#rumrollinsweek22

When the idea came to him, he thought it brilliant. It was at a memorial in one of his favorite pubs; one of the young ones got himself stupidly killed. Brock hadn’t met him before; the kid was probably only working for a few weeks before he had his throat ripped apart by an entire nest he casually walked into. Brock hadn’t known about the memorial until he entered the pub; he’d been just passing through New Orleans, heading back home to NYC for once.

“We’re going nowhere like this,” he scoffed as the bartender poured him his drink.

“We’ve never been going anywhere.”

Brock looked up to his left where an older gentleman in a suit sat. He nodded at Brock politely, and Brock nodded back. He’d never talked to Pierce much, but he met him a few times on a job. Looking at him, one would never guess he was a vampire hunter, and a damn sight better than the young ones. He reminded Brock of a crafty politician or a successful lawyer.

“All we do is kill the babies,” Pierce continued, “The reckless ones we stumble upon. Our biggest claim to fame is killing entire nests or die trying. That doesn’t lead anywhere. Cut off one head, two more will take its place.”

Brock considered it. “The Ancient Ones,” he said thoughtfully.

“Not even the Ancients, but old enough to make new ones. Getting rid of one would make a change for an entire city. Alas.” Pierce sighed, knocked back his glass of whiskey, and slid off his bar stool, getting ready to leave. “They’re too smart and too strong. The hunters who have ever seen one didn’t live to tell the tale.” He nodded at Brock again. “Goodnight.”

Brock nodded back, but he was too lost in his thoughts to watch him leave. He was sure he could outsmart an old vampire if he just put his mind to it. He spent the rest of the night drinking, staring at the stained bar, and devising a plan.

It turned out finding the city’s “daddy” wasn’t all that hard once Brock stopped killing the babies and started asking questions instead. He picked up a thing or two on torturing vampires as well, and he found out making them suffer was about as satisfying as killing them. He’d get his answers that way, and only then he’d kill them. Simple, but time-consuming.

Now, catching the city’s old one was tricky and took even more time and planning. Brock laughed when he first saw where he lived--the pretty modern house with a well-groomed garden hardly screamed dangerous monster. Maybe that was the point. 

The old one went by Jack, and it was another plain facade under which an extraordinary monster hid. The moment Brock saw him, it was clear Jack was something else. Not an Ancient One; those couldn’t keep up their human looks anymore, but he must have lived for hundreds of years. He kept himself differently than anybody Brock has ever met--more genteelly than even Pierce. Even his clothing was old fashioned though clearly new. Brock didn’t doubt Jack could afford his own tailor.

He spent weeks studying him, watching his every move. He knew his schedule. He knew what people he kept close. He knew what victims he liked best. And all this time, Jack had no idea.

It was thrilling. For the first time, Brock felt his work really mattered. He thought about the future generations of vampire hunters and thought himself a pioneer; a father of sorts. The same way Jack was a father to his vampire babies. It helped with the guilt he felt when watching as Jack drank his victims dry or turned them into new vampires. 

That was the hardest part. Not practically living in the bushes near his house, forgoing food and sleep, but watching the innocents die and turn into monsters against their will. Brock thought back to Pierce who clearly knew what needed to be done, but never did it, and realized not everyone had the nerve to just watch and do nothing. But someone had to, so Brock grit his teeth and stayed put, focusing on the lives he was saving instead of the ones he was forsaking.

Catching Jack was a big win. Without his friends by his side and with the right kind of victim playing bait, he walked straight into Brock’s hands. 

Brock didn’t kill him. For the first few weeks he tortured him without asking any questions. He got creative with it, with the sun, silver, and holy water at his disposal. 

“Too bad your kind turns into dust after death,” he told him once. “I’d mount your head on a wall.”

“I’m flattered,” Jack responded calmly despite his lips melting off his face in the full sun.

“Still got sass in you?” Brock laughed, turning him around with his booted foot like a chicken on a spit.

But as the time passed, there came the question of what would come next. He could just kill Jack, and then do the same thing with other elders in other cities. Right away, Brock knew he’d run out of life before completing that time-consuming mission. But maybe there was a way to speed things up a bit.

“So how old are you?” Brock asked casually, dropping in his armchair with an opened bottle of beer. He turned on the tv and started skipping channels. Nothing.

“Not a gentlemanly thing to ask,” Jack responded from the shadowed corner of Brock’s rented room. He was chained with iron chains to a pipe. They let him heal unlike the silvered ones, but made him relatively harmless. Still, Brock kept an aspen stake on him to paralyze him if such a need (or desire) arose.

“Neither of us is a gentleman, so drop the pretense.” Brook took a swig of his beer without looking at him. It didn’t mean he didn’t keep an eye on him; he could see his reflection in the mirror hanging by the front door.

Jack scoffed as if he seriously thought anything about him could be gentlemanly. But he answered, “I was born in 1887.”

“And made?”

“Obviously not yesterday.”

Brock nodded to himself thoughtfully, allowing the sass. A hundred and twenty-five years old was much less than he had been expecting, but it had to count for something.

“I was a count,” Jack said wistfully before Brock thought about his next question.

“So sorry for the treatment, your highness, but now you’re nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster, so I’d say you deserve it.” He watched Jack roll his eyes in the mirror. “Could you see your reflection in 1887?”

“Of course not. I was a newborn.” Jack paused. “But they still made them with silver back then, so no.”

Jack’s reflection looked straight into Brock’s eyes. His irises were green. Brock looked away, reassuring himself Jack couldn’t hypnotize him while chained with iron.

“Do you know other elders? In other cities?”

Jack sighed. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. 

Brock took another gulp of beer. “That was easy.” He took a glance at the mirror, but Jack’s eyes were still boring into him. Maybe he was trying to hypnotize him.

“Even talking to your boring self is better than being boiled alive.”

Brock snorted. “No loyalty between you killer monsters, is there?”

“We’re both killers, Brock. I know exactly how many of my children you turned into dust.” 

Brock felt himself tense. He didn’t like how easily Jack used his name. Like he was a comrade, not the enemy. He put away his half-full bottle and grabbed a silvered collar off a side table.

“Enough healing.”

Jack bowed his head, letting himself be collared. He broke down faster than Brock had expected him; an elder or not, he wasn’t accustomed to torture. Brock was glad; it made everything easier.

“I was heading to New York City. Know anyone there?”

Jack sighed again. “Yes.”

Brock grinned, more to himself than to him. “Good.”

With Jack’s help, he killed elders in four other cities. He learned more fascinating things about vampires while keeping him chained and collared like a puppy; most importantly, that without blood they weakened to eventually fall into a coma. A weak vampire couldn’t keep up his human appearance, and Jack’s true face would haunt Brock in his nightmares the rest of his days. Still, he made sure to only feed him blood when he fell unconscious, and only when he wanted him conscious. He considered himself smart.

But as it turned out, Jack was smarter.

Maybe Brock simply lowered his guard around him. Or maybe he never stood a chance against the crafty vampire. Maybe everyone in his place would make the mistake of falling asleep in the same room as a seemingly unconscious, silver-collared vampire.

When he was jolted awake by sharp fangs burrowing in his neck, it was already too late. Brock pulled Jack’s hair, pushed at his wide chest, grabbed the back of his neck, cold chills shaking him as he realized the collar wasn’t in its place, but it was all for nothing. Jack had his vampiric strength back, and with every gulp of Brock’s blood, he became stronger as Brock became weaker.

With blood leaving him, so did sobriety; his head felt as light as his limbs that now only leaned against the bulk of Jack’s body pressing him into the hard mattress of the rented room’s bed. Jack’s body grew warmer as Brock’s did colder, and he shook beneath the feeding vampire, trying to blink away the dark spots in his vision.

“Jack,” he called, desperately looking for help from the very being that was killing him.

Jack pulled away and turned Brock’s face towards himself; his eyes glowed red, his mouth shone with blood.

“See you soon,” Jack whispered and pressed a kiss to Brock’s dry lips. “My child.”

Brock was too woozy to get properly scared.

*

He can no longer feel any cold, but he’s shaking as the most recent memories come back to him.

He became what he hunted. A monster.

A hungry, blood-thirsty monster.

He doesn’t hear the person approaching him, and he jolts when a cold hand lands on his shoulder.

“Come, my child,” Jack murmurs.