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Scene #89
A good kill no longer brought satisfaction, only despair.
Pain lanced through Catalina de Villalobos's side as
she neared her latest victory. She raised her arm and glanced down
at the four angry furrows raked deep into her ribs. The vampire
she had confronted that night had been a Wolverine wannabe,
sporting a glove with razor sharp claws. Claws with which the
vampire had successfully slashed through the protection of the
leather jerkin she wore for battle. Catalina ran a hand
over the wound. It came away wet with blood. Shit.
Too much blood. She nudged the body of her undead foe with
the point of her polished black boot. Bent beside him to examine
the claws. Picking up the vampire's gloved hand, the gleam of
silver shone bright in the moonlight along with the shock of blood
along finely honed talons. It explained why her
wounds weren't closing yet. The silver was messing with her body's
ability to heal. She couldn't delay. Weakness slowly crept into
her extremities from the loss of blood. She couldn't afford that.
The vamps would be out in force on a night like tonight, thinking
they could have a vamp's version of Mardi Gras before others like
her emerged during the three days that were the height of the lunar
cycle. When the werewolves came out to hunt, the smarter vampires
retreated into their lairs for safety. Ņo, she said, cursing
her stupidity at allowing the demon to get close enough to wound
her. With that thought came a wave of wooziness, reminding her she
couldn't linger. Hurrying, she removed the silver
throwing knives from the vamp's heart, wiped them clean on his
shirt and then tucked them back into the leather vambrace along her
left forearm. She stood and glanced at the body. The
moonlight illuminated the young vampire's pale face. Barely out of
his twenties human-age wise, but also fairly fresh to the undead
life. She had sensed his power was not as strong as that of an
older bloodsucker. That could explain the clawed glove he had
added for protection. Newly turned, he had somehow become aware of
the fact that he lacked the strength to defend himself against
anything other than a human. Guilt blossomed within her
as she wondered whether the young man had chosen his undead life or
been sired against his will. The latter made her hesitate until
the vampire's hand gave a sudden twitch, reminding her she had a
job to finish. No matter how he had been turned, the end result
was the same -- a thirsty bloodsucker. She had stopped this one
from draining an NYU coed he had dragged to the rooftop from the
street below. The coed had fled, screaming, as soon as Catalina
had arrived on the scene. Funny, but she didn't know if the
coed had been more afraid of her in her human state and battle
gear, or the vamp. Easing her blade from the scabbard
where she had sheathed it earlier, Catalina raised the Crusader's
sword high in the air, uttered a small prayer for the young man's
soul and hers, and then brought the blade rushing downward,
cleaving the vampire's head from his shoulders. The
body jumped one final time, confirming that the smaller silver
knives had only slowed the demon. Her sword had finished the job.
The morning sun would quickly dispose of any evidence of the kill.
She wiped down the sword on the vamp's shirt. The
silver-plated blade as toxic to vamps as it was to those of her
kind. A weakness the vamps had passed on to the werewolves they
had inadvertently created. Once back in its scabbard, she
laid her hand on the leather wrapped hilt of the sword and the
cross deeply engraved into the silver pommel glittered in the
moonlight. Somehow apropos, she thought. Her father had
chosen a Crusader's sword for her and Catalina formed part of the
front lines of such a campaign. The cross a symbol of the
righteous battling against immoral demons who no longer recognized
any kind of god. Once more despair rose up strongly within
her. This would be the rest of her life, until one of the undead
got luckier than the callow youth she had dispatched tonight.
Werewolf versus vampire. Catalina and her brethren against
the unholy bloodsuckers. Life was truly a bitch.
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