****** Competition entry for the Written Category *******

'The Boy With The Broken Halo'

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The Boy with the Broken Halo.

“A sinister kid is a kid who

runs to meet his maker

A drop dead sprint from the day he’s born

Straight into his maker’s arms.

And that’s me, that’s me

The boy with the broken halo.

That’s me, that’s me

The devil won’t let me be.”

         Lyrics from ‘Sinister Kid’ by The Black Keys, from the album ‘Brothers’

                                    * * * * *

The clamour is deafening tonight and expectation is high. I can almost taste it. In front of me the cage is being prepared for tonight’s event and as a result the crowd is in a raucous, excitable mood. I cast an eye over the variety of faces present tonight. I know most of them; have had associations and dealings with them over the years, decades and in some cases even centuries. Of them, I know all that I need to know and all that I have to know. They show me respect and deference but I see the fear in their eyes, in their stance. They make sure that my every whim is granted, they fear the outcome if it is not.

Mr Snow calls me his enfant terrible.

Everyone else calls me Lord Harry. A chosen few are allowed call me Hal.

I sit at a table beside the cage and I’m not alone. I’m never alone and tonight, as always, I have company. I see Cutler slumped somewhat in his seat across from me with his tie half undone, the collar crumpled but he’s watching everyone and everything beneath a heavy lidded seemingly uninterested gaze. He isn’t aware of me watching him at the moment but he quickly will. He doesn’t have the stomach for this kind of life but he has a mind like a steel trap. It’s the only reason why I haven’t ended him as of yet. I can sense his potential, his ambition but his equilibrium is disappointingly weak. I slowly blink and turn my head slightly to my other companion. Her name is Daisy. She looks at me and her smile is quick, sparkling and interested. I know just how interesting she can be. She’s not exactly shy. Her husband is around here somewhere, lost in the crowds of people present this evening. In some circles Daisy would be considered nothing short of a slut, in others she’s someone to be admired, someone liberated by their transformation. There aren’t many Daisys around and with good reason. She’s made her interest in me more than plain tonight and usually I’m more than happy to reciprocate but not tonight.

Tonight it bores me. All of this does.

I watch how her eyes sparkle as she takes in her surroundings, feeds off the atmosphere and the attention.  She loves all of this as well as the cachet that she has garnered by being here with me.

With Lord Harry.

It feels so very tedious all of a sudden.

 I sigh and reach for the wine bottle in the centre of the table and at the same time I get to my feet. Immediately several pairs of eyes swivel in my direction including Daisy and Cutler; one is hopeful and the other is carefully assessing. Others nearby are ready to do my bidding, whatever my bidding may be.

“Relax, I’ll be back shortly.” I assure them. Cutler’s gaze slides away once more. I watch how he glances at Daisy and how she returns the attention with a straightening of narrow shoulders but I see the inviting glimmer in her eyes all the same. Cutler goes a little bit red and looks away. I refrain from sighing out loud. He’s still thinking about his precious Rachel.  One day I will tell him how she begged for her life, how she told me that she would do anything, absolutely anything to be saved. She left nothing to the imagination on what she would do. She even gave me a demonstration and I had almost changed my mind. A smile twitches the corner of my mouth as I remember. It quickly disappears and I turn, the half empty wine bottle clenched in my hand and I wend my way through the busy crowds, towards a different destination, somewhere a little bit more… peaceful.

The noise lessens to a dull roar as I make my way through the fortified door helpfully held open by the ever present Dennis. He makes to follow but pauses when I shake my head.

“No. Leave me be.”

“What if the dog escapes my Lord?” he enquires and I look at him.

“He’s been here for five months now Dennis, I don’t think he’ll escape, do you?” I tilt my head very slightly to one side. Dennis sighs and shakes his head.

“I won’t be long; I just need some peace and quiet.” 

“Very good my Lord.” he responds and watches as I walk through the door.

The staircase is weakly lit as the door clangs shut behind me. For a moment I just stand there. I can still hear them, the fever pitch roar and the excitement. I sigh and push one hand into my trouser pocket and I clutch the wine bottle a little tighter in my other hand.

I slowly descend.

The soles of my shoes crunch on the concrete as I walk towards his cell.  I trail the bottom of the bottle against the wall and I listen to the noise it makes. There aren’t any bars in this place; there is no need for them. We keep the dogs securely chained and suitably cowed. Oh they’re angry to begin with, that’s the part I enjoy the most, the blast of their fury, their indignation at being kept in such a condition but gradually over time they become dull and subservient, only truly coming alive one night a month and making me a lot of money in the process.

 Especially the one that I am visiting tonight.

Time for a little bit of fun methinks.

My voice bounces off the walls and the high ceiling as I call his name. My tone is deliberate, it is derogatory and mocking. I don’t expect him to react, he never does. I think that is one of the reasons why I keep coming back.

I remember when Fergus dragged him in here.  He had quite the struggle to control him. He was angry, combative and so strong. I saw his strength in every fibre, every muscle and every bone in his body. Coupled with that indefatigable strength I also saw pride. I grinned in absolute delight when I saw him.

It would be…fun breaking that pride down, breaking down that strength so instilled inside of him until he was left with nothing, nothing except the skin he inhabited and the clothes that he wore.

Five months later and neither have happened. He is still proud and he is still stubbornly strong.

I slowly approach him and I can see the mutinous expression in his eyes. A dark pleasure rises inside of me at that expression. Could tonight be the night that I will finally get a reaction out of him? Oh I hope so.

I take a mouthful of my wine and swallow and my eyes never leave his face.

I keep my voice deliberately low as I crouch down in front of him. He’s filthy, his vest is grubby, his trousers equally dirty and worn. I can smell him from where I am, his werewolf scent aside, he is quite positively pungent.

He doesn’t like the fact that I remind him that he has killed five people since he’s been in my custody and that with luck, tonight it will rise to six. I see how his shackled fists clench in his lap. I smile to myself and look down at the half filled wine bottle that I still hold and I contemplate offering him some of it. It’s very good, an excellent vintage. I wonder how he would take such an invitation. He probably wouldn’t appreciate it so I don’t.

He’d probably spit it back in my face anyway. I remind him of odds beginning to shorten, of geese laying golden eggs and the price of gold beginning to drop and something changes inside of him. It makes him react and he lunges towards me. Fortunately he’s secure, chained to the white washed wall behind him so he doesn’t get that far. Still, I flinch back and despite the surge of adrenaline that his reaction instils in me, I laugh at him. I think that infuriates him even more. It’s a reaction all the same. Finally!

“Why do you keep coming down here?”  His angry voice bounces off the walls.

Actually that is a very good question. Why do I keep coming down here? It’s not a particularly inviting place. It’s cold, kept deliberately as such and it is damp and distinctly unwelcoming. I feign ignorance. Do I? I walk a few steps away until I’m near the periphery of his cell but I make sure that I can see him and that he can see me.

He remains seated, his back pressed up against the wall. I recognise the hostility in his eyes, welcome it.

“You’re the only person in this building who isn’t scared of me, it’s refreshing…”

He isn’t, he truly isn’t, afraid that is. I have seen a variety of emotions cross that proud face. I’ve seen hatred, hostility, pain, frustration but never once have I seen a moment of fear. Even when he is dragged out of here and pushed into that cage, surrounded by screaming vampires, baying for his blood, he has never been afraid. Before his body has undergone its monthly vicious transformation he stands in the centre of that cage and he slowly turns in a small circle, regarding us, examining us. I get the distinct impression that when he does that he’s putting all our faces into his memory. What for, I’m not quite sure.

Then just as quickly his anger fades and his expression changes.

There still isn’t any fear in those eyes of his. Instead there is something else and it takes me a moment to realise what it is.

He is mocking me. Oh he doesn’t say it in so many words but it’s that little chuckle that gives him away. He accuses me of being frightened of death, of dying, of running away from it.

What does he know of death? Not once, outside of the cage, has he been put in a position where he has feared for his own existence. He has not once come close to dying and it offends me. I laugh back at him and I assure him that I am most certainly not afraid of death.

His eyes almost taunt me to prove it and it irritates me more than it ever should.

I kick a small crate across and I sit on it. I am level with him.

I was born in a brothel. I don’t even know which of the six illiterate whores was my mother…

That is the plain, unvarnished truth. I don’t know and close to four hundred and fifty years later I still wonder. I can recall each of their faces to my mind’s eye and I have scrutinised them. I’ve look for similarities; eye colour, hair colour, shape of mouth, chin or a similar smile. I’ve never been able to see it. They all taunted me, told me individually that they had whelped me and then laughed cruelly at my expression of hope, of longing to be accepted and…loved. Of course it never happened.

but when one by one each of them was lost to disease or violence, I mourned them and they were my blood…

I still remember that squalid little building. I became extremely talented at making myself scarce, hiding from the customers, dodging flying fists and feet. It became second nature to me. When they became sick then I’d be the one to take care of them, nurse them in my own pitiful way. I’d mop their fevered brows, bring them what little food I could scavenge, water to sip through blistered scarred lips until eventually their pathetic useless lives were extinguished. I’d close long blind eyes and yes, I mourned them all. I shed a tear for each and every hopeless one. Maybe I secretly hoped for a whispered confession, right up until the final one breathed her last, I held onto faith that one day I would finally know the truth.

It never happened. 

…by the time I was a young man I’d seen every dark corner of the human heart so when the army surgeon offered me eternal life in return for what little God had left  me of my soul, I accepted. Not because I feared death but because I could think of nothing that deserved my loyalty any more…

Initially I didn’t feel a thing. That lasted for barely a moment before it registered. I looked down as the Muscovite soldier yanked that lance out of me and I saw hot red blood stain the front of my shirt. I can remember staring at it firstly in fascination and then in mild panic as it seemed to suddenly pour out of me. I looked at him and I remember how he grinned at me. I didn’t know him; I didn’t know anything about him except that he was the enemy. My extremities became cold and numb and I sank to my knees in the mud amidst the other bodies piled around me. I was sure that I could hear my heart beat stutter in my chest for a moment, it sounded so loud inside of my head. My vision began to blacken and fade around the edges. So this was how my life was going to end, forgotten and unmourned in a battlefield consigned to the mists of history?

Apparently it wasn’t. The next thing I remember is waking up in chaos. I could hear the screams of the wounded and dying around me as I came to lying on a crude pallet. I was choking on blood and so very very cold. I knew that I could count my mortality in moments and it was then that I became aware of an ephemeral presence, someone by my side, watching me with keen pale eyes. His manner was furtive as he approached. He knew that I was dying; he told me he’d been watching me for a few days and that he had something infinitely precious to offer me. He asked me whether I would accept his gift should he extend the invitation.  As my life force began to ebb away, I remembered my existence such as it was and realised then that I wasn’t quite ready to let go of it just yet. I nodded my acceptance and watched his eyes turn a polished black.

My throat is parched I realise as I swallow down another mouthful of expensive red wine. I hadn’t intended to reveal my beginnings to him. It’s a part of my life that I don’t discuss with anyone. Mr Snow will undoubtedly know, he makes it his mission to know everything that there is to know about his family so that he can use the information where and when necessary. I haven’t told him any of my life before I was changed but he will know nonetheless.

You must have me mixed up with another werewolf you have chained up somewhere who gives a damn…

I’m strangely surprised to realise that Leo’s answering scorn stings. It gets under my skin. I don’t know what I was expecting by sharing that shadowy part of me and in reality I should’ve expected it to be thrown back in my face so why does his reaction hurt me? It makes me defensive.  

I want you to think that that there’s hope…

Hope? For what?

The revelation comes out of nowhere. All of a sudden it is there and as the words leave my lips, I can barely believe that I’ve spoken them out loud.

That I can be saved.

It shocks me rigid for a moment and it must show because as I turn, intending to leave him alone once more, his tone changes.

He tells me that he won’t fight the next soul that he must face in that cage upstairs. He tells me he will throw himself onto the knife before he is fully transformed rather than kill again.

I pretend nonchalance, informing him that I’ll have to change my bet but in truth I realise that he’s telling the truth. I realise then that he’s telling the truth when he says that death doesn’t frighten him and for a brief moment I envy and respect him for that.

His next words stop me in my tracks.

But I don’t think you want to be you either…

I go utterly still as his words sink in. Slowly I turn around to look at him. There is no look of triumph, no expression of accomplishment at this insight. Instead he regards me with a grain of sympathy, of understanding.  How could this possibly be? How could he possibly know?

Sometimes we don’t have a choice…

My whispered confession is barely audible and faintly treasonous. His next words stun me anew

Then we are both in chains.

I feel them wrapped around me. They attached themselves to me from the moment I came to on that pallet with the roar of battle still echoing inside of my head and they have gradually tightened and suffocated me as the decades and then the centuries have slid past.

I can barely breathe because of them. Suddenly I crave freedom but it scares me. I have had brief forays but they never last for long, I’m always dragged back into its darkness, its hunger. I can never truly escape from it. The enormity of the situation threatens to overwhelm.

I take a breath. No. I have lived this way of life for over four centuries now, why should the words of this man, this dog affect me? He’s wrong; he’s the one in chains.

No he isn’t. He speaks the truth; the insidious voice inside of my skull is sly.

He asks me my name and I tell him. It’s Hal.

This is our last conversation Hal…

No…no I’m not prepared for this to be finally over. As I approach him once more, the tension inside of me ratchets up another notch. It feels almost like…panic.

Cycles. I live my life in cycles. I can normally feel when one is about to end and another is about to begin. It is a never ending process. As I look down at him I begin to realise that this is what this feeling of disquiet that I’ve been experiencing recently has been about. Why didn’t I recognise it for what it was? I don’t know who is going to emerge next. I can feel it well up inside of me, I am afraid.

Even if the next cycle brings someone kind, it won’t last. Ten years from now, thirty, fifty, this man will return and he’ll be even worse. He always is…

He offers to help me. As he speaks, it begins to filter through. He believes that my visits to him have been a test of some sort, but a test of what…and how? I stare at him in mute disbelief when he suggests that he be my guide, to help me step into the light.

It’s been such a long time since I last felt the light touch my soul. I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like. It sound so tempting, so easy to accomplish and for a moment I long for it, that sense of utter freedom and emancipation.

Dark suspicion drops almost immediately. A necessary force of habit.

What’s in it for you?

It’s true when they say that nothing is ever for free. It isn’t, there’s always a bargain to be struck and one party is always worse off. There is always a catch.

He shares with me his dream and it sounds so simple. He doesn’t wish for the world, just a barber’s shop, somewhere where he can suffer his curse in safety and a beer at the end of the day. It sounds honest. It sounds…wonderful.

I hear the unspoken invitation; see the hope in his eyes and every fibre of my being goes on alert. For a moment, I want that too, I want that simple life he describes. In the background I can hear the sound of the door being unlocked and pushed open. I should turn around and walk out of here as I have done on every other occasion. I should go back upstairs, re-join my guests and enjoy the night’s entertainment and the promises of the rest of the evening with Daisy.

But I stay where I am and I stare at him with wide eyes. I stiffen further when I hear slow footsteps descend. They’ll be here soon.

Leo holds out a hand. I stare at it almost fearfully, longingly.

This is the moment Hal, what you do now is going to change everything….here it comes.

Here it comes.

FIN.

****** Competition entry for the Written Category *******

'Series 4'

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SERIES 4:

I didn’t know what was in store,

Without Mitchel in Series 4.

I watched anyway,

Just to find out.

That Damien Molony is what

Series four was all about.

With him in my heart and on my mind,

Being Human is not left behind.

Intellegent actor, incredible means.

Wish they would show, “Behind the Scenes”.

But alas, I wait for Series Five,

When we see more of Hal and his bewitching behind.

I close for now with this to say,

Being Human takes my breath away!!!

******Competition entry for the Written Category *******

'A Transformation In Letters'

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A Transformation In Letters

1941

Tears. Always. He never tried to stop them; he wanted them to fall. But not on the paper. The recipients were not to know he had cried. No sympathy. No excuses. Just repentance.

He noticed the tip of his pen was hovering over the paper, unsure of where to begin, what to say. He dipped the tip back in the ink pot. It still did not come to him. So he started with the easy part.

Dear John

His pen stopped. He tried to remember, took a deep breath and stood up from the chair he had been sitting on and walked to the window next to his desk. Outside, London was quiet. A street lantern struck a small stroke of light to the right, away from the flat he was currently residing in. It was heavily clouded and no moonlight could penetrate the cloud cover.

He stared at the mirrored window in front of him. The candle on the desk next to him flickered its reflection in it. But it reflected no figure.

Sometimes he saw himself. From the corner of his eye. In a passing window. But never a full reflection. He could not shave without at least one cut or an uneven spread. Often he was mistaken for a drunk because of it.

He heard steps coming along the road and stepped forward to see who it was. A child of about ten ran by. It pulled him back to reality.

The letter. He looked at it, laying on his desk. The almost empty parchment.

He turned away from it and lay down on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to envision himself sitting on a bench alongside the Thames during the day, watching the current empty his mind.

1901

It had just been a game. That is how it started. But of course, being the creature, venom, that he was, it had gotten out of hand and someone had died.

He had seen the boy at the tearoom he visited daily. The boy had sold him the Times, had sat with him for a few minutes, and had had his own cup of tea. They started talking. About the boy’s parents. His activities. His dreams. His name was John.

After the boy had left, they had ran into each other again that very evening. The boy was heading home, after a special had come out that he had sold on the streets, announcing the death of Queen Victoria. John was cold. Snow had fallen that day and the boy’s clothes, torn in several places, made him shiver.

He had taken John to his flat, which was not much warmer than the boy’s own home probably had been. But he wanted to be nice to him. That was truly all he had wanted.

He fixed the boy up with a cup of tea and put him in a chair next to the stove. As the boy warmed his hands on the cup, he heard women giggling outside. He lived in the worst part of town. He knew this and he knew it only made the chances of him losing control all the larger, but he did not have a choice. He wanted to hide. The best place to do that was here, with a low rent and the constant change of neighbours. This winter, ten of them had died of cold, starvation, drug addiction or violence. Seven had fallen victim to a combination of the last two.

All he fixated on right now was holding control. By focusing on keeping warm and finding out where his next loaf of bread would come from. His only contact with humans was the time he spent in the tearoom. He wanted to know what went on in the world, what happened in his city and over the sea, and the only way to do that was to visit the tearooms to read the newspapers.

But he felt it. After ten years of sobriety, he was slipping. It was not his surroundings making him lose control. It was just that time again. He always knew it would come back. No precautions would help. Every day without blood was another day closer to the one on which he would slip up again. And it was coming soon. He had already made plans. First thing he would do was escape town. If he could, if he still had the clarity of mind to do so. He wanted to run to the countryside. Near animals. It would sustain him for a little while. And a little while would still save a lot of lives before he would crave human blood and run back to populated areas.

John wanted to go home. He had given the boy half of his last loaf of bread to share with his five brothers and sisters. He opened the door to take him home.

It happened before he could realise the moment he would turn again was upon him.

The girls were all over John. How cute he was, how tall and how brave to be out at night, walking about all on his own in this part of town and in this weather. Was he seven? He looked ten, at least! Surely he could take down any bad men walking around.

He could not help himself. The veins stuck out of their bare necks, unbothered by the weather as they were.

He heard his heartbeat go faster, grow louder until he heard it racing in his head.

John screamed as he saw his eyes go black and showed the ladies his fangs. They tried to run. All three women and John. Together. But they ran into an alley. He could not believe he knew the area better than they did. Whores. Running around this street all day, but hardly knowing what was around the corner.

He had them for the taking. Two ran past him, back into the street. He knew he could not get them all anyway. Vampires were strong, but he wanted, needed, blood. Now. One was enough. He could always go after them afterwards. The third woman was protecting John, covering him as he held on to her from behind, crying, asking what was happening, what he was doing, why his eyes were black and why his teeth had grown pointy.

He made John watch. He dragged them to the corner of the alley. Both had nowhere to go. He remembered making a speech about how well he had done, being sober for so long, but that the slip always came. How the two of them were just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time. It could have happened yesterday, and then he would have been long gone. Or tomorrow, and maybe then it would still have happened to them.

He had moved ever closer as he spoke. Licking his lips, stroking the woman’s neck. He heard John whimper, but he did not care. Not anymore.

Finally he put his fangs into the woman’s neck. She could not scream. His hands had covered her mouth. He could feel her heavy breathing on his skin as he sucked her blood. He felt the life grow back into him, felt the blood in his veins stream, felt his muscle power as he had never felt before. Or did not remember feeling.

All of that stopped, suddenly, as he felt a stabbing pain in his groin.

He looked down and saw that John had crawled under him, kicking him hard, and was now running away. He could hear the boy sobbing and wiping away the tears as he ran. He yelled profanities after John, but did not bother to go after him. He still had someone in his arms who was not yet sucked dry. Compassion was not part of why he let him go.

1941

He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling of his flat.

He remembered them all. But some were vague, situations had become distorted, memories changed. But those he always remembered the best. The ones that happened first after a change.

This change had only lasted six months. The shortest a cycle had ever lasted for him. As if the cow blood he had been on kept him lucid in some way.  After he felt himself again, he had fled overseas to London. Different country, different scenery. But also the same. He craved people around him. Needed to be entertained. Knew it was dangerous, but it was either this or being back on the blood within hours. He kept the streets clean. Which kept his head clean. Somewhat.

He had made a promise to himself. To all those he killed. Changed. He remembered all their names. Every lucid period he wanted to do penance for them. Remember them. Say sorry. But he could not.

So he had started writing letters. To his victims. Not for them. He had only sent a few, to fellow vampires who knew them or their families. The others he stacked up. And burnt during a dark period. After which he started writing letters to the victims from his latest period.

He sat up from his bed, took another deep breath and sat himself down at his desk again.

He stared at the piece of paper for a moment, hearing his upstairs neighbour rummage around. He knew he was treading a thin line right now, moving into this house, but he did not have to pay rent and the others left him alone. He knew the reason. They knew as well as the others that he would turn again and it was just a matter of waiting it out and then their Lord would be back.

He grabbed the piece of paper, ruffled it up into a ball and threw it into the corner of the room.

He put his pen onto the paper laying below.

John,

There was a knock on the front door.

He waited for someone else to open it. No one came and the knocking continued. Annoyed, he stood up and made his way to the front door.

He opened the door and saw a tall man facing him. His age, but with black curly hair.

“You Hal?” He said as he flipped a piece of paper around. Probably with the address on it.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Mitchell. John Mitchell. We need to talk.”

When the realization of who the man was that was standing in front of him seeped through, Hal felt the life being sucked out of him for a change. His legs went wobbly, as he let room for him to pass.

It was John.

But he felt John was different, changed. And he should be older.

He relived for a second time that evening, the moment when John was little, that moment where he last turned to blood. That time when John escaped his grasp. He had not fed on him. So who did?

“Why are you here? How did you find me?” Hal said as John walked into the room with the opened door.

“Herrick.”

Hal stared at John. Of course. Herrick. Herrick had led a group into the Great War, recruiting men on their death beds. John had told him he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up.

Hal watched John, as the boy who was now a man sat down on his bed. Upright, unmoving.

 “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You were kind,” John said, voice breaking. “Before..”

Before it happened.

“Herrick told me who you were. How you.. deal with it.”

So rumour of him stepping out for brief moments of time had left the house and gotten around.

“Why are you here?” He sat down at his desk, suddenly remembering his letter on the desk. He tried to casually shove a book over it, but John was eyeing him intently and there was no way he could do it without arousing suspicion.

“I need help.”

“With what?”

“Dealing with it.”

“Why?”

“I have doubts.”

“I cannot help you.”

“You won’t help me.”

“I cannot. It is too dangerous.” He was silent for a moment before continuing. “It takes all my strength to manage myself. I am sorry, but I cannot help you too.”

“You owe me this.”

Hal looked at John startled.

“Is that really the card you want to play?”

“I have to.”

“You need to leave.”

Hal stood up to show his guest out, but John showed no intention of getting up. Instead he pointed at the letter on his desk. “What’s that?”

“What do you mean?”

“That letter. Is it for me?”

Hal returned his intent gaze. “Yes.”

“You knew I was turned?”

“No.”

John seemed to digest this information and then got up.

“Is there anything you can tell me? Any advice?”

Hal uttered both words slowly: “Kill yourself.”

John smiled slightly, thinking he was kidding. When Hal did not return the smile, John grimaced.

“You’re serious. And then what?”

“No more killing.”

“Why don’t you kill yourself?”

“I think you should go.”

John made his way to the front door. Hal went after him to make sure he left. Herrick was standing at the front porch.

“You know I can go just come in without asking right? I own the joint.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I thought you and Mitchell might need a little personal time. Was he able to help you with your problem, Mitchell?”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m going to take that as a very poetic no. Till next time, Lord Hal. I’m sure it will come.” Herrick flicked his fingers and John followed in his path.

Breathing heavily, Hal closed the door and fled back into his room. He stared down at the piece of paper that still read John. He had no idea what he wanted to write, but he desperately wanted to write something.

He had turned the little boy away. Again. Owed him twice now. Owed him more now than he did then. And still had not filled his debt. But made it bigger.

He stood up violently, throwing his desk to its side and tossing around his chair against his bed until it legs broke off, screaming while he did it.

It was never going to end. Even when he tried to do his best, he still could not do it right.

Without thinking about it, he ran out of the house, onto the street where two women had just gotten out of the bar at the opposite side of the street. He felt it coming this time. And he did not care. All he thought to himself was that he wanted it to happen and he did not care how long this dark period would take. It could take forever, for all he cared. Sucking humans dry, women preferably, as long as he was sustained. The more blood he took, the less it bothered him. His heightened sensors noticed another couple coming out of the bar. They would be up next.

The two women did not even hear him coming up from behind. Before they could even scream, he had torn out the first one’s neck and had pushed his fangs into the second woman. He was sinking back into the night’s dark and he knew the daylight would be a very long way off.

From a corner of his eye, as he felt the blood trickle down his own neck, he saw Herrick and John Mitchell watching on from the shadows of an adjacent building. As Hal licked his lips and swallowed before taking another dive into the woman’s neck, he noticed they were both grinning.

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