It’s Thursday, and that means another installment of Axes and Echoes!
When we left Alex, she was reminiscing about the night she realized vampires were far more than a myth and that these preternatural killing machines had their own predators in the form of hunters. Let’s find out what happens when old Alex and new Alex’s worlds collide…
Author’s Note: Axes and Echoes copyright 2012 by J.S. Wayne. Reproduction or creation of “fan fiction” or other derivative works without prior written authorization by the author is a violation of author’s copyright and will be prosecuted. Reblogging and reposting, with proper accreditation and ONLY in the work’s entirety, is permitted and encouraged. Enjoy!
Chapter Four
May 13th, 2012
4:17 p.m.
Murphy.
My friend and mentor, the one who’d held my hand through Vampire Hunting 101, been there for my first kill, drilled me mercilessly on the do’s and don’ts of vampire hunting and using weapons. The man who’d kept me alive in circumstances where I should have died half a dozen times over as a direct result of my own inexperience and naivety. The only hunter I’d ever given my heart to.
As that first night wore on, Murphy loomed even more heroic and godlike in my view. He took me back to headquarters, a large industrial complex on the other side of the city. As he drove, he kept up a steady stream of banter. To his credit, he made no effort to distract me from the night’s traumatic events or make them seem to be less than what they were. Instead he educated me as we growled through the night in his turbocharged tribute to masculinity, telling me the reality of the new world I had been so unceremoniously thrust into.
“Here’s the score. Your boyfriend was killed by a vampire. Luckily it wasn’t a very old one, not much cunning, not much on brains. That needle was all instinct and thirst. If it had been an older one, one who had his shit together, you and I might not be talking now.”
I wanted to retort that he was the one doing all the talking, but my shock-frozen system had set my teeth chattering so fiercely I saw no value in riposting. Exercising a rare moment of wisdom, I said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I was tracking that needle when he happened on the two of you. If I’d just been thirty seconds faster—“
That simple, blunt statement bit into my heart, a tomahawk cutting to the center of my spirit. Thirty seconds. The amount of time it takes to cut a piece of steak, chew it thoroughly, swallow it, and take a drink of a cold beverage to wash the meat down had meant the difference between Rob being alive and Rob being dead. The amount of time it takes a speed reader to digest one half of one page of text could have been the difference between my own continued presence in this world and finding out what lies beyond it. I began to tremble. Then retch.
Murphy glanced over at me, swore, and cut the wheel to the right, pulling off the expressway onto an exit ramp. He let the car drift as far right as he could manage and stopped. “Pop the door.”
I didn’t need the suggestion. Before the wheels had properly stopped, I was leaning out the side and heaving up my half-price, employee-discounted dinner. The miserable choking seemed to last forever, but actually took maybe two minutes before I’d completely purged the contents of my stomach. Vaguely I realized Murphy’s hand was drumming between my shoulder blades, trying to help me either gain control or get it all out of my system. Once again he’d taken up that calm, soothing tone as he murmured assurances and encouragement.
“That’s it, let it all out. It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re doing fine.”
Somewhere in a corner of my mind that wasn’t otherwise occupied with explosive reverse peristalsis and the pain inflicted by same, I realized I hadn’t told Murphy my name yet. It didn’t really matter, though. Coming from Murphy’s mouth, the endearment he used in place of my as-yet-unknown given name sounded pretty damn fine to me.
I was so far past embarrassment I didn’t even recognize myself. Icy wetness soaked my crotch and I was busily puking my guts out in front of an Adonis-like stranger. I should have been mortified. My priorities should have been getting my stomach under control and grabbing my purse to fix my makeup . . .
Dammit.
I’d left my purse in Rob’s car.
Strangely the thought helped, giving me something tangible to latch onto. All this talk of vampires and the horror of watching Rob die vanished as I leaned back into the passenger seat, stomach finally empty, and groaned.
“You okay?”
“I left my purse at the car.”
His eyes widened with alarm. Before I could say anything else, he had a boxy black radio to his lips. “Murphy.”
Static interspersed with what sounded like human speech responded.
“Yeah. I need someone to get to my last location. There’s a purse in the car there. Retrieve it.”
More incomprehensible gibberish issued from the radio.
“Got it.” He sheathed the radio and glanced back to me. “Don’t worry. Someone’s grabbing it now. They’ll meet us.”
My mouth tasted vile, and I smacked my lips.
“Got any gum?”
The incongruous statement, coming as it did on the heels of such terror and then utter wretched misery, struck me as funny. Maybe I was delirious. I didn’t know, and didn’t care. All I knew was that I started giggling. The giggles crescendoed into full-blown howls of laughter, then faded away into wracking sobs that shook my entire body like the uncaring fist of a giant.
Far away, I heard fabric rustling, punctuated by the crackles of paper and tin foil. “Here,” Murphy said.
I opened my eyes to see him holding out a pack of cinnamon Certs. Not my favorite flavor, but better than the taste of vile. I wiped my eyes, swiped the blade of my hand under my nose (Ew! Need a tissue–) and took the offered pack of breath fresheners with the hand I hadn’t just befouled. I unwrapped the pack enough to prize loose two of the little discs and popped them into my mouth, letting the peppery burn sear away the nasty aftertaste in my mouth.
He held out his hand again. This time, he held a little travel pack of Kleenex. I traded the tissues for the mints, which he caused to vanish with the dexterity of a stage magician. He turned to focus on the road while I worked my face over with the Kleenex, trying to make myself look somewhere in the neighborhood of presentable.
I leaned into the shower spray and thought about Murphy, my brave and gallant knight errant. Thinking about the night we met, bad as it had been, beat reliving the nightmare that had dragged me out of my sleep to confront the fading day. God, I missed him.
Still do, if you want the honest truth.
The steam and the hot water helped, and after about fifteen minutes, I felt more or less human. I toweled off and padded naked into the bedroom. The oak chest of cedar-lined drawers had been a high school graduation present from my parents, along with the rest of the contents of my bedroom. Running my fingers over the elegantly carved and lacquered leaves decorating the top drawer, I wondered how they were doing. I needed to call them this weekend, assuming I was still alive.
Dismissing that thought, I opened the drawer and surveyed the contents for a moment. I quickly settled on faded, well-worn blue jeans, a basic black short sleeve tee with a pocket over the left breast, utilitarian nude-colored bra and panties, and white crew-length socks. Throwing myself together, I pulled my hair back in a sloppy ponytail and distributed my key ring, a men’s-style wallet, and some loose change in my pockets. I didn’t bother with makeup, because I wasn’t going prowling.
At the door, I stopped and took a long look around, surveying my domain. There was nothing in my apartment to betray the true nature of the occupant. Everything was funky arty Seattle chic. The obligatory Cobain poster hung on the living room wall to my right, flanked by Bob Marley smoking a doob on the left and a poster of Brandon Lee stalking into the high arched door of the ruined cathedral in his portrayal of The Crow on the right. To my left, a relatively small big-screen TV and stereo system held pride of place. Directly ahead, closed white Venetian blinds covered the exit to the balcony, which got about as much use as a teetotaler’s liquor cabinet mostly because of the notoriously nasty Seattle weather.
Down the short hallway on the right was the kitchen. Directly across from it on the left was the bathroom, which adjoined my room. The entire place had been done in a soft, pale gray carpet that was murder to keep clean, but the entire place had an overall ambience of quiet seclusion, like sitting in a fog bank alone. There had been a time when I’d entertained here, partying until the wee hours with twenty of my closest friends (and, to be honest, sometimes people I didn’t even know).
That door, and that chapter in my life, were closed and locked away in a place I could never return to, no matter how much I wished I could.
I fumbled behind me for the door knob and found it. With a quick twist, I pulled the door open and backed out, the ghosts of long-ago laughter and raucous high spirits mocking my somber mood.
Fifteen minutes later, I cradled a thick paper cup of strong black coffee in my hands. Say what you will about Seattle’s grim weather and correspondingly high depression and suicide rates, but damn do folks know how to make coffee here! The fragrant brew lifted my spirits a little, and I sipped the hot liquid carefully as I made my next stop at a florist. In less than four minutes I had made my transaction and walked out, coffee in one hand and a single white rose in the other.
My little Camry, which I’d bought on the cheap when I started college, glided through the unusually sunlit streets on autopilot. I gave just enough attention to the road to stop at red lights and signs, not take out any pedestrians, and not plow into the car in front of me. Otherwise, my thoughts turned inward and backward, turning back time to remember the gentle man who’d saved me.
Nineteen minutes, two freeway exits, and a confusing meander of streets later, I braked gently to a stop along the curb on Western Avenue, just south of an alleyway near Waterfront Park. I unfolded myself from the slightly cramped driver’s seat and walked north, turning left at the mouth of the alley. About thirty feet in, I stopped and stared down at the asphalt.
There was nothing remarkable about this place. It could have been any alley in any coastal city anywhere in America. The clean scent of brine underscored the faint wafting stench from the ripe contents of Dumpsters, and a low drone of traffic buzzed along on the neighboring streets. The sun beamed down and shore birds wheeled and cried overhead, challenging one another or showing off for prospective mates. Random pieces of garbage rustled and stirred unenthusiastically in the light breeze off the ocean, too listless and lazy to offer more than a token wave to the wind.
Anger swelled inside me, and I sank to my knees. A man had died here. The first man I could honestly say I’d ever loved besides my father had choked out his last breath on this spot, unhallowed by a shrine, a chalk outline, or a memorial of any kind.
I had held Murphy as his handsome face blanched unnaturally white and his dying breath rattled out, a bloody bubble of air building and then popping between those gentle, kind lips. I had watched the spark of vigorous life fade from his hazel eyes and then reverently, gently pinched the lids closed.
With tears in my eyes, I had staked him that night, thrusting the sharp metal into his stilled heart. It was the only way to make sure he didn’t come back as the very thing he’d hunted.
With tears in my eyes now, I laid the rose on the ground and prayed that if his shade lingered here, it would appear and give me counsel like Luke Skywalker’s mentor Obi-Wan Kenobi had done in the movies. I prayed that Murphy, wherever he was now, forgave me for the desecration I’d had no choice but to visit on his mortal remains.
I prayed and wept, kneeling on the dirty asphalt of the alley. Not a soul answered but the skirling birds wheeling carefree in the uncharacteristically blue Seattle sky as the sun sank toward the sea.
