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One more breath and I spin around and launch myself through the arch, bobby blade in hand.
And nothing.
I take a look around myself.
There’s no one.
Not another living creature.
Of course, that doesn’t necessarily rule out the undead ones. But the inside of the octagonal room descends inwardly like an upside-down, layered cake. A staircase wraps around the whole length of the room, smooth rock down to an octagonal floor of white and black spotted marble. It’s dark in here too, lighter than the dungeon, but still dark.
I lower my bobby blade from my chest to my hips, letting my guard down just enough to take further stock of the place. Squinting toward the floor, I notice there’s a long rectangular object sitting there, but I can’t make it out with just the low light of the torches. Cautiously, I descend the stairs. One at a time.
Unlike my steps in the dungeon, my steps now aren’t even close to soundless. They practically thunder against the rocky staircase. I slow down, mold my foot to the next step with care, and I repeat the process, in relative silence, until I reach the marble floor in the middle of the sunken room.
“Oh my god…” I whisper as I realize what I’m looking at.
The object lays on a table, also made of marble, but this marble is pure onyx black. If it weren’t for the light of the eight corner torches of the room, I’d swear the whole table’s structure is just empty darkness. It isn’t the dark table that holds my attention though. No, that privilege belongs to the thing occupying the table’s top—a giant wooden box, just a hair lighter black than the table it rests on.
It’s the vampire’s casket.
“Jackpot,” I say to myself, sheathing the bobby blade in my pocket and bending to feel around the marble display. In the way that some humans keep a key under their doormat, so too do some vampires keep weapons in their coffins.
It sounds counterintuitive, but if you were a murderer, and the families of those you’d drained were constantly after you, it might be prudent to keep a weapon on you in case you’re unexpectedly attacked by those who seek retribution for what you’ve taken from them.
Of course, those who live their lives laden with enemies never truly sleep alone. They always have one open eye to keep them company, but it’s even worse in the realm of the nightcrawlers.
The only things that hate vampires more than humans areother vampires.
I don’t know who this particular vampire is hiding from, and truth be told, I don’t care, but I’d bet he doesn’t sleep unarmed.
I run my fingers along the underside of the table, looking for a secret compartment of some kind. If I’m going to kill this bastard before I leave (and I most definitelyamgoing to kill him), I’m going to need a stake of some fashion. That, or sunlight and an open window, but that option gets very messy very quickly.
I come up empty in my search of the marble table. I take a few more laps around it, but I still find nothing.
Time to search the coffin itself.
Ugh. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. They always smell so musty. It’s not a pleasant experience to open a vampire’s casket, especially one that’s stillin use.
I shiver at the thought, but I’m not left with many other options if I want to end the son of a bitch. And my bobby blade unfortunately won’t do it.
So, I grip the underside of the top of the casket with my good hand. Then, using my other elbow to help me heave the lid an inch to the left, the thing makes an agonizingly loud sound, but I’m confident I’m alone so I’m not worried.
That confidence lasts all of two milliseconds, because inside the coffin is a person.
“Ah!” I yelp and stumble back, all the while considering closing the lid back on him, but he’s too quick. Though, notably, notvampirelevels of quick. I take my bobby blade firmly in my left hand again and hold it up just as the bastard pushes the lid the rest of the way off him. Whoever this creature is, he isn’t the vampire who captured me.
In fact, he isn’t a vampire at all. In fact, looks like it took him considerable effort to get the lid off the top of the casket and ‘considerable effort’ isn’t something that usually categorizes the undead.
“Intruder!” the man shouts, and I hear the approach of rapid footsteps coming from the hallway. And damn it all, but there’s no other exit. Nowhere to run.
It’ll have to be a bloodbath, then.
The man leaps out of the casket, rather clumsily, blocking the archway I came through.
For a brief instance, I get a really good look at him.
He’s ugly—thin and lanky with brown hair that reaches his shoulders. His face reminds me of rat’s when you really take notice of his features: beady eyes that are too close together, and a long, narrow nose. That’s also crooked. It’s almost as if someone took a painted portrait of a somewhat handsome man, crumpled the canvas beyond repair, and then stretched it out again, attempting to smooth it out, but failing.Thatresulting image is what this man looks like. And by the look of his odd face, strangely aligned body, and prematurely receding hairline, he’s unattractive but I’m fairly sure he’s also human.
