HE SMELLS IT from several blocks away: hot pennies, the steam rising from freshly gouged skin. A vampire’s senses surrounding blood are porous, its presence felt as much seen; a violent synesthesia, beheld through brick walls with a vibrancy that desaturates all other surroundings. The source is a muffled silhouette, a shadow figure pitted with a red thrum. A heartbeat, life’s defiant beacon that he follows over rooftops and through dim alleyways.
Jonathan’s standing over the street corner before the presence of another vampire becomes apparent. His kind are harder to pick out from a distance, especially after the introduction of forensic technology. Cleaning up after themselves became a necessity rather than a suggestion. Now the police are just as likely to track you down as any seasoned hunter. This one didn’t leave a trail, but he certainly left a mess. A living, breathing mess to be exact, but he isn’t sure for how much longer.
The young women slumps against a brick wall, one hand pressing weakly against the wound in his shoulder, small spurts of blood escaping between her fingers as she continues to lose motor control. The vampire in question sits across from her half-folded in a similar position, watching her bleed out rather than trying to attend to the wounds in any helpful or harmful manner.
He steps off the ledge of the building, air resistance increasing with the pavement’s rapid approach. There’s no scientific explanation for his silent landing, there are certain aspects of his species the doctor’s stopped trying to elucidate, though not for lack of trying.
The other vampire makes no move to attack him when he imposes on his territory, instead staring dumbly at Jonathan through bleeding eyes. Epileptic shivers wrack his body, lines of cruor leading from every orifice. If Jonathan’s arrival at all registers with him, he seems utterly unable to do or say anything on it. The doctor can only hope the condition persists long enough for him to help this woman.
He crouches at her side, one hand pressing over her own with more pressure than her numbing fingers can muster.
This close, the scent of her impending death is almost overwhelming. Veins crowd his eyes, a low resonance nestling, unbidden, in his throat; the dark lyric of his hunger he attempts to quash with no small amount of difficulty. Yet, the artery is punctured and she’ll likely die before more help can arrive, it would be so easy to—
No. Jonathan tears his eyes away from her throat, his free hand wrenching his phone out of his pocket and punching in the number for emergency services. He has no way to explain the other man’s presence, and moving her away from the alley will sever her already slim chances of survival. Still, he has to try.
❝ Hello, I need to report an attack. A young woman’s been badly injured— her shoulder, in her brachial artery. ❞ The call handler doesn’t bother asking him how he knows. ❝ In Brixton— an alleyway— No I don’t know the bloody street name, can’t you track my phone? ❞ That’s something people can do now, isn’t it? ❝ I don’t know. ❞ He can smell liquor, hear music playing from around the block. ❝ Near a bar, a club, playing— ❞ He listens. ❝ Reggae music? ❞ He hopes to god he got that right. ❝ Yes. Yes, that sounds right. Please hurry. ❞
@shelazarus
