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ZAVIER

T he sound of grown men begging for mercy always brings a smile to my face.

Not sure what that says about me, but at three-hundred-years-old murder at least keeps life interesting.

“You sick fuck!” The repugnant, pot-bellied man yells up from the floor, clutching his now stump of a leg. Greasy hair is plastered to his face and spit flies in the air every time he shouts, nearly sullying my perfectly good shoes.

I frown down at the recent purchase that I’ve already become attached to. I take a step back to avoid any other potential incidents.

Shaking my head and laughing, I reply, “I’ve heard worse. And watch the shoes.”

I don’t want even a speck of his vile bodily fluids to land on them. Not because I’m worried about leaving behind any DNA or trace evidence, but because it’s a game to see how clean I can stay.

Besides, I don’t like blood unless I’m drinking it. Even then I’m a picky bitch.

Glancing around the room I take a moment to appreciate my handiwork.

Puddles of blood and limbs are strung across the entire warehouse floor.

Decapitated heads, broken teeth, and shredded intestines draped like tinsel.

What originally started as a gang of forty men is now down to one and the scene it creates is a crimson masterpiece.

Grinning down at the sole survivor I start to slowly walk toward him, my steps echoing within the concrete box. The only other sound in the room is the pounding of rain outside and the labored breaths of my soon to be dead acquaintance.

He screams as I approach, eyes round with fear.

I do so love it when they scream. It’s the terror in their eyes that really feeds me—knowing that these men who have done horrible things finally know a smidge of what their victims have felt.

“Why are you doing this?” he wails, doing his best to crawl backwards but the efforts are futile. All he’s doing is speeding up the bleeding from his severed femoral artery, bringing him one step closer to joining his buddies in the afterlife.

“I think you know, Peter.” I make a show of licking my fangs and shoving my hands in my pockets, continuing my slow stride.

It’s a little too much fun taunting powerful men. I mentally scoff at the word.

They’re all so pathetically human and easily breakable once I get ahold of them. I haven’t had a good, solid fight in over a century.

“Please! I’m begging you.” Snot pours out of his nose and his body odor sours the air making my own nose wrinkle.

His pallor is ashen and not just from fear.

His time is almost up, and he knows it. “I’ll do whatever you want!

Do you need money? Weapons? Drugs? I swear I can make all of that happen.

I have connections.” He pleads with hands out, blood continuing to trail in front of him.

His heartbeats slow. His eyes dulling from the loss.

“Hmm.” I tap my pointer finger on my chin and pretend to consider his offer. “You think you could do that for me?” I taunt. “I am kind of low on cash.”

He nods furiously. “Yes! Let me just call my guy and I’ll get it squared away.”

Amusing. Even with death imminent he’s still trying to plead like there’s something that can be done. I love seeing that small sliver of hope twinkle in their eyes before crushing it.

“You have”—I look at my bare wrist— “a minute left, Peter. Do be serious. You’re wasting both our time.”

“Turn me! Change me into … into what you are.”

That’s why he’s bargaining.

I do nothing to stop the amused chuckle that claws out of my throat.

I suppose my third century of life, or whatever one can call this, has made me a teensy-bit unhinged. But it’s not like I can rely on the cops to actually do their job. I’m bored. I might as well help clean up the streets and wreak a little havoc of my own while I’m at it.

Grabbing his phone from the floor from when I had kicked it away earlier, I give it to him. Within the same breath I pull a rusted lead pipe from the severed hand of a previous victim and bring it down on his arm, making him cry out in pain and drop the phone.

It clatters across the concrete floor, screen shattering.

So fucking fragile.

Humans.

Their things.

All of it.

But not me.

“Shit!” Tears stream down Peter’s face like raindrops on the windows outside as he sobs and cradles his arm. “What the hell? Please, please, please don’t kill me. I’ve got a wife.”

“Did you really think your measly offering would interest me?” I cock my head to the side, clucking my tongue. “I’ve been around for longer than you’d believe and have access to everything you offered and more.”

I sigh, knowing our time is up.

“I thought you were going to make this more fun for me, Peter,” I tsk, and wag my finger at him.

“And using your wife as a means for sympathy? Do you think of her when you’re allowing drugs onto the streets?

Or when your kidnapping young girls and selling them?

Or do you only think of her when it might save your sorry ass?

” I look down at my perfectly manicured fingernails, inspecting them.

“I bet you don’t even love her, which is such a shame.

Love really is the only thing that makes life worth living. ”

I’d loved once, but then she turned out to be off her rocker more than I am, so I skedaddled right on out of that relationship.

I haven’t been in a serious one since, but I’ve remained what you might call a romantic at …

well, I don’t have a heart so I’m not sure where exactly. But it’s there. Somewhere.

He pleads vehemently for his life, and I roll my eyes. It’s always the “tough” ones that wimp out and sing like a bird. It ruins all the fun.

My ears perk up at the wail of sirens in the distance.

“Goodbye, Peter.” His eyes go wide as he registers what I’ve said and a second later his head is rolling across the concrete floor. It thunks into another head with a wet smack and I chuckle when they roll together like bowling pins.

“Strike!”

The sirens grow closer, but I know with my speed I have time to put a finishing touch on my artwork. Zipping around I carefully collect what I need and proceed to do what I do best.

After placing the heads exactly where I want them, I dip my fingers in a particularly viscous puddle of blood drawing my signature symbol.

Standing up I wipe my hands off on a handkerchief I stole from one of the lackeys before throwing it behind my shoulder.

Vampires don’t have fingerprints, so they won’t be able to track me.

That’s another thing that makes this all the more fun—they’re chasing a phantom, a ghost they’ll never be able to catch.

I scurry up the scaffolding and head toward the window ready to make my escape.

Time to let the cops run around in circles like they always do. Idiots. They’ve been trying to catch me for years when really, they should be sending me flowers and a thank you note.

Bright red, white, and blue lights fill the warehouse. The sirens are so loud I wince.

I wonder what they’d think if they knew the serial killer masquerading in Chicago isn’t even human. Their puny little minds wouldn’t be able to handle that fact, I’m certain.

I smirk to myself and just as I’m about to take off into the night with the cover of lightning and thunder, I pause. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I turn toward a police car that has squealed to a stop outside of the front door of the warehouse.

A flash of brown hair catches my eye, swinging around a woman’s shoulders in a curtain of glossy darkness that resembles a raven’s wing and my heart stops.

I watch enraptured as she exits the car with toned legs encased in dark skintight jeans and black boots.

I’m no stranger to attractive women, but it’s like there’s a magnetic pull leading me toward this one.

I want to gather her hair back as it starts to stick to her face, slick from the pouring rain.

Hardened eyes scan the scene. I can’t pinpoint exactly what color her irises are.

Vampirism isn’t a cure for everything, and my shit eyesight carried over when I was changed.

It’s not entirely a bad thing since I can pull off a pair of glasses like nobody’s business.

One thing I can see, there’s something captivating about the way she carries herself. She’s strong and yet I can sense a vulnerability within her. I wish I could pick up her scent but the storm and mix of blood inside of the warehouse make it difficult.

My reaction catches me off guard, I’ve never felt such a visceral response to a human. It’s almost like ... no, not possible.

Settling myself into a dark corner of the scaffolding I lean back against the wall to observe and stretch my legs out instead of leaving like I planned. Tonight wasn’t a total loss after all, not when I just found my latest obsession.