Youngblood - 8. Chapter 8

Hello!
From here on there will be delays in publishing, as this is the last chapter I had mostly ready. I will do my best Thank you for your continued patience!

Stanley’s ‘place to stay’ turns out to be an old, two-floor city safe-house wedged in between exact replicas of itself. The street is pot-holed and dirty, seamed with even more ancient houses with stone steps and vaguely Greek looking portcullises. Every few houses, an old tree rakes leafed branches at the sky, bursting out of their concrete flower beds that are now little more than rubble. Giant roots have lifted the asphalt around the concrete beds, forming hills and valleys high enough to threaten pedestrians, of which more than a few are walking the streets. In turn, I have seen no more than two cars ever since we turned onto this road; with the state of both road and sidewalks, I’m not surprised. The feet are king in this area. Further up the road, an Irish Pub is blasting the night air with folk music, light, and laughter. It is far away enough to be easily ignored, but close enough to give a semblance of raw, vibrant life that I didn’t expect outside Cat’s Cradle Penninsula, and definitely not in the Border District. Or this close to the biggest veil in Babylon City; the Darkcity Moon Market veil is just a few streets over, if I am to believe our vampire envoy. Which makes me think that the people living around here might not be completely human.

I get out of the car and walk up the steps while Cor stalks Stanley, who is most likely pondering how to get away from us the quickest. He has been tense ever since he let us into his car, and not just because Cor attempted to jump out of the moving vehicle twice. No, the tension is mainly caused by the way Cor stares at Stanley. He hasn’t eaten him so far, but he looks like he’s still thinking about it. The way Cor watches Stanley’s neck is almost reverent in its hunger and does absolutely nothing to lessen Stanley’s semi-permanent state of dread. I offered to take the wheel when we left the hotel, but Stanley went pale and wheezy at the suggestion, as if riding shotgun somehow would make him more vulnerable to Cor’s teeth.

Stanley locks the car and all but crawls over the hood as he tries to reach me as fast as possible. As if I am the safe spot in their weird game of catch. Cor stalks after him soundlessly and unhurried. Not that Stanley buys his act; “Can you please make him stop?” he wheezes, grabbing my elbow for a moment. Cor in turn rumbles at him, and he lets go immediately.

Sighing, I close my eyes. I am bone tired, my head hurts, my neck hurts, and I feel like there is something slightly off about my balance. All I want to do is lie down a bit and wrap myself in a warm blanket, maybe watch some cartoons until I fall asleep. I allow myself to daydream for a few seconds, then I take a deep breath and open my eyes again. “Cor, please stop frightening him. He will bring you something to eat as soon as he can, but it will take a little while.” I don’t turn around to check if he understood me. I’m not sure I really care right now.

It takes a few tries to find the right key, but not long enough to give Stanley a chance to run off. The door is real wood and heavy, with peeling brown paint and a wide, sweeping brass handle, like they have in Europe. The hallway behind it sports reddish wallpaper and a light wooden floor with dips and divots where uncounted amounts of boots have stepped and turned on the same spots, leaving marks that nobody cared to polish out. A dark wooden stair leads up into the unknown, while three doors further down the hallway beckon to be opened. The house might be slim, but it is longer than expected, and my exhaustion recedes a little at the prospect of exploring.

Cor herds Stanley through the front door as I examine the first room to our right. Spartan, a little dusty, with beige walls, linoleum floors, and standard wood furniture. A wooden bench with cushions takes the place of a couch, two chairs with similar cushions and wide arm rests flank it in case company wants to sit just as uncomfortably as whoever picked that seating contraption. An old TV sits on a little sideboard across from the seating area, complete with a decorative knitted tablecloth beneath the TV stand.

On the left side and across from the street side window, a surprisingly wide arch leads into the next room, which turns out to be a L-shaped kitchen with a breakfast nook. A bowl-shaped lamp dangles from the ceiling above the table, too dusty to identify the color.

The whole house has a weird lived-in feel to it, like it should be owned by a mid-sixties lady called Esther after being handed down for generations in her family and having been renovated exactly once after the cold war. It’s not ramshackle or anything, everything is in working order, but nothing is new. Not even new-ish. Sturdy furniture, sturdy cutlery, cheap sideboards and chairs. Stuff that nobody would miss if it were to break under the weight of a raging fang-baby, which is the purpose of the house, as Stanley explained in the car.

I eye a bunch of cobwebs dangling from the kitchen lamp for a moment as I collect my thoughts, then turn to watch Stanley scramble after me and flit into the spacious breakfast nook across from the kitchen door. It’s not his brightest decision, because now he’s caught between a wall and a… Cor. Stanley seems to realize the same thing and tries to scooch around the table and out on the other side, but it’s not really helping. He knows it, and Cor seems to know it as well; he grins widely, showing teeth, leaning forward just a little.

For a moment I wonder if I should intervene, try and distract Cor or lure him away from his chosen snack, but I am not sure if I can, or should. As much as I try to reassure myself of Cor’s good character, I don’t know him. He’s a stranger, even though I seem unable to remember that fact whenever things get dicey. Hell, Stanley has known Cor longer than I do, and he is scared shitless, so what do I know?

It takes Stanley’s half angry and half pleading side glance to make up my mind. I step forward and touch Cor’s arm carefully, just a stroke with two fingers to get his attention. My finger brushes over the dark hairs on his arm, making me shudder and speeding up my heart, because he is real and he is here and I just remembered that. He doesn’t quite react, eyes still fixed on his prey, but he straightens minutely and the grin slowly seeps away. It’s not much, but by the way Stanley swallows, I just showed a feat of strength worthy of a god. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it.

Still, whatever non-verbal communication I just performed, it seems to have worked. After a few more seconds of hungry ogling, Cor turns away and sniffs the air, then prowls off, through the kitchen door and deeper into the bowels of the house. I’m not sure if that is better than him scaring Stanley, especially since the front door isn’t completely closed and he could sneak off whenever he pleases, but I can’t really complain. Instead, I sit down and rub my forehead, trying to ease the tension headache that roams around my brain.

When I look up again, Stanley still sits across from me, head slightly tilted and much less panicked than before.

“So, rotting vampire, huh?” he says and crooks his brow in question.

Ah, yes. “Is there some coffee in here or something?” I ask and eye the kitchen cabinets.

“Might be. The young ones sometimes like to drink it. No real nourishment, but the taste seems to calm them down,” Stanley says and shrugs. Guess I’ll have to find out on my own.

***

As it turns out, the safehouse does have an impressive stack of non-perishables, and that does include some powdered coffee. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even look at it with my butthole. Tonight I nurse my cup like it’s artisan special brew.

“What do you know about the rotting vampires?”

Stanley still sits across the table, all upright and attentive. Cor passed the door once, glanced at us, and then took off again, up the stairs. I hear him rummage around ever so often, and I have my suspicions that he’s making noises for my benefit. Not that I’m protesting.

“Nothing. The first time I heard about that was from you.”

“Nobody missing from your kiss, or clan, or whatever? No weird disappearances? No rumors?”

Stanley huffs exasperatedly. “How should I know? There are tons of rumors and strange goings-on, but I have no idea if I know anything about rotting vampires, because you haven’t given me any clues yet.”

Which makes sense, somewhat. I can’t imagine the things going on in any given veil, especially in a big metropolis like Babylon City, but it makes things harder for me. I can’t just blab out whatever comes to mind. Stanley isn’t stupid, and he wouldn’t have a hard time guessing the connections that I have yet to form. And going with it instead of waiting for me to catch up. Which could end really badly for either Cor, Aschure, or me. I’d prefer none of these options, thank you.

“Rotting vampire, Gideon,” Stanley prompts me and rips me out of my daydreaming. Damn it, I really need to lie down soon.

“Ah, yes. Sorry. I—we, Aschure and I—found the vampire that we think killed the Theology students. Only it wasn’t one, it was two vampires, and they were,” I pause and shrug helplessly, grasping for words, “sick, for lack of a better word? Like, blackish veins and gray skin, rotting meat falling off, horrible stench. Didn’t seem quite sane either. One of them, the male, took off as soon as he realized we were Hunters, but he left the other one, the female, to attack us. It was the weirdest thing.” I pause and take a sip of coffee, listening to the quiet upstairs. No movement now, as if Cor might be listening as well. His hearing is more than good enough.

“We—I, I guess—tried to kill her, the female vampire I mean, but it was like the rot made her immune to silver or something. It barely slowed her down, and if Cor hadn’t intervened, she would have killed me. Easily.”

Stanley frowns. “And that’s it? I mean, oh gosh, rotting vampires, that is bad. But not worth the help I’ve given you so far, and you know it. There better be more to tell.”

The coffee cup touches my lips, but I set it back down without drinking. He is right, of course, but I have to be careful what to tell him and what not to. Especially since parts of it involve Aschure and her weird behavior. But I do have the feeling that there is something going on that I can’t quite grasp yet. Gotta take chances once in a while. Carefully, sensibly.

“I’m just trying to make sense of the weird things I’ve seen tonight, okay? I’m offering you any and all conclusions I come to while we talk, that’s gotta be worth something. Now, Cor had something around his neck, a medallion of some kind. Do you know anything about it?”

Stanley rolls his eyes to the right as he thinks, shrugging slightly. “I don’t remember everything, but I know that there was some kind of warden or handler in charge of Cor the last time they let him out. He had a medallion that seemed to be magic as well. Wouldn’t be the first time someone tries to use hocus pocus to control a vampire. Never ends well. But again, not information that helps me.”

An image from the shootout jumps to mind. That flash of metal in Aschure’s hand. The vampires didn’t have any jewelry. But what if… And that would mean the thing she tried to give Arzel could have very well been the control thing.

Stanley leans forward and murmurs quietly, “whatever you just thought, I’d like to know about it. Because you look scared.”

‘Isegrim,’ the viking vampire whispered. Fuck.

“I think that dude who was supposed to control Cor might have been one of the rotting vampires,” I say and cough to clear my throat.

That makes Stanley perk up, as if I finally said something of value for him. “Last time I saw him it was a man, but did you find the amulet on the woman you killed?” The idea seems to excite him, god knows why.

“Eh, no? But I know the amulet broke in the fight, which is why Cor is roaming the streets, now that I think about it. But since he was rotting, and his female companion was rotting, I think there might be something going on with their… group? Clan?”

“Mh, indeed, might be,” Stanley murmurs softly, folding his hands. His knuckles are turning pale with tension. “Now, if you knew more about where they caught it, that might be worth a lot more, but…” He shakes his head and sighs, as if I have let him down. Little shit wants to get more out of me. Hah.

I roll my eyes, even though it causes stabs of pain in my head. “Oh come on, you know as well as me that you guys know more about where those guys were and might be in the future than I ever will. Do some basic pandemic prevention steps and you’re good. Probably. But in any case, it’s good information and you know it. Good enough to get some more information out of you. Like for example, what do you know about the cultists, I mean, synodists?”

Flashes of memory jerk through my head. Arzel calling back Aschure in the hallway outside of Loreley’s office. Arzel’s voice hissing at Aschure in our hotel room. Aschure’s weird reaction when she found out I heard things.

Stanley’s face takes on a sullen expression. “That’s really what you’re bargaining for? Fine, fine. They call themselves the Templars of Damnation. Typical demon worshipers, as far as I’ve heard. Based in the Harbor, somewhere in Irish Town. If you ask me, they’re a bunch of wackos. Instead of just summoning demons and sacrificing virgins like good little cultists, they seem to be way too interested in drug dealing, human trafficking, and being generally crazy. Crazier than you’d expect, that is. They used to stay away from the veils, but recently they’ve started showing up here, too. Pisses off the warlocks something fierce, I tell you. Not that it’s surprising. Those two are like cats and dogs. That’s all I know.”

If that is all that has happened so far, I’m surprised. I’ve read of battles of epic proportions between local warlock covens and invading cults, and I do mean, epic. After all, both groups deal in the forces of hell. Cultists are different from warlocks in only one aspect: Warlocks are cursed with a lasting connection to hell that gives them incredible powers, but also drives them mad over time, whereas cultists are just really into that sweet demon juice. Meaning, they either try to get possessed by a demon, or use thaumaturgy, a kind of magic, to contact and control demons. It’s apples and pears, if we’re honest here, because both sources of power are evil. But hell itself doesn’t have a mind that cares what exactly you do with your magic. Demons do. And they are definitely opinionated about what a good little cultist is allowed to do with their powers, and what not. I’ve never quite understood why the thaumaturge don’t just become warlocks, get free reign over their powers and all that, but it’s almost like it’s not just about the power for those demon worshipers, but about the demons themselves. Driven by the same lure as every other religious cult, I guess.

And adding to that, there is something about a warlock that simply pisses off demons, which is kinda counter-productive if you’re trying to kiss their asses. They simply can’t stand the sight of them. Which, funny enough, makes warlocks the absolute best demon hunters possible. Even the most brilliant of demon masterminds can’t let a chance to smack a warlock pass by. I’ve heard of demons going undercover for years and years, dormant and waiting, just to throw everything away at the first chance meeting with a warlock.

Weirdly enough, in a one on one combat, warlocks beat any run-off-the-mill thaumaturge easily, so you’d expect the cultists to see the signs and switch sides to get more powerful, but nope. Nothing. Maybe it’s the going crazy over time, or maybe it’s the fact that warlocks try to keep hell out, whereas cultists do everything they can to get it closer to the living world. Fact is, they just don’t mix well.

That doesn’t answer the question what Arzel could want with Aschure, though. Granted, we Hunters are every supernatural creature’s natural enemy, but cultists are neither a top priority, nor especially dangerous in the grand scheme of monsters. We’re also definitely not friend material for a demon hugging worshiper of evil. Therefor, Arzel just making nice with my partner doesn’t fit either. And they definitely didn’t know each other before we came to Babylon City, because Aschure seemed genuinely surprised, and she isn’t that good an actress.

Zero commonalities. Zero shared ideologies. Zero previous contact. They shouldn’t even glance at each other in passing. Except that Arzel had Aschure steal a magical artifact from a vampire, as it turned out. Because that’s what she had in her hand when I found her in the hospital. And there is a chance, a slim, small chance, that she left me to die just so she could take off with the amulet. My chest stings.

“How about cultists and vampires? Any clashes?”

Stanley lifts his brows, looking surprised. His shoulders relax a little as he scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Not that I know of. Well, I did hear a rumor about some cultist nutjob running around the vampire hangout in the Darkcity Moon Market, bleeding from cuts he inflicted on himself and screaming something about being dinner for the sharks, but that’s just standard cultist craziness in my opinion. Why do you ask?”

I can’t answer that question without giving details away, so I don’t. “You’re my vampire envoy, you know things like that. Who else would be able to tell me the latest rumors about vampires,” I say instead, and smile politely.

A look of distrust passes over Stanley’s face, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he adjusts himself a little and glances toward the door. “In that case, you might want to also ask His master about cultists. My clan may be the clan of Babylon City, but we’re not the only vampires here.”

Cor’s growl makes me shudder and freeze for a moment, like any deep, warning growl would. I take a deep breath and force myself to look over my shoulder and watch the vampire enter the room in a gliding, slick prowl, as if he has muscles where there aren’t supposed to be any. The track pants he is wearing still hug his legs tightly, maybe a little too tight, but it does nothing but good for the play of muscles beneath the cloth, or the tell-tale weight in his crotch, resting comfortably—and thankfully limp for now—in its warm nest. He does look better than before; the cheap, golden light gives his skin a bronze shine, but doesn’t make him appear any darker; some people would look crisped over In the wrong light, but he just looks sun-kissed, like his skin captured some of the sun’s light. Which is simply confusing, since he definitely hasn’t sun-bathed in a few centuries.

Cor glides closer and stops behind me, grabbing the backrest of my bench so that his arms are framing my shoulders. A warm, tickling breeze rustles my hair as he sniffs my head, and now I’m having trouble remembering what we were talking about… again. I try, though. “What do you mean, ask his master?”

A tense smile plays around Stanley’s lips, even though he tries to hide it. “Don’t tell me you already forgot what I told you about him. His master, the Norseman I mean, will be close by, or he,” and he points at Cor, “wouldn’t be here. His clan is always traveling, staying a few years here, a few years there, but they never pick a home. I don’t know what you hope to gain from asking about the cult, but he might know things others don’t.”

My backrest groans softly. I glance to the side from the corner of my eye in time to see Cor’s fingers leaving grooves in the dark wood, knuckles white with strain. Other than that, he is completely still, outwardly calm, a lifeless rock behind my back. I’m not sure what to make of it, so I ignore it for now. “And where might I find this Norseman?”

Stanley shakes his head and waves the question off. “Way above my pay grade. I have no idea and no way to find out about his whereabouts without tripping every single alarm bell in Loreley’s head. But if anyone knows, it’s the people in this district. I just don’t expect you to survive too long if you poke around too much.”

I nod carefully and grunt in agreement, breathing out softly when my chair stops groaning. “Thanks for the warning, I’ll keep it in mind. Now, if I give you my credit card and promise to keep you up to date on any and all rotting vampire insights, will you please go shopping for me? And if you can, bring some vampire blood? There has to be some source around here.”

Stanley looks like he’s about to say no, so I add, “other option is you stay here and keep an eye on Cor, and I go shopping. Or you take off and I go shopping, and Cor runs around unsupervised until I’m back.”

He grabs my black credit card, teeth grinding. “Asshole,” he hisses and stomps out.

I grin. Gotta relish the small wins.

***
 

The second floor of our little city hideout doesn’t offer any surprises - three bedrooms, one with an en suite bathroom, thick curtains and UV-resistant foil covering the windows. Beds, bedding, towels, even some books, everything is available, if a little musty. I decide on taking a short shower, after all I was able to bring my stuff and a change of clothes that actually fit. Cor lurks in front of the bathroom door while I’m in, moving from one squeaky floor tile to the other as if to ease my mind while he creepy-stalks me. When Stanley’s car stops outside, Cor disappears, squeaking down the stairs and then switching to his silent prowl mode. I curse softly and finish my shower, scrubbing my head vigorously with a towel as I try to hop into pants and shirt half wet and sticky.

When I finally make it downstairs, Stanley is once again huddling behind the kitchen table, this time behind a stack of shopping bags.

Cor acknowledges my existence with a glare out of the corner of his eye through the unruly, knotty mess that is his hair, but that’s it. He stands there frozen, unreadable, focused on Stanley like a cobra poised to strike.

Best get Stanley out of here as long as Cor is still willing to play by my rules. “Did you get the vampire blood I asked for?”

Stanley grimaces. “Yes, but…”

Cor has him by the collar before I can react, lifting him in a one-handed grip as he pats him down roughly. It takes him a few moments to find the squishy blood bag tucked into Stanley’s jacket, and he stares at it with a frown as he drops the golden-haired vampire back onto the bench. Stanley tucks himself into the furthest corner, gasping fearfully. He doesn’t have to worry; Cor seems to forget him the moment he has what he was looking for.

The sight of him biting the bag is weirdly fascinating, like he’s biting into a ripe orange, complete with little quirts of juice—apologies, blood— that land on his cheeks. I would have thought that he’d be as stumped by a blood bag as he was by door locks, street lights, or zippers, but this at least doesn’t seem new to him. His throat works as he drinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each mouthful. Of blood. Eww. I shudder and turn my eyes away. “But what?”

“But he will only get more powerful if you feed him,” Stanley finishes hoarsely, keeping his eyes down as if staring at Cor feeding would somehow endanger him. “Not that it matters now.”

I get the sense that I already know the answer, but I feel compelled to ask anyway. “Why wouldn’t I want him to become more powerful?”

The vampire snickers softly, an unhappy sound out of an unhappy face. “If you thought you could stop him if bad came to worse before, you’re a fool. But now that he has fed, his powers will recharge and there is absolutely nothing a squishy mortal like you could do if he decides to go and murder people. Hell, he’s the bogeyman to my kind, and we’re close to immortal.”

His words send a shudder up my back, even though I get the feeling that I can’t imagine what it would really be like. All I know about vampires I got from books. The first vampires I met were Stick-in-the-butt-Loreley, the oh so reasonable Stanley, and a baby fang who took a bite out of my shoulder before my brain registered what was happening. The next vampire was rotting alive, which I thought was impossible, and the next vampire I ever met is, well, Cor. And he isn’t like any other vampire in the world. So what do I know about what he can do when he’s fed? Nothing. Jack shit.

The blood bag makes a wet, wheezing sound as it flattens, empty. Cor drops it and rolls his shoulders, then his neck, bones cracking as they realign. The wound on his chest crackles as it shrinks, pinking up at the edges. It doesn’t heal completely, but the damaged flesh already looks like it’s had days—if not weeks—to heal.

“Time for me to go,” Stanley whispers, but he doesn’t move. Only his eyes are flicking towards the hallway ever so often, as if he’s planning his escape. Cor is still between him and the exit and he doesn’t seem to want to get anywhere close to him.

I blink, trying to re-wet my eyeballs and stop them from burning. It doesn’t help. “Take the kitchen door, Stanley. I’ll try my best to keep him here with me,” I say tiredly and hone in on Cor. And as if he can feel my gaze, he turns toward me and tilts his head, as if my glance were a kind of sound that only he can hear.

Stanley takes my word and gets up, stumbling a little when he lets go of the table. An expression of confusion flits through his face, then he seems to catch his balance again. He glances at Cor out of the corner of his eye, then takes off in a trot, out the kitchen door and through the hallway. Seconds later, the car starts and screeches off, as if he ran the last few feet just to get away a little quicker.

Cor spares him only a short glance, then his attention is back at me. The wound in his chest has disappeared, and even the pink traces of freshly grown skin seem to have turned paler. If I didn’t know how it looked before, I would never be able to guess how badly he was wounded. And all that just from one tiny little blood bag. No wonder Stanley was worried. Which begs the question: why am I not?