The Witch's Thirst

Lucien dodged the fist and quickened his pace, his ear still tuned to the woman’s voice.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Give me more. I want more.”

By the sound of her voice, Lucien suspected she was already copulating, or was about to, with whatever man she’d picked up on the street. From where he stood, Lucien noticed the woman had her back to him in an alley that grew darker with every step he took.

Even in the darkness, however, Lucien noticed something white just over the woman’s left shoulder. No question, it was a Nosferatu in midtransformation.

“What the f-fuck?” the woman said.

There was no mistaking the balding white head, the large vein that bulged from its forehead. Quite noticeable even in the dark.

Despite her slurred speech, a testament to heavy alcohol consumption, the woman evidently didn’t care for what she witnessed, either. That white bald head, the cauliflower ears, the pointed fangs that should have been front teeth. Her screams, when they came, told Lucien she had suddenly turned stone-cold sober. But her cries for help were drowned out by revelers shouting, laughing, talking up in the Quarter, where the action was at an all-time high.

Lucien remembered what Evee said he should do if he spotted a Nosferatu. Yet he stood mesmerized, watching the Nosferatu’s clawlike hands wrap around the woman’s arm, holding tight. Its head tilted back, fangs showing, ready to strike.

Suddenly snapping out of his stupor, Lucien placed two fingers against his bottom lip and let out a loud, shrill whistle.

So far, the only thing his whistle did was create a diversion for the creature. It turned to Lucien, hissed, then sank its fangs into the woman’s throat. Its eyes rolled back in its head as it drank, sucked, consumed the meal before him. As much as he wanted to do something to save her, Lucien knew he was no match for a Nosferatu. He didn’t have the weapons or the magic to send it to its knees.

In what felt like the blink of an eye, he found Ronan at his side.

“Son of a bitch,” Ronan said, looking at the Nosferatu feasting on the woman.

“No shit,” Lucien said.

Evidently irritated by the sound of Lucien and Ronan’s voice, the Nosferatu abruptly threw the woman it had been feeding on to one side. And a second later, it stood right in front of the Benders, a hand on each of their throats.

“You stupid, little men. What were you whistling for? Your dinner or mine?” the creature said.

Its grip on Lucien’s neck felt like a band of steel. Its fangs were exposed, twisted and yellow, and dripping with blood.

In a flash, Lucien did the only thing he knew to do. He kneed the Nosferatu in the groin. He didn’t know if it would have the same effect as it would’ve had on a human, but he didn’t care. In that moment, he had to do something.

Fortunately, Lucien’s effort threw the creature off balance, which caused it to release Ronan and Lucien, giving them time to unsheathe their scabiors.

Although he had his weapon in hand, Lucien wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. There’d be no pushing the creature back into another dimension, because it belonged in this one.

When the Nosferatu regained its balance, it grabbed for Lucien again. Instinct kicked in, and Lucien used the bottom, steel part of the scabior and quickly skewered the Nosferatu’s right eye. Lightning fast, as if on the same brain frequency, Ronan jumped into the fray and jabbed the steel rod of his scabior into the creature’s left eye.

The figure wailed and screeched, clawing at its own face. Lucien knew the Nosferatu would heal itself soon enough, and its eyes would be as good as new or better than before they’d been destroyed.

Although pus ran from its eye sockets, Lucien and Ronan witnessed the regeneration process firsthand. The Nosferatu’s eyes grew larger. Empty sockets at first; then new orbs appeared, black pupils. As suspected, the creature was regaining its sight.

Not knowing what else to do, Lucien prepared to attack the eyes again, once it got a bead on him. He held his breath, waiting.

Suddenly, the Nosferatu jerked backward as if bashed with a two-by-four from behind. It fell on its side onto the ground, and Lucien saw a long, ornate silver dagger jammed into its back and extending out of its chest, right through the heart.

Shocked, Lucien looked about in the darkness and spotted Pierre, Evee’s head Nosferatu. He stood beside his felled creature, brushed his hands together and shook his head.

“Such a waste,” Pierre said. “He should have followed orders and stayed with the group in the catacombs.”

As Pierre spoke, Lucien heard the voices of people gathering at the intersection of Barracks and Bourbon. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and in a flash, Pierre disappeared into the night, leaving Lucien and Ronan to face the crowd, the dead woman, the dead Nosferatu who, in death, had reverted to human form, and the police, whose sirens Lucien heard in the distance.

Lucien felt like a mouse stuck in a trap. He heard chatter coming from the crowd, each telling a different story, yet carrying the same theme. Lucien and Ronan were going to be fingered as murderers.

How the hell was he supposed to explain this to the police? And where was Evee? She’d specifically said to whistle for her and she’d come. Pierre had shown up instead. And although Lucien was grateful that he’d arrived in time to save them from the Nosferatu, it infuriated him that they’d been left alone to face the consequences of something and the someones they’d been sent here to protect.

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