5. Scotty
Scotty
THE SWEETEST SOUND
The squelching of a man dying makes me cringe as his death throes wriggle in my eardrums, followed by the panicked “Fuck!” of another. And then he, too, presumably dies by the little unholy terror’s hands.
Tiny and lethal. My type, I fear.
I creep around the side of the truck to chance a glimpse of her in action, but all I see are two dead bodies lying in front of a door.
The only light around is the lamp plastered on the side of the building, moths fluttering around the bulb.
I’m not sure why the Helsings insist on wearing Kevlar uniforms. It’s not like we’re shooting bullets at them.
The general public can’t even buy firearms on Mystella, so they have nothing to fear in that regard.
If they were smart, they’d cover their major arteries in barbed metal instead.
But the Helsings aren’t smart, they’re just armed.
Thanks to all the carnage, my bloodlust is immediate, followed by the pounding headache that makes me double over my knees in agony. Not only that, but the erection that follows is so painful it feels like my cock is going to explode. Literally.
I’ve heard of some younger vamps having this problem. The bloodlust that urges us to feed also makes us horny as hell, and some have died from it getting too extreme because they’d rather end their unlives than endure the temporary discomfort. Extreme blue balls.
Without thinking, I make a mad dash for the corpses lying on the ground and immediately start lapping up the blood weeping from the one guy’s stomach wound.
I don’t see Juliette anywhere. Come to think of it, I don’t see that third Helsing she mentioned, either.
Maybe she’s already pulled his sorry carcass off into an alleyway somewhere to snack on him.
Either way, the bloodlust throbbing in my veins and cock can’t be ignored anymore, so I drink deeply from the gash in the man’s chest.
Suddenly, white-hot pain lances through my body as stars burst in my eyes. Someone’s taken a boot to my temple, and I’m laid out on my back in the street, spread eagle. Fuck.
“Get up!” I hear Juliette cry.
Moaning, I roll onto my side and spit out a blood clot, along with one of my teeth. Thankfully not one of my incisors, but still. Whoever kicked me lands another blow to my side, sending my body flying like a rag doll through the air.
When I hit the pavement again, I hit it hard. So hard I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to get back up without my ribs crumbling to dust.
I assume the fetal position and let out another groan. My attacker comes up to me for a third time, and I grit my teeth as I prepare myself for the finishing blow. Looking up, I notice the asshole’s helmet and sneer. It looks like a giant, rusty bucket with a slit in the center.
“Killed by a walking trash can,” I rasp. Nothing like almost getting dusted by a Monty Python cosplayer. “Cool. Hey, mate. Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries.”
“Shut it, vampire scum,” the deep voice echoes inside the tin can. “You will be cleansed by fire as ordained by the Order of the Sugardove Paladins.”
Oh. Oh, no. It’s bad enough that I’m about to die—that definitely sucks, yes, but getting killed by one of the paladin dorks? This can’t be happening.
Groaning, I roll onto all fours and try to crawl away. But the paladin’s metal boot slams down onto my back, sending my chin into the pavement. More teeth go flying out of my mouth and tinkle across the concrete.
“S-Stop, man—come on,” I choke out. This is getting insulting. “Just stake me already.”
But the paladin presses his boot into my back. It feels like I’m going to turn into vampire soup.
“Silence,” the walking tin-can bellows. “Goddess knows I take no pleasure in my duty, but in the name of my lady, I purge this city of filth and—”
The paladin doesn’t finish his sentence, because a set of claws punches right through the slit of his helmet from behind. His eyeballs, a pair of baby blues, wind up on the ends of those claws like meat skewers at a barbecue.
Holy shit.
Blood trickles in thick, gooey rivulets through the hole. I cringe as I try to pull myself up to my feet, but find myself unable to move.
The paladin sinks to his knees and topples over to the side, revealing a terror-stricken Nosferatu in his place. Her mouth falls open as she takes in the sight of me. Damn. I must look rough, huh? Juliette rushes forward to drag me off into the alleyway and out of sight.
“Scotty…” she murmurs, propping me up against the wall. I place my hands over my chest as she examines me. Her fingers run over my neck, my shoulders, my back, everywhere. That fucker broke some of my ribs, and my body is still trying to repair itself. It’ll mend, but it will take more time.
I let out a wheezing cough and mutter, “It’s been so long…”
She cradles my head in her lap and stares deeply into my eyes. It’s the most comforting gesture I’ve ever experienced. “Yes, Scotty?”
“So long since … a woman’s touched me,” I rasp.
Juliette smacks me across my shoulder, and I let out another wheezing cough.
“Ow,” I moan. Then the strangest thing happens.
Juliette laughs. And it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
I expected her to cackle, or at the very least growl. But this … this sounds like music. Her voice is light and feminine like a little bell, and if it could, I’m sure my heart would flutter against my broken ribs.
“Wow,” I say, and without thinking, cup her cheeks in my palms. “Well, isn’t that the sweetest sound?”
Juliette swallows her laughter and stares at me, like she can’t decide if she wants to pull away or …
or … kiss me, perhaps? Or hug? When’s the last time I was hugged?
It’s been a couple of decades, at least. Not since the nineties.
And not even my own mother hugged me. And girlfriends?
Forget it. They mostly just want to take a spin on my dick and leave before dinner.
Gods, I’m such a loser.
But Juliette looks at me like I wish girls looked at me, with a sort of longing they only write about in books and songs. The kind of songs I used to write before…
Then, as quickly as the moment comes, it’s over, and she’s turning away from me. I clear my throat and push myself up to stand. My body’s finally done healing itself, it seems. Juliette glances up at me and furrows her brow.
“It’s okay, I’m fine,” I say, and run my fingers through my hair.
When I look at my hand, it’s covered in blood.
My blood, coagulated and so dark it’s almost black.
That stupid fucking paladin. “Didn’t know the paladins were still a thing, though.
That would have been good to know.” That’s what I get for not paying attention to anything outside of the club and music scene, I guess.
Paladins are dangerous, but at least they’re not Templars.
The Templar Order is ancient. While the Helsings are a newer division in the anti-monster squad, formed sometime in the late eighties, the Templar Order has been around since the twelfth century.
They were on the scene during the Crusades and when Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.
I encountered a small sect of them back in a pub in Scotland.
The second I saw them at the bar, laughing it up over a few pints, I turned around and left the UK for good.
I don’t fuck with Templars. No one should.
“They’re rare, but yes,” Juliette says, standing up beside me. She looks me up and down once more, checking me over for any signs of injury. “I’m sorry. I only noticed the silhouette from a distance, but I didn’t know.”
I throw my arm around her shoulder and give her a cheesy grin. “No sweat. We survived, didn’t we? And we bagged three bodies. We could always take them to go. Do a movie some other time.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Go where?”
“Back down to ‘Le Salon de Juliette,’ of course. I mean, I know food’s best eaten fresh, but takeaway could be nice. Besides, we don’t want to run into any more of those chucklefucks.”
Juliette tilts her head. “What is a ‘chucklefuck?’ More slang? British slang?”
I shake my head. “No. I know I’m younger than you, probably, judging from your clothing, but I’ve been around long enough to steal slang from a bunch of different places.
Besides, it’s 2025. Gotta get with the times.
I know it’s probably more comfortable living in the sewers and all, but you’ve got to get out more. ”
Juliette’s face falls even more than usual. I’ve said something wrong, obviously. But the trouble is … when I say something wrong to women, I never know how to fix it. Whenever I try, I wind up digging my grave even deeper.
“Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “Didn’t mean to offend you.”
Juliette nudges me in the arm and points at the dead bodies lying several feet away from us. “We should get these back if we’re taking them ‘to go,’ as you said.”
I nod. “Yeah. Though it’s probably going to take a few trips.
” She’s really small, and there’s no way I can expect her to carry everything.
Especially not after she saved me from getting ‘purged by the light’ or whatever nonsense that paladin was spouting.
But Juliette bounds up to one of the bodies and, in a single swift movement, tosses it over her shoulder. My mouth falls open.
“W-Wait. How did you—” I start.
Juliette shrugs. “One of my powers. Nosferatu are very strong.”
Yeah. Evidently.
She lifts the other body and tosses it over her shoulder. “But you can carry him.” She motions to the dead paladin.
I cringe. Moving that over-sized dumpster is going to be the death of me, but … for her, I’ll do it. Because she saved your sorry ass, Scotty. You owe her. Yeah. I definitely owe her.