd called her from the plane whilst over the ocean. She'd been angry, but not with him, she was coming, on her way over as they spoke. Business had to be done or she'd been coming sooner. He understood completely.
Where to even start… Russell was a vampire, as were all his friends. He had some associates that were not, but they had no idea about him. Laura, a small woman, blonde, with the appearance of perhaps a sixteen year old girl, was his sire, the person who had brought him into vampirism. She saw promise in him, he had been a street-corner orator when she'd met him. Next best to a homeless crazy man. Still, she saw his past, she saw the man who fought in the fields and forests of his native France, alongside others from his home of Locronan, in the armies of Napoleon. It was this leader of men, this uncompromising revolutionary that Laura saw, and felt needed preserving. Now it was 1995, and he was still as rebellious and fierce as ever. More dangerous now, that he had infinite resources, contacts, and vampiric powers to back him. Dangerous enough to wipe clean an entire biker bar in a matter of seconds. Tilly would hate that.
Still, there was much to be done. They wouldn't stop at letting him go, and so he would have to continue. They'd soon be on his tail, on their way hunting toward Spain, up into France, all the way home to Locronan. That was where his plan came into play, all the way back in Locronan. Russell had contacts everywhere, especially at home. What he needed now was an army, or at least a sizable force, of vampires like him, sick of doing what they were told by people older and "better." That would be a good start to usher in the end of this. Norfolk was sick and diseased, it needed to be excised from the face of the world, to serve as an example.
Russell Guillame Edmund, Captain in the Armies of Napoleon, ruthless slayer of hundreds, cracked a broad smile. He was just the man for the job.