18. The Leader

Killing one of my children doesn’t sit right with me, though Emerson is my failure. Every life he’s taken since Roanoke weighs heavily on what’s left of my soul. He is evasive and cunning. It seems we are always one step behind when it comes to finding him. Part of me thinks I could have tried harder to find and kill him, and I hate myself for it. I could have made it my life’s mission instead of growing my coven.

I used to think he might be able to be redeemed one day, but he has done nothing but prove me wrong. He is evil, he is vile, and now that we finally have a strong beat on him, we are in a position to stop him. I worry that I’ll choke when push comes to shove.

Emerson is perhaps my greatest weakness. Oz may have asked for his life, but I took the risk and turned him. He was an unknown, a stranger we’d never heard of. If I had let him die, the entire course of history might be different.

Time for my wayward son has run out. He has invaded my city, likely with plans to attack, and through fortunate circumstances, I have an inside man.

Thanks to Oz.

We found Naritaka in Japan in nineteen eighty-three. He was despondent, addicted to drugs, and an outcast from his family. He wanted to die, it seemed. But when the moment came, and he faced what death truly meant, he cried out for help.

It is no coincidence that we set up blood houses near areas with less than reputable inhabitants. In part, if someone makes a mistake, it’s usually not with someone who will be missed. Oz and I prefer it this way because we can sometimes make a difference. A human who feeds on a vampire and does not die will be healed of their ailments quite fast. Several vampires have gone into medicine for this very reason. We have to be careful about who and how we treat.

Rehab centers are the easiest. Our blood can help the human in question bypass the worst parts of getting the drugs out of their system and heal much of the physical damage done by them. The one thing it can’t do is cure the addiction. That piece of the brain that drives someone to seek joy from whatever poison they fancy remains. Still, it helps.

Taka had tried rehab multiple times before his family gave up on him. He was thin and frail, having almost fallen over in an alleyway near the blood house we were heading toward that night. Tokyo had a bad amphetamine problem then, and Taka had fallen victim to it. We heard his pleas and gave him a choice. We could heal him, and he could try to fight his drug problem on his own, or he could join us and never feel the need to touch them again.

He’d chosen the latter.

He was only nineteen years old at the time.

Still, as one of the newer members of our coven, he was someone that Emerson didn’t know. He separated from us about thirty years ago, at my request, intending to track and infiltrate Emerson’s organization. Going by different aliases in the cities he followed him in, before finally joining his ranks two years ago in Europe.

Check-ins were quick and far apart, but he’d done it and gotten intel on a crucial move that put Emerson in reach at long last.

That means it’s finally time for me to end this.

I wish I had ended it back when it started…

Emerson, Oswald, and I traveled the Atlantic together in Fifteen Eighty-Six. The small province of Roanoke was still growing but becoming more and more of a foothold in the unknown lands of what is now North America. We wanted to help build something for our coven, for our kind. A small town, isolated from everyone else, could sustain us indefinitely as long as we compelled them to forget and fed with caution.

For a small settlement, it was thriving when we arrived. Farms were bountiful, and the dutiful Christians welcomed us with open arms. Our official cover was that I was a widower, and Emerson and Oswald were my sons. It wasn’t exactly a lie, I suppose. But I had been a widower for a few hundred years, and my sons were the family I’d chosen.

We fit in quickly enough, taking a small plot of land to build our home on, tilling and farming the soil in the daylight like everyone else. Oswald became an apprentice to the local blacksmith, and Emerson took up carpentry and woodworking while I tended our crops.

The food we didn’t need went to the hungry or was traded to the indigenous tribe some ways south of us. Croatoans. Of course, the story is well known in Roanoke. Colonists mysteriously disappeared, possibly moving and combining lives with the local tribe. It was easy to believe, an answer that made sense, and it is a lie we never bothered to correct.

I believe the insightful members of the tribe knew more or less what the three of us were. They regarded us cautiously and were always highly alert during our dealings. It took many months for us to gain their trust. They saw the human colonists were happy with us. That they were whole, healthy, and entirely ignorant of our otherness. If it hadn’t been for that, they’d have had nothing to do with the strange men who ate so little it seemed like nothing.

Through their folklore and magics, they could guess close enough. Closer than the myths that followed us from Europe. They did not try to ward us off with garlic cloves or drive wooden stakes into our hearts. Instead, once they realized we meant no harm, they broke bread with us, accepted our trades, and made fair bargains as if we were no different than the colonists who sustained us.

We determined that our indigenous neighbors were off-limits as far as feeding and compulsion were concerned. I did not want to risk any part of the arrangements we so carefully cultivated.

Our way of life was working, and we could’ve stayed there for at least a decade before sailing back to Europe. We had two years of peace. Two years of not having to travel and move around were ruined in one night.

The night we decided to meet our Croatoan friends on their land, trade, and dance and share stories. If Oswald and I hadn’t both gone… If we had insisted Emerson joined us. So many things would be different.

We had developed quite a lot of stock from Oswald’s smith-work. Several things had been asked for, and several more we thought could make a good trade. Emerson had work to do for the church, pews that needed tending, so he remained behind.

Our trip was a success. We had materials and various foods, jewelry, and baskets for the village, and our spirits were high as we returned home from our long journey.

Approaching Roanoke, we saw smoke high in the clouds. Afraid to risk using our faster abilities and be seen for what we were, we maintained pace and continued onward. It wasn’t until we were close enough to hear the screams and cries of our neighbors that we abandoned all pretenses.

Reaching the outskirts, we could smell the blood coming from everywhere.

A building was burning across the settlement, and many bodies were in the street. Men, children, and women alike. The ones who were dead already were the lucky ones. He’d left some half-mangled and flayed. They held their long-gone loved ones and sobbed. Women clutched their children, evidence of the liberties he’d taken with them still showing. They held onto their babies and wailed.

Screamed.

Cried.

Cursed a God that wasn’t listening.

The first face I truly saw was that of kindly Mrs. Goodwin. Her dress was tattered, her breasts exposed, and blood dripped down her neck as she held her poor six-year-old son. My stomach lurched, for the poor child was not only dead but brutally mutilated. His innards spilled out of him, and scrapes and marks lined his back like he had been dragged. I could only assume what his assaulter had held onto while he was tugged across the rocks and dirt.

She couldn’t even look at us.

Oswald tried to go to her, to help her home, to help her cover herself. It was like she couldn’t see us. She only had eyes for her poor son.

The town held more screams, more sounds of terror and despair the further we made our way in. We could tell by the punctures in the necks of our friends that it was a vampire. In my stupidity and denial, I had pictured another vampire, not Emerson. I imagined my son lying dead, having tried to defend his people.

Not Oswald.

His shoulders were tense, back taut, and jaw clenched.

I think he knew.

At least had an inkling that something wasn’t right with Emerson, that this had been his doing. If he knew it before that day, he had never spoken of it to me.

Further down, we could hear the sounds of an active assault taking place. A woman screaming and crying, a man grunting.

I knew what that sound was.

I was enraged.

I was vengeful.

I was filled with a righteous fury to end the monster who dared attack my home.

When I discovered it was my son who ravaged and raped his way across Roanoke, I went cold.

He turned to face me, his blond hair falling loose from his queue. Scratches on his face from the poor woman beneath him were already healing. A girl of twenty-one. Her neck wounds wept freely, his mouth covered in her blood. Bite marks covered her upper torso, and tears made lines through the blood on her face. Emerson stopped raping her for all of three seconds to acknowledge us.

“Brother, Father! Join me!” He sounded joyous over the whimpers of his victim as he resumed his violent assault. “She’s got two more holes you can fill!”

I snarled and wrenched my despicable son from her. My claws dug into his neck as I flung him away. Oswald was immediately at the girl’s side. I heard his compulsion, filled with compassion. He told her not to think about what happened, to go outside, cover herself, and wait for us to find her. He told her she was safe now.

Lunging for Emerson again, he danced out of my grasp.

“What the hell have you done here? What is wrong with you!” I moved my feet, and he moved in sync with me. He wanted to run. He didn’t want to fight me because he knew he would lose. I wasn’t about to just let him go. “What kind of monster are you?”

The bastard fucking grinned at me.

“I’m the monster that goes bump in the night, Father, right into their tight little cunts.” He laughed, mocking the pain he caused. “Come now, what is the point of having all this power if we can’t enjoy ourselves? I’ve tasted every woman in this village since you left. Not a virgin remains to be found.” I wanted to heave as he relished in his torment. “Their men tried their absolute best, I’m sure. I had to kill them. That would be them burning in the church right now.”

Still smiling.

“You’re twisted, demented, wretched. An evil that will be expunged from this Earth mark my words!”

“Oh, Father, I did try to compel them first. Some even gave themselves freely when I threatened their children. Unfortunately, I found fucking the willing to be a tad boring, so while I still had my cock inside them, I made good on my threats and shredded their babes before their very eyes. Their terror was so sweet, and I wish you could’ve seen it.”

I spat at his feet. Our dance of steps had him backed into a corner. In my peripheral vision, I could see Oswald standing with me, ready to help me take this demon down. The fireplace beside Emerson roared. One quick slice across the neck, then we could burn his fucking corpse.

“You’re disgusting. You have no honor, and you don’t deserve to live.” I could hear the calmness of my oldest son’s voice, and it was cold and unfeeling. It didn’t sound like Oswald at all. Good, I needed a knight who wouldn’t stand for this depravity, even if it came from his brother.

I don’t think Emerson expected we would turn on him and take the side of our human town over him. I don’t think he even considered that we would want to kill him.

His eyes darted between us, and I saw his fear. He knew we would end him if given half a chance.

What we didn’t anticipate, what neither of us noticed in our rage, was that he had managed to get his hands on a large iron stoker, now red hot from the flames. He swung it with speed and force at Oswald’s left side. He tried to block it but was caught off guard. His sword was drawn, but even so, this had given Emerson the opening he needed. Feet bounding up the stairs, we gave chase. I thought he was trapped in the hall, but he didn’t stop running.

When I saw the window ahead, I realized his plan and knew he”d be lost to us if we couldn’t catch him before he reached it.

I put all the force I could in my pace, mere inches away from him as he crashed through the glass and wood, tumbling through the air to the ground and landing on his feet like a cat. Without glancing behind him, he was racing off into the forest. Gone.

Tracking him was possible, but we would have to leave Roanoke unguarded to do so safely, and I wasn’t willing to abandon these people again. I had already failed them once and needed to see to the living to offer peace.

Slowly we gathered the survivors, and there weren’t many. Most of them had died with the horror of the atrocities they lived etched on their faces. We gathered them in the square. Compelling them to cover themselves, to forget their plight for now, and to be still. It was the best comfort we could give them at the time.

We then set out to gather the dead. Children and men who were murdered in their homes instead of in the church, elderly, and women who bled so deeply that they didn’t clot and just bled out wherever he had left them. We dug a mass grave two miles into the woods.

Deep and wide.

We gently placed every single person Emerson mutilated and harmed in neat rows. We were keeping families together as best as we could. There were gaps, the men he’d burned in the church and the survivors. So we smartened up their loved ones, tucking away the horrors, wiping away the blood, making it look like they could be sleeping.

Oswald and I did the same with the living. They were cleaned and given back their modesty. We led them to the grave and gave each of them a choice. We could heal them and spare their minds or send them to be with their loved ones who were ready to be put to rest.

Each woman chose death.

The weight of what happened was too heavy for any of them to bear.

I judged not a single one of them.

One by one, we took them gently into our arms, compelled to be unafraid, and took their lifeblood. After placing them with their families, we covered them all. Burying them didn’t need to take all night, but we didn’t use our excess speed to fill the grave. No, we dug like mortals and suffered with our guilt for bringing this fate upon them.

Croatoan leaders came by with their mystics as the sun rose, and we finished our task.

They saw us covered with blood, the townspeople gone, and Emerson was missing.

Understanding colored all of their eyes. They knew he was the reason, and they knew he wiped the town out. Their magic and elders told them what was passing in Roanoke after we left. They knew they couldn’t reach us in time to help, but they came to support us.

It was a comfort we didn’t deserve but deeply appreciated.

We had an agreement. They would never speak of us or the grave and would let what happened die with the town. We would leave, never to return, and we would one day find the monster that did this and give him his due.

That”s what I intend to do tonight.

As Rolando and the others prepare for our fight, I look inward and vow to all of Roanoke that their justice would soon be served.

Rolando once asked me why the council didn’t intervene with Emerson, and the truth was darker than he’d expected.

They didn’t care.

When Roanoke happened, the world was much larger. No one even noticed the little town was gone until years after it happened. Emerson wasn’t stupid, he didn’t do anything on such a large scale again, at least not that Oz or I heard about. Isaac, head of the council and a slimy power-hungry vampire, deemed it unnecessary to deal with Emerson. He insisted it was my responsibility to deal with him and wasn’t willing to help in the search or dispatch of my progeny.

Oz and I had almost caught up to him in Brazil, Spain, and India. Once we caught sight of him back in France but we were around a slew of humans and unable to act on the sighting itself. He’d disappeared and used the cover of the crowd to hide his scent.

Our contacts quit seeing him, our other coven members had similar experiences. We tried for centuries before we decided it was best to position someone to keep their ears open. Taka knew all about Emerson, what he’d done, the things he was capable of, and the company he kept. He chose to go in anyway, wanting redemption for his own mistakes and seeking to earn a place of respect in our coven.

Pulling up to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town we arrive at the last place I expect to be.

Emerson, here?

My assumption that he lives in comfort, believing himself untouchable enough to take up someplace that would allow for him to live out his grandiose fantasies, proves false.

Perhaps he has changed his tactics because he entered a city with two highly motivated people who want to kill him. Two people who, along with the rest of their coven, would be more than happy to carry out a death sentence as quickly as possible.

I hold the gun Rolando insists I carry. It feels foreign and wrong in my arms. I did promise, though. After all, this is Emerson I am dealing with.

Resigning myself to use the monstrosity, Rolando, myself, and eight coven mates that stay in Callery make our way silently up the walk, the shadows of the dilapidated craftsman loom above us.

Uphill.

I don’t like that they have high ground from the start, but we make it to the half-rotten porch without incident. The sun set ten minutes ago, and the occupants should be stirring if they haven’t already. Scouting the building reveals that only the entrance is un-boarded for access. All other windows and external doors are nailed shut with plywood and two-by-fours.

I hate the idea of all of us heading in through the front, but if we want to go another way, we’d have to alert the house to our presence before we’re ready. Cursing in my head, we take position at the front. I see Rolando toss a concussion grenade into someone’s hands, ready to throw it in the door immediately. We all signal that we are prepared. Standing back so there will be room to throw the grenade, I kick in the door and step aside.

Rolling into the pitch-black darkness of the house, the grenade makes its way to the center. I pull the door shut again. A loud explosion forces the remaining glass in the windows to shatter. We’re here, I think to myself. Ready or not, here we come.

My ears aren’t ringing with the force of the grenade, but my sense of danger is piqued. Something isn’t quite right about this.

Taking my first step into the house, I am met with a fist to the gut and another to the face.

Rolling to the side to allow my other coven members entrance, I swing the butt of my gun into my assaulter’s skull, forcing him to stagger backward. Rolando is next in, raising his rifle and firing at two of Emerson’s men entering the hall. We filter in and spread out, but each room floods with assailants. There are more people here than we realized.

Two of mine are down, bodies riddled with bullets preventing them from continuing the fight. I spray down a man with a monstrous look in his eyes, then duck into the parlor.

I don’t have time for this fucking gun.

Allowing it to drop to my side, the strap still around my shoulders, I unsheath my sword and cut down anyone who isn’t mine.

Much better.

Rolando is at my back, and I am quickly losing sight of the others. We are being swarmed. Something is more than wrong here. More men pour through the front door, meaning our driver and lookout are dead or incapacitated.

Growling, I push through the house, trusting my back is covered. One of ours slumps against a wall in the dining room. I yank him to his feet and steady his weapon in his hands, getting his back up to ours as we move. We need an exit, the front door is a non-starter now, and this isn’t a fight we can win. I have to return to the house and come back in force with heavier artillery and more bodies.

Perhaps just RPG the damn building.

Naritaka must have been discovered because Emerson is ready for us. Using his men to fight his battles for him, he doesn’t even have the balls to show his face.

The kitchen tiles beneath my feet are slick with blood, but in the distance, I see the door I am searching for. It will lead outside. We just have to break through. Slicing through the next man who charges me, I raise my gun and fire through the door—the quick pop of bullets shreds through the wood. My coven members with me keep the others back.

Our exit.

We won’t all make it.

The man from the dining room. I think his name is Chris. I didn’t know him well, but he is severely injured. No way he can outrun them.

Rolando is good with a weapon. He can keep them off me as I flee, but what kind of leader would I be if I allow such a thing?

There is only one decision to be made.

Bruised, bleeding, and still going strong, it has to be him.

I yank Rolando by his shirt and fling him at the door. He burst through the remaining wood like cobwebs. Substantially sharper, more dangerous cobwebs, but at least it gave way. “GO!” My voice is unrecognizable even to myself. I am filled with rage, fear, and tiredness that I feel deep within my soul.

More are coming. We must have seen at least fifty men so far, I have no idea where the rest of mine are, but if I don’t make a stand here, they will catch Rolando, and he won’t make it home. I pull the fridge down and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Chris. Using my gun and sword to hold them off for as long as possible, it has to be enough time.

It will be enough time.

Chris falls, and I am fighting them from every side.

Their attack slows, they have won based on sheer numbers.

Those who have fallen will be restored, and my coven members destroyed. It is over.

I keep at it until the gun runs out of bullets. There is no time to change the magazine. I brandish my sword and cut down three more before they overtake me entirely. Breathing heavily with effort, I try to pull myself from the restraining arms around me. Heavy steps advance from the front of the house.

My wayward son steps from the shadows with a bemused expression. “Now, Father, what kind of welcome is this?”

Emerson has shown up after all.

He takes my sword in his hand and places it on my neck.

“Do it,” I dare him, wanting my death to be faster and clean, rather than the torture I know he is capable of. Unashamed of my fear of undue pain at his hand, I try to goad him into hurrying my end along.

“Oh, not yet. We still need a certain other family member to join us for a proper reunion.” His smile is wicked, and evil gleams in his eyes.

He wants Oz.

Emerson wants to kill us both.