Chapter Text
Colin wished to be the shadow cast upon the red brick wall down the alley; light contorting his silhouette, larger than life, fingers long and talon-like. An honest to god monster.
The man before him didn't seem to care and was scared out of his mind anyhow. He'd been stalking the fellow for a couple weeks, ticking off things on his imaginary list that would mandate an alleyway slaughter. Colin had gotten to about tenth in the list when he'd made up his mind and followed him after work.
Edinburgh was cold around this time of year, the man's breath cascading upwards in panicked puffs, ‘Stop it, stop it please god no, don't take another step,’
The man pleaded, but the blood pounding in Colin's ears turned everything else into white noise. He found himself salivating over the man's face, struck dumb with fear, tears welling in his eyes — playing the innocent.
Colin had known about the family he'd driven onto the streets, the account he'd opened to launder money for personal spending, the way he'd ignored his daughter. The lass will be better off without him, Colin's mind told itself, at least the cut of inheritance will set her up. The man deserved to die by his hand.
In a single bound Colin hit the adjacent wall and propelled forward, his claws — hands are a loose term for a thing that does nothing but rip — ripping through the tauty skin of his neck and tearing the larynx in two. Blood blew across his side and he sighed in mild annoyance as the man reached for his absent neck and collapsed, hands pawing at the gaping wound, his eyes small beads fallen to the ground, catching light, fading, fading, falling, then gone.
Colin peered around the alley and, seeing no witnesses, dropped to his knees and pulled the man closer, his feathered lip brushing against the gored hole and his tongue flicking out to test the flavour. It came back wet and tinged faintly sweet by the coffee the man had picked up an hour before the present. The slight vanilla drew the already hungry sucker in closer and he lapped at the blood seeping down the man's neck and collar, teeth gliding across skin until finally lodging, digging.
The body let out a few final spasms, bony legs thumping against the cobbled ground in feeble attempts to fight an already over battle, one which it stood no chance in. Colin held him down; a part of him wanted to laugh but his mouth was too full.
Once done, the man's flesh drained to a pallid colour, Colin released. The body toppled to the ground, definitively dead, and he leaned back, on his knees, basking in the exultation of a job well done.
Then he looked back down, and the alley was stained red by his mess. The moon spilled upon the body in a way that Colin thought looked almost pretty as he scavenged the pockets. A phone — the screen broken from the fall. It lit up feebly, a text from a contact just labeled “Redhead” asking him when he was going to come over as Colin chuckled to himself and tossed the device over his shoulder.
Gum, house keys — Ooooh…, Colin thought, retrieving a wallet. It was mainly bank cards, but the flap at the back held a solid £500. To pay off the prossie, he thought. Another flap held a picture of his daughter — round freckled cheeks and brown eyes beneath a mountain of dark brown hair. The sentiment was nice, but a single wallet photo does not a good dad make. Maybe two or three photos, he laughed internally, maybe then your daughter would have loved you.
But he sighed and stood up. Peering around, he perked up seeing a large waste bin already piled high with bags of rubbish. He took a few bags out, hurling them over his shoulder, until there was adequate space for a broken dead man among the trash. He grabbed the man by the back of the coat-jacket and hauled him in, throwing the baggies back over and dusting his hands off afterwards. Not too bad for an old sod like me, he thought, laughing. There was still the matter of the bloody street beneath him, but stuff like that sorted itself with the rain.
He skipped back onto the path, grinning stupidly in an act of faux idiocy. He had learned people tend to avoid him outright when they realise he is homeless, even more so if they thought he was drunk, which greatly abetted his nightly excursion.
The streets of Edinburgh were loud and wet this time of year — after the excitement of the new year goes down, and the world realises this isn't the end. Colin had seen about seventy new years since his transformation back in 55’, and all he'd learned was that sucking a drunkard’s blood usually led to quite the hangover.
His feet were bare, although wrapped in bandages which acted less as a cover and more as a brace for the ambitious stunts he would sometimes pull. Threading along, he checked the bar fronts for dead-drunk businessmen, scanning the crowds. There weren’t many out and those that did were primarily college students, falling below his age bracket. There were a few senior students which caught his eye, but they stunk hard of liquor and Colin wasn’t in the mood for a hangover the next night. Outside of a — bar? restaurant? — called Hectors, one of them, a cock-eyed construction worker still dawning his hi-vis hours after work, noticed him staring and yelled over “Hey — hey, prick! Cut your starin’!’
The worker’s eyes widened as he moved and the amber street light lit up the still damp crimson stain on his tattered hoodie, sight trailing up to glimpse the yellowed sclera of the alleycat’s arched eyes. He cackled as the man stumbled back, hooking his gloved hand around a street light and swinging himself forth, ignoring the calls after him as he turned the street corner. It was rare enough that people even bothered to look at his filth, but even when they did the vast majority freeze up and forget to act before he’s off and away again.
Turning the corner, he caught sight of an old payphone connected to the side of an empty takeaway. His eyes lit up, his feet skipping and grazing the wet street as he drew near to it, hand dipping into his pocket for the dead man’s wallet. Score! As he pulled three 20p coins from the bloodsoaked leather, thumbing them into the slot and dragging the turning wheel once, twice, thrice, again, again, — yada yada, now!
The receiver rung in his ear twice, the bottom pressed to his feathered lip, grazing his beard, waiting for the pick-up. On with it Val! Come on, come on, come-
‘Colie-boy!’
Her voice came through, scratchy as always. It was like he could already feel the fireplace blazing and the tea settling on the table in front of her, soaking in the evening air before planning out her next charity ball as a thinly veiled excuse for wearing her old gowns out again. ‘Valerie!’ He laughed down the line, ‘How could ya tell it was me?’
‘You’re the only numpty in Edinburgh who’d try call a baroness from a payphone — had to be you dear.’
His back fell against the brick wall on the takeaway, his spare hand wrapping around the curled wire. He adored the air of normalcy to their conversations as she was one of the few people who would talk to him like he was a normal person. Well, a normal vampire. ‘Now Val you ain’t no baroness, don’t go tellin’ that round. No shame in just being a charitable ol' lady.’
‘It’s fun dear! A title is everything! Don’t you like the people goin’ round talkin after you, callin’ you the… the—god, what was it?’
He sighed, pester building at her insistence, looking up at the star-riddled sky. ‘It’s “The Robin Hood Butcher”, dear.’ The name had stuck in the 80s, back when The Herald was still The Glasgow Herald. A double page spread about his — accidental — evisceration of a Duke had made national news. He’d made sure to scout out his victims more after that.
‘That’s it! Now that's a title! I like baroness just as much — has a ring to it, don't you think?’
‘Sure hen, but being the only coloured aristocrat this side of the pond garners some load of attention at your galas and whatnot, right? Not great cover for a bloodsucker.’
She groaned down the line, ‘Now here you go with your bloodsucking nonsense — some of us like to feed you know, not every vampire fancies a fast slash-n-suck down an alley like you Colie.’
‘And here you go makin’ me sound like the other kind of tramp Val,’ but he laughs as he looks at the sky, ‘now, are you in town tonight? I don’t fancy trailing guts all down the Royal Mile and from the looks I’m gettin’ I could do with a wash.’
‘Sure I’m in, doors unlocked like usual — though drop that hoodie in the foyer; Doris can wash it up if you really insist on wearing it again.’
‘Which I do, thanks. Cheers the noo Val!’
‘See you too — and Colin?’
He snapped back to attention. It was odd of her to call him by his real name and not some babying byname. ‘Yeah Val?’
‘A talk later. About the Council.’
He sighed, away from the phone but loud enough that she probably picked up on it. He was not in the mood to talk about the centuries old geezers trying to stop him from munching down on tories and landlords. ‘Sure, sure. Only for you Val.’
‘Good. ta-ta Colie.’
He put the receiver back down as he turned to the street. The incoming conversation wasn’t exactly encouraging him to be hasty; but again, a promise is a promise. Kin look out for each other, even when the topics give them headaches. One little talk about the Council won’t ruin his appetite.
Her townhouse was only a bit away, the walk from Stockbridge to Old Town being about ten minutes from what he remembered. Can cut that in half, he thought, darting across the street in a bolt and disappearing down another alleyway as the landlord's body garnered flies in his putrid grave.
Dropping his ratty hoodie in the arms of a smiling maid with a thanks, Colin strode up the ornate banistered stairs, the cold wind from all the open windows brushing the bare, pale skin of his arms. He stopped at a mirror half-way up, staring at his reflection.
Unlike the myth, vampires did in fact appear in mirrors; it was just that what was reflected was the real them, the age their anchored bodies should, by all natural law, be. Standing at a hundred and twenty-five — turning a hundred and twenty-six that year — Colin saw a withered old man in the glass, the fat on his bones lumpy and tumorous, the lines in his face even deeper and cutting, his beard hanging long and curly. His physical body was only fifty-five — a spring chicken — chubby with the pounds of onset middle age, hairy and bearded due to his lack of personal grooming, smiling still. Many would have thrown themselves into a pyre if they were stuck for eternity with a body like his, but he took his looks in stride. Years on the street and around other druggies had taught him that that his body even working after all this time was a miracle in and of itself.
He turned away and up the stairs, his eye catching the ancient man in the mirror following suit, smiling too.
Pushing the door of her study open, Valerie looked up from her fine china and grinned at him, ‘There you are Colie.’ Her lips tugging at the corners, pristine fangs out. A vampire courtesy — a showing of shared blood.
‘Sorry for callin’ Val — know you have business and such.’ He pulled the short-backed arm chair back, sitting beside her in the light of the fire. The heat against his shoulders felt good — his blood tending to run cold. He pulled his beanie off and sat back with a sigh, the similarly ratty fabric held between his legs. He noted the figures standing in the corner — dressmaking mannequins, huddled up in view of the window to creep out any eager peeper.
Valerie brought her mug to her mouth, handle clutched in her white gloves, stark against her dark skin. He knew she had some sort of complex surrounding her hands, needing them to be covered and having an affinity for long leather gloves that reached her elbows. Upon meeting her in the 70s he assumed it was some sort of trophy-collecting habit from her kills — turning the skinned arms of her victims into fashion that she’d wear out in public, something along those morbid lines. But once he noticed the designer labels that occasionally poked out the ends he set that theory to rest. Maybe she’s just a nutcase, he thought. Wouldn’t be weird for a hundred and seventy-something.
She set the cup down and sighed. ‘Do you wanna skip formalities?’
He sighed louder, ‘Val, if this about the Council wantin’ me to stop, I’d sooner send them King Charles’ head on a platter-’
‘-Which is a thing they are well aware of, I assure you. Colin, please. You may not even think of it but I’ve been defending your backside from these people for the last forty-something years, I’m just asking you to ease up on it. For my sake.’
‘Valerie,’ he sterned — if she was playing the full-name game he can too — ‘I’m sorry if me stringing up richies gave ya the wrong impression, but I’m ain’t gonna listen to a group of self-elected elders tellin’ me not to kill a landlord ‘cause they have a stake on his tenants. It ain’t right.’
‘I… I know your politics are strong Colie, I just… they take it out on me, you know? Reminds me of being mortal again.’
He softened. He knew her life before the bite had been pretty bad — his had been too, but being a coloured housemaid in Victorian England far outdid any of his struggles in the war or living on the street. They’d never fought about it, never argued who had it worse; why should two immortal beings fight for whose immortal existence was lesser?
Her eyes were pleading, her four pupils — a by-product of her becoming, her apertures duplicating in their swimming whiteness, a supernatural polycoria — dark and desperate. He was sorry… but he wasn’t going to budge.
‘I’m sorry Val, really I am — but my work is my lifeblood, and you yourself advocated for your spot on the Council so… I won’t fold.’
She sighed, less disappointed than he thought she would be. ‘Well,’ she took up her cup again, Colin smelling the blood from a few feet away, ‘at least I can tell them I tried without lying this time. Now, how was your hunt tonight?’
‘Now there’s a good question! Well…’ He launched into his story-time voice, well practiced from nights around fires under railway bridges and to random passerbyes on the train. He was a weaver, going over his initial spotting of the landlord as he kicked a single mother and her two children onto the street, to the calls he would ignore from his daughter and ex-wife, to his shifty activity at the bank that Colin bribed an intern for. He savoured the last part — the chase.
‘-swept him off his balcony and onto the street below — must have cracked his back or somethin’ cause he weren’t really good at running after that. I was a bit dozy myself, so I let him go a bit while I caught my breath. He was screamin’, yelpin’ — don’t know why, all the windows were dark so it weren’t like they were gonna run out and help the guy practically flaying them every month. There was an alley up ahead that led onto Deanhough-Raeburn, so I had to act quick.’
Val sipped and sighed, ‘I don’t get why you let these fools away so often, Colie — I mean, one stumble on your part and he could have gotten into a populated street in central Edinburgh. It’s a bit of a risk…’
‘...which is why I got him quick after that. He, honest to god, stopped to look back — like I was gonna give up a pig that was already on the way out! He begged which, while it felt good, could have alerted the polis or some drunkard shambling home. Skipping formalities — I tore his throat out. The caffeine he’d been drinking gave me a real rush, could have run the Royal Mile up and down about three times after if I tried.’
The woman across from him chuckled, ‘You feel like that all the time dear. Wish the stuff did the same for me; all it does is put me to bed.’
He leaned back on the chair, his arm hanging over the side, ‘That’s cause you’re a Lush Val — drinkin’ a sleepers blood is like pourin’ water in your whiskey. You ought to try a proper hunt again someday, get the blood flowing.’
‘For your information I actually can’t go on spontaneous hunts anymore — new Council orders.’
‘New Council—what?’ This brought him forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, ‘They just, what, banned you all together?’
Valerie nodded, eyes closing momentarily as she hummed — yep — ‘As of this month all “hunt subjects” need to be properly written up and approved by the Prince who is very uncompromising. There is a rather lengthy pre-approved list of people so it’s not like the populous is starving.’
Every word out of her mouth made his mind boil, made his throat dry, made him want to kill again so soon after he had already fed. Why hadn’t he heard of this complete structural change? ‘V-Val, surely this is sending some alarm bell—no, alarm sirens your way, right? This is ridiculous! Has Rainier gone and lost her damn mind?’
She furrowed her brow, concern crossing her eyes, ‘Colin, Rainier hasn’t been Prince since October.’
He was breathless at this. Rainier — an old English beldame supposedly born from an off-shoot of the House of Windsor — had been head of the UK Council for nearly a hundred years. She had been the alleycat’s main pushback, bickering second-handedly for years through Valerie’s word of mouth. He had gotten used to Rainier's always negative, doubtlessly dull outlook on vampiristic life. And now she was gone, replaced somehow.
His fingers shifted, talons gripping the red upholstery. His face was hot and he wondered if he was going a similar hue, ‘H-how… how? Why wasn’t I told? Why didn’t you tell me Val?!’
She looked scared — either of his onset panic or of telling him something that was doubtlessly going to put him over the edge. ‘He… he told us he wanted the integration to be seamless, that throwing some celebration like Councils usually do to induct new Princes would be a waste of time and resources. I-I‘m always for a party, you know this Colie, but when I told him I could manage it, even fund it, he just…’ she paused, words forming carefully on her tongue, jaw fluttering, ‘...looked at me.’
The way she said it sounded like it was an attack, like he’d messed with her mind in some way. It wasn’t out of the question — while most gained simple vampirism upon transformation, it wasn’t uncommon that the gift granted secondary abilities. Colin had found himself lucky, his stamina increased to the point of occasional hyper episodes. The idea of a vampire with the ability to somehow “hush” the mind of one of its kin was… well it quite frankly terrified him.
‘Valerie,’ he looked gravely at her, reaching out to meet her hand, ‘what's the fucker’s name?’