7. Monster

SEVEN

monster

Boston, Massachusetts

1892

"Excuse me, miss?" a short older man says, interrupting my morning routine. In the two weeks I've been in Boston, coming to Franklin Park every morning with a book and a forlorn look has proven to be some of the best hunting of my life. The men in Boston are more than willing to try and take advantage of a young, lonely young woman.

"Yes?" I smile with my answer. "May I help you?"

"I wondered if I might join you?" he says, pointing at the empty spot next to me on the bench.

"I'd like that, thank you." I look behind him, searching for a family member who might be accompanying him .

"What brings you out here, alone?" he asks, sliding closer to my side.

"What makes you think I'm alone?" I flirt.

He looks around, mimicking my moves from earlier. "I don't see anyone but us out here."

I laugh. "I guess you're right." I close the novel I'm holding. "I enjoy coming out here alone. Time to myself is the best medicine."

"No truer words have ever been spoken." He looks around nervously before sliding closer. The sweat covering his brow makes my stomach growl with hunger. He slides his hand to my knee and squeezes.

"What are you doing, sir?" I ask, hoping to give him one last chance at redemption.

"It's what you're here for, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Please don't touch me." I'm proud of the nervousness that shines through my words. "I am a lady." I almost laugh out loud at the last part.

"A lady doesn't come to a park without a chaperone. How much?" he asks, sliding his hand up my arm, pushing the dress ruffles upward with his hand.

"I don't know what you're referring to, sir."

The man pulls his hand away and grabs his crotch, holding on tightly. "How much, whore?"

"I'm no whore, sir."

He raises his hand, slapping me across the face with the backside. "Suck it." He pulls open the buttons holding his pants in place and exposes his erect penis. He grabs my perfectly styled hair and pulls it toward his groin.

It's not the penis that excites me, but what lies next to it. The blood coursing through the artery in his thigh calls to me—begs for me to drink from it. He forces me to the ground in front of him and pushes my head further into him.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask, dropping all pretense of the scared single woman.

"Suck it, whore."

I don't try to disguise the fangs as they protrude from my mouth. Bypassing his penis, I move straight to the artery and latch on. Mere seconds pass before the man is drained of the blood that once flowed through his body.

I stand, wiping any remnants from my mouth, and look at the remains of my latest victim. His lifeless body is pale and empty-looking. Instead of giving him the dignity of pulling up his pants, I leave him exposed to anyone who might stumble upon his corpse. He doesn't deserve dignity.

London, England

1943

The number of bodies covering the street after the bombing is nearly overwhelming, even for me. The Germans have bombed the city for the past few days, destroying many city blocks. The few people who have ventured onto the streets are covered in dirt, and their clothes are full of holes.

"Where are you going, missy?" a voice says from an alleyway as I pass.

Seeing the number of humans that have died has taken my appetite away. I ignore the man and keep moving down what's left of the street.

"Did you hear me, bitch?" he repeats.

"Leave me alone," I warn and keep walking. The sound of a young child crying stops me in my tracks. I turn toward the sound, seeing the man whose voice I heard, holding a small girl in his arms. She can't be any older than six or seven, and from the looks of her clothes and hair, she's alone.

"My daughter needs a mother."

Something inside me clicks, telling me this girl isn't his daughter. I move in front of the man and girl. "Are you all right, dear one?"

Tears stains cover her cheeks as the man squeezes her tightly. "She's fine, aren't you?" The girl nods. "See, she's just a little scared."

"Are you hungry?" I ask the child. She nods again.

"We're both hungry if you know what I mean," the man answers, looking me up and down.

"I'm hungry, too," I admit. However, my need to free this child has overcome my need to eat.

"I have some food up there." He points at a set of stairs that have been broken in several places from the bombing. "Why don't you come up, and I'll fix food for all of us?"

The girl looks at me with large eyes, begging me to help her. The smell of copper fills my nose, and I realize she has blood covering her extremities. I know in an instant what he's done.

"Give her to me," I demand.

"Come on up and—" I don't wait for him to finish. I grab the girl and knock him to the wall behind him in one quick move. Moving with vampire speed, I take her around the corner, hiding her from what I'm about to do.

"Stay here, and I'll be right back." She nods at my words as fresh tears cover her face.

Seconds later, I'm in front of the man, pinning him against the wall. I don't waste time with formalities. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing she didn't want." He smiles. "She needed someone to take care of her and so did I."

"You're going to die now." I make sure he can see everything that's about to happen to him as I bring out the monster locked inside.

The scream that leaves his mouth is cut short as I sink my teeth into his neck, draining every ounce of blood inside his body. What's left of him slides into the rubble below. "Have fun in hell, asshole."

Back in front of the young girl seconds later, I hug her close, offering the loving comfort she's been denied, and take her to a hospital not far away .

"Can I help you, ma'am?" a woman wearing a white uniform asks as we enter the emergency room.

"I found her on the street. She was alone, and I think she's hurt."

"Thank you," the girl whispers as the woman takes her from my arms and ushers her toward a back room.

"Ma'am, I need your contact information," another woman says from a desk not far away.

I turn, leaving the hospital and the girl behind.

Los Angeles, California

1986

The amount of humans covering the beach is almost overwhelming. Families with children in tow are hauling everything they own to the sand to spend a few hours on the water. I've lost track of the last time I ate, and my stomach growls at the memory.

"Shut the hell up, Frankie," a middle-aged woman warns as she drags a young boy across a scalding hot parking lot. He's not wearing shoes and no doubt his bare feet are burning from the asphalt.

"Mama, it burns," the boy cries as she drags him.

She slaps him across the face. "I said shut up, boy. You'll be fine."

She's wearing a pair of blue jean shorts that are cut so short, they leave nothing to the imagination. The bikini top she's wearing is at least two sizes too small, and the cigarette hanging from her lips has nothing left to smoke.

"His feet are burning," I say to her, interrupting her trek.

"Mind your own business, bitch," she warns. "He's my son."

" Your son's feet are burning," I repeat. "He needs shoes." I slide my cheap jelly sandals off my feet and hand them to the boy.

"My son isn't wearing girl shoes. He's not a homo." She slaps the sandals from his hand.

"I don't think your son wearing a girl's sandal classifies him as a homo."

"Fuck off," the woman retorts, dragging the poor child with her.

"Where's your dad?" I ask the boy.

"Home," he cries.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Don't talk to my son." She continues dragging him across the parking lot toward the beach. "His dad is good for nothing. He won't let me see my son. All he does is sleep with whores. He deserved what I did and what I'm going to do."

"Did you take him?"

The woman doesn't answer. I turn my attention toward the boy again. "Did she take you from your dad?"

"Shut up, bitch!" she yells, dragging him off of the concrete onto the sand .

"She killed my dad," the boy whispers just loud enough for my hearing. "She's going to do the same to me."

Large blue eyes look into mine as he pleads for help. I move in front of her, blocking her path. "You're not going to hurt him," I warn.

"Get out of my way!"

I wrap my hand around the arm holding the boy in place, squeezing tight enough that she's forced to release her hold. She screams as the bones in her wrist begin to crack. "Go," I tell the boy.

He doesn't waste time. He turns, running to a small gas station not far away. "No!" she screams. "He has to die! We both do!"

I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close to me. This woman is in pain. She's a murderer, but then, so am I.

Moving faster than human eyes can track, I carry her to a parked police car with two officers inside. "This woman murdered her husband."

A young officer exits the car. "Did I understand you correctly?" he asks.

"Let me go!" the woman continues screaming.

"Look in her purse. You'll find her ID. She murdered her husband and was going to do the same to her son." I nod toward the gas station the boy took refuge inside. "He's in there. He'll corroborate the story."

The officer grabs her unbroken wrist, looking between the two of us. "Who are you?"

"A concerned citizen," I answer, sounding more like a superhero than the killer I am.

The second officer exits the car, heading straight toward me. I don't wait for more questions or interrogations. I move faster than they can track, disappearing before their eyes.

Crail, Scotland

2024

Where the small cottage once stood, now sits a grand three-story house. The farmland my family worked so hard to farm is covered in homes similar to the one in front of me. Any remnants of my familial home are gone, nothing more than memories cast in the wind.

I wipe the silent tears flowing from my eyes, as thoughts of what could've been flash to mind. If only I'd been normal. If only I had not been the reason my father died, none of this would've happened.

Instead, I've been on the run for two centuries, staying one step ahead of my captor and leaving a trail of death and destruction in my wake. I'm tired. I'm tired of killing. I'm tired of running. I'm tired of being a vampire. I'm tired of everything.

For the first time in a while, I allow thoughts of Thorne to enter my mind. Since escaping, thinking of him and our time together only brings sadness. I've avoided thinking of what could've been, instead, focusing on survival.

"Captain Hawthorne Rex, I'm sorry," I whisper into the wind. For three centuries, I've passively searched for information on Thorne, finding not much in return. Today, that changes. Pulling my cell phone from my backpack, I book a flight to Charleston. The location our ship was heading before Kragen took me. It's one of the few places I've avoided since escaping. That ends today.