((Closed to Nightsangel))
It was a fresh kill, and for that at least Letho was thankful.
Death had as many odors as it did faces, but some were less bearable than others. The fresh ones, like the one spread eagled on the bed before him, were the easiest to handle as far as olfactory assaults came. Sure, the reek of the mattress drenched in urine and feces mixed with the rusty smell of stale blood was still a gut-wrenching ordeal to endure, but it was still a far cry from the gaseous fetor of a week-old corpse or the sickly sweet stench of a body left to decompose in the sun for a fortnight or two. Those usually hit the gut so hard they usually called back last week’s supper to be reintroduced to the world, let alone last night’s.
But more importantly than improving the chances of keeping the last meal or two down, fresh kills usually meant fresh clues, though in this particular case, Letho wasn’t certain what to make of them. The naked man lying before him in the flickering light of gas lamps could only be discerned as a man because he lacked the curvature of a female breast. His head was tilted back between two pillows at an unhealthy angle, his throat ripped open so voraciously that Letho thought he could see the white of the man’s spinal column in that gory mess. The narrow sunken chest was perforated at least twenty times and was strangely devoid of any hair (Letho wasn’t certain whether this was a clue or just another fad these city boys liked to indulge in). And it only got worse from there. The abdomen wall was completely ripped open, the perpetrator leaving behind what looked like minced meat mixed with purplish snakes, some of which spilled over his waist and covered the hole of coagulated blood that used to be the victim’s loins.
Blood was everywhere, of course, coloring the murder scene in all possible hues of deep red. The body was painted with it, the coverlets so saturated by it that some actually made it through the mattress and onto the carpet underneath the bed. Only the man’s extremities seemed somewhat spared. Tied to the bed posts with braided rope, their stark whiteness stood as an almost comical contrast to the rest of the scene, making the victim look as if someone hit him with a really big gob of red paint and left him tied up to soak in the mess.
“They were all like this?” Letho asked the only other person present on the scene. Standing in the shadows near the bedroom door, about as far as he could from the mess while still being in the same room, the corpulent sergeant of the City Guard moved the kerchief from his mouth to his forehead, dabbing at it nervously. He was obviously not used to such scenes, yet Letho had to give him credit for not being too blue in the gills while face to face with such a scene. He fared far better than the pair of plods that discovered the corpse anyways. The two patrolmen were even now sitting out in the streets, not certain whether there was anything more in their stomach to retch.
“Yes,” the sergeant finally said. His eyes were looking at the vicinity of Letho, but not exactly at him. Letho was squatting at the bedside, his face less than a yard away from the center of all the gore, and that was something that the guardsman didn’t want to look at if it could be helped. He corrected himself almost immediately: “No. Well, mostly like that. None of them were...torn apart like this.”
“But all were tied up?” Letho asked, and received a nod in response. “And the bite marks?” Though there was so much destruction dealt to the body, he was still able to discern at least four pairs of telltale punctures, two on the arms and two on what remained of the neck.
“Yes. On the last two anyways. I don’t know about three before that.”
So this was victim number six. Letho had an idea how it all went down. He got some of it from the captain of the Guard who had sent the notice to him, and was able to suss out the rest himself. After the first one nobody really batted an eyelash; murders in towns as big as Gisela were a dime a dozen. After the second one the Guard knocked on a few doors. After the third one they banged on a few doors and doubled their patrols. After the fourth one they set up a curfew. And after the fifth one they called for professional help.
“Is it a vampire?” the sergeant finally asked.
“Perhaps. The size and depth of the bites fits. This, however, does not,” Letho gestured towards the bloodied flesh before him as he pushed himself back to his feet. “Vampires usually feed on blood and do so while attracting as little attention as possible. They also do not kill their victims unless absolutely necessary. Their very existence depends on blending into the society and keeping their nature hidden.”
“Maybe one of them went mad,” the sergeant offered.
“It is possible. Yet, when they do go mad, they usually cause a lot more destruction than this. A maddened vampire, especially one mad from hunger, would not wait a couple of nights for his next victim.” Moving closer to the nearby window, Letho was grateful for the whiff of fresh air as he looked out into the lamp-lit Gisela cityscape. “They also usually move without leaving much of a trail. Yet there is a bloody handprint outside this window, and a trail of droplets that disappears into the back garden.”
“So it’s not a vampire?”
“I do not know yet,” Letho responded, his arms folded, his eyes drifting upwards to the crescent moon that watched over the sleeping city. “I need to look at the rest of the bodies. And I also need a second opinion.”
There was only one person he knew whose opinion would matter in this particular case, and Letho wasn’t certain how he felt about contacting her. They parted in less than amicable manner before they drifted away towards different points on the compass, and the history between the two of them still brought fort conflicting feelings in the aging monster hunter. A part of Letho, that proud and just part that held his spine straight even through the worst of times, wanted nothing to do with Sivienna. Their nightly rendezvous all those years ago was a mark on his honor that reminded him of the time he fell victim to his darkest desires, that accursed time of sleepless night and acts of infidelity. That part of him wanted nothing more than to be rid of the memories of her and never speak to her and think of her again.
But another part of him spoke with the voice of reason. Regardless of their past, Sivienna was quite an expert when it came to vampires. After all, she was one of their kin, and the only one of them he was on speaking terms with. If there was anyone who could shed some light on this case, it would be her.
There was yet another part of him, the sneaky, conniving part that called back the images of that one night oh so long ago, that one moment of sweet, fulfilled desire. Letho commanded it to shut up.
***
The witch’s shop was different than Letho had expected. Never one to dabble in magic or fraternize with people attuned to it, he expected stuffy rooms with low ceilings, heavy draperies that held out the moonlight and warty old women that smelled of cat piss. What he got instead was a brown-skinned beauty lounging on a sofa on an airy terrace, enjoying the view of a moonlit garden awash in hues of black and silver. If not for the pack of cards and a huge piece of jagged crystal on the table before her, Letho would’ve been certain he had the wrong place.
“Good day, my lady,” the veteran offered with a slight inclination of his head.
“By the Thaynes! Marshal Ravenheart, in my humble abode!” she said, playfully pressing a hand against her chest. “Please, sit. I am Mardeena.”
“Not a Marshal anymore, lady. Not for a long time now,” he said, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Oh, please. You will always be the Marshal here in Gisela. People here remember what you did for them during the Massacre, and they remember what you did for the Rangers. Even if some choose to forget it these days.”
In all truth, Letho didn’t care a whole lot about what people did or didn’t remember. He knew very well that a good number of people saw his departure from the Rangers at the very pinnacle of their war with the Empire as a betrayal. Hell, it was a sort of a betrayal. Even though Letho could at a time control his actions no more than one can control an avalanche, a better man would’ve found a way not to lose his mind completely over the death of his beloved. Yet, did he truly regret doing so? No, not really. Because Myrhia was something worth fighting for, even in death. Corone Civil War was just men beating other men over who got to be on the top of a food chain for a while. Regardless of all the causes and justifications, there were always politics behind wars, and politics seldom had much interest in common man. Still, it was nice to hear that some of his good deeds didn’t vanish into oblivion.
“But you’re not here to talk of the past, I reckon. And my guess is you’re not here looking to buy love potions either,” Mardeena said.
“Do you have any?” he asked, offering a smile of his own. It was a tired old thing, but it still did the trick. Chewing the fat was never something Letho liked to do, especially while on the job, but he found that he didn’t dislike this woman as much as he did most of her sorcerous ilk.
“Fresh out, I’m afraid,” she said with a snicker. Letho was pretty certain she was joking, but one never knew with witches.
“I need to contact someone. An old acquaintance. And I have not a clue as to her current whereabouts.”
“I see,” Mardeena said, rising from her leisurely position. She sat at the edge of the sofa and tucked the card deck into a table drawer. “Do you have something that belongs to this person, a possession we might use as a catalyst?”
“No,” Letho said, but then remembered that wasn’t necessarily true. During that one night they were together, they shared something, a possession perhaps more valuable than any other, especially to her kind. “Some of her blood courses through my veins. I am not certain if that helps.”
“Indeed it does. A blood bond is a sacred thing. It should suffice. Give me your hand,” she said. When he did, she took it with both of hers, her pale palms eternally soft as she guided him to the crystal that stood between them. As she laid his hand on the stone, Letho felt nothing but the jagged sharpness of the crystal’s edges, and even when she covered it with her own, there seemed to be no activity from it.
“Send your message,” she said to him, her eyes closed.
“Are you certain it is working?” he asked, eyeing the completely inert stone.
“I am certain,” Mardeena said with perfect calmness, then added in the same tone: “But if you would be more convinced, I could make the scrying stone glow in every color of the rainbow and shake the table and maybe even dance a little.” She ended up with another smirk, knowing he was looking at her even though her eyes were closed.
“That will not be necessary,” Letho said apologetically.
“Send you message.”
He did.
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