Dylan Vorcla hurried down the narrow streets of London’s Werewolf ghetto, hands shoved deep in his pockets and eyes scanning the winding alley with a nervous urgency. Every brunette that passed caught his desperate attention; every sound of heels clacking upon the cobblestones he automatically compared to her gait and all failed to match. His mind kicked into overdrive; very little registered unless it was a possible lead.
The lights and sounds of the ghetto’s largest bar drifted slowly through his consciousness as white noise hums in a sleeping brain, and with a begrudging resilience he wandered into the establishment. The smell of alcohol and raw meat hit him instantly, two staples that were present in abundance in any ‘Wolf ghetto. Elbow’s tucked in as if protecting his empty body cavity, he made his way to the counter and flagged the barkeep.
Pudgy and round, an oddity for a ‘Wolf, the man raised a precarious eyebrow and his nostrils flared in a territorial snarl before he spoke. Vorcla was an outsider, a threat. Living in pack societies such as the ghettos honed a sense of territorial dominance, particularly the males. In the wild, Alpha males killed interloping strays. Such instincts were far from ignored among these men. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey,” Vorcla said absent-mindedly, perusing the bar with keen focus. The room itself was dark and smoky, a rotting hole fit for things that went bump in the night. While he had seen significantly wilder establishments on his hunt, he would not deny this tavern its rightful position as one of the sketchiest places he’d been drawn to. The shadows provided anonymity to those whose goal it was to avoid the Lunar Council at all costs. Something more than a feeling told Vorc he wasn’t the only law breaker here.
Growling softly yet persistently, the barkeep poured a single shot of Irish whiskey and placed it before him. Vorcla shot back the drink as if it were water then slammed the glass down thoughtlessly. “Another.”
“You passing through or something?”
Vorc downed the second shot, coughing a little as the liquor burned his throat. Reaching into his jacket he pulled out folded photograph and slid it across the counter. “Seen her?”
The man looked down at the picture and a wry smile curled in the corners of his lips. “Ex of yours?”
Purposefully Vorcla allowed the shot glass to fall to the ground and shatter. “Have you seen her?”
Amused by the reaction, the barkeep held Vorcla’s impatient stare. After a tantalizingly long moment of silence he called over his shoulder to another man behind the bar. “Hey Jerry, come here a second.”
“What do you want, Paul?” Jerry roared, walking away from the overly busty woman he’d been engaged with. Vorcla looked at the brooding hulk and pegged him for being easily upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds, most of which he was more than certain was muscle. A large streak of healed skin covered Jerry’s left eyebrow, no doubt a battle scar. Vorcla had a feeling that whoever Jerry had brawled with however had incurred significantly greater damage than just a single scar.
“Look familiar?” Paul chuckled, pushing the photograph towards his co-worker, his grin widening with a malicious pleasure.
“Asshole,” Jerry shook his head and turned to head back to his wench.
Vorcla almost jumped over the bar, reaching for Jerry’s shirt sleeve. The man stared at Vorc, eyes wide with distaste.
“I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes’,” Vorc stared between the two men. “When did she come through?”
“About a week ago,” Paul told him with an indifferent shrug. “Wouldn’t have remembered her save she caused a stir.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“How the hell should I know?” Jerry growled, gripping Vorcla’s wrist in an attempt to remove his hand from his arm.
Vorcla’s nostrils flared as with his other hand he gripped the collar of Jerry’s shirt. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Paul snorted, picking up a glass tankard and cleaning it out with a dirty rag. “At least nothing Jerry wanted to happen.”
“What does he mean?” Vorc jerked his head towards Paul while glaring at Jerry.
“Your girlfriend’s a fucking cunt,” Jerry spat in Vorcla’s face.
Anger rushed through Vorc’s body and with an enraged growl he swung at Jerry, catching the brute’s lower jaw with a clenched fist. As the hulk recoiled, he grabbed hold of Vorcla’s arm and dragged him over the countertop, knocking dozens of glasses and several bottles of alcohol to the floor with shattering clashes. Rolling around on shards of glass and in puddles of acrid liquor, the two blindly pummeled one another. Vorc could feel each blow delivered, feel the contact on his skin, but the force of each blow was numbed and muted; what had to be the riotous shouting of the entire bar fell upon him with a pulsating deafness, lost to the sound of blood pumping through his head.
Four pairs of hands grabbed him by the jacket collar and ripped him off of his opponent. Through swollen eyes he saw the barroom dragged out before him as several others slugged him away from the brawl. The room melted into an undefined tableau of blurred color and motion. The jolt of his head against the concrete curb as he landed out upon his ass brought the cacophonous sounds of bar and street back to him.
Rubbing his brow he looked back to see the door to the pub slamming shut and muttered as he pushed himself to his feet. She’d been here, but where had she gone? Judging by the way things had just gone, he wasn’t going to find out anytime soon.
With a disoriented swagger he made his way back to the car, concussion induced nausea threatening to reduce him to a pile of vomit there on the street. He could just make out the shape of the Range Rover a few feet ahead when finally the queasiness overcame him and he sank to his knees beside the curve, shuddering as bile and booze welled up his esophagus. He vomited painfully into a storm drain, pretending not to notice the swirls of blood within the acidic yellow solution.
When done he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, rolling away from the storm drain and inhaling a breath of sweet fresh air that only mingled with the taste within his mouth and threatened to send another wave of nausea over him. His vision began to sharpen, no longer affected by the head trauma incurred in the bar. He stared upwards at the city lights for a moment and when he felt he could move his head again, turned to look back at his car.
When his eyes befell the vehicle, he clutched his stomach, rolled over, and vomited once more.
“Charming,” an all too familiar voice said with a tone that hinted significantly more than just mild amusement.
Dylan coughed, his body fighting a natural urge to Change right there and destroy the speaker. Fighting rage, he was subdued by disorientation and continued to heave. The regurgitated liquid became redder and redder and he felt his claws begin to escape the tips of his fingers unconsciously, the curve of his back attempt to mold without his consent, and the familiar burning within his lung gripped him with a choking shortness of breath.
“You know, leaving your keys in the ignition while parked in a ghetto full of vandals and thieves,” LaGory watched with a sneer of satisfaction, jingling the set of keys playfully in his hand, “really, no so intelligent, Vorcla.”
“What do you want?” Vorc grunted, finally coming into control of his rage, and pushing himself up off the ground. Wearily approaching the vampire he extended his hands and choked, “Keys.”
LaGory dropped them gingerly into his outstretched palm. “You assume that I want something from you. Am I not allowed to call upon my favorite great-grandson?”
“You wouldn’t come round these parts for a mere social call,” Vorc spat blood stained saliva onto the ground and wiped away a trickle of red from his busted lower lip. “‘Wolves round here would sooner kill you then let you pass.”
“You’re worth the risk.”
Vorcla stared at him for a moment, scrutinizing the bat’s face. It’d had been almost eighteen years since their last encounter; eighteen years since Vorcla had stood this close from ripping out the man’s throat and devouring it like a carnivorous beast. He felt no shame at the impulse; the monster deserved a pain-filled death and Vorc would have been all too obliged to give it to him. Still, now, here, with one thing prying away at his mind, Vorcla couldn’t find the passion he knew he had to destroy the pale figure in front of him.
“You want to kill me, Pops?” Vorcla sniffed, wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his wrist. “Here I am. Nothing stopping you. Do me a fucking favor, why don’t you?”
LaGory raised an innocuous eyebrow at the outburst, and then chuckled softly to himself, crossing his arms over his chest. His fangs crept over the peak of his parted lower lip in a horrifying grin of both malice and amusement. Shaking his head he stated, “Killing you now would be the most unfulfilling murder I’ve ever committed. Don’t flatter yourself, Dylan. It took me over a century to kill your father.
That was rewarding.”
LaGory stopped a moment to shake his head as if lost in a fond memory. Looking back up he added, “Murder is a lot like making love to a woman, Vorcla. There’s no fun if there isn’t a little bit of fight.”
“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”
“So I’ve heard,” LaGory shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re father used to say that…among other things. Truly did have the mouth of a sailor, that man. Of course, it wasn’t as if the pot was calling the kettle black or anything. He was just as bad—”
“Look,” Vorcla snapped, cutting him off. “I’m glad you’re having fun taking a trip down Memory Lane, but I’m kind of in a hurry. So, if you wouldn’t mind moving your corpse off my car, I’d be most appreciative.”
LaGory stepped away without protest and Vorcla threw open the door to his car, and slammed it shut upon entry. LaGory leaned upon the door and spoke through the open window as Vorcla crammed the key into the ignition and turned the engine.
“You’re running low on gas.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Gramps.”
With the corners of his mouth upturned LaGory reached through the window and patted Vorcla’s cheek. “You look like shit, boy.”
“Your powers of perception are amazing.”
LaGory pushed off the car and stepped back as Vorcla turned to reverse.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Vorcla snarled before slamming the accelerator. “Whoop-de-
fucking-doo.”
______________________________ ______________________________ ___________________
Kara cracked her neck from side to side, waiting behind an elderly German man in line as he dug in his pocket for exact change. She cast a look to the illuminated display case filled with various sandwiches and pastries. Hunger resonated in her empty stomach and her dry mouth began to salivate. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday…morning.
She hadn’t been hungry. Rather, she hadn’t allowed herself to notice the hunger residing within her. The taste of human flesh was still too fresh, the sweet aroma of blood too pertinent, in her memory. She had to starve herself. It was the only way she knew to make the craving go away. Images of the mauled corpses from Paris quickly flashed through her jaded mind and guilty nausea bubbled inside. Food. Food and coffee would take care of this.
“Ein Wurst,” she told the server, pointing to a sausage within the display case. “Mit Senf.”
“Getränk?”
“Kaffee, bitte.”
Kara threw down a five euro bill and waited for the man to return with a cup of sobriety. She took the Styrofoam container with a nod of thanks and turned around, clumsily clashing into the body behind her. The scalding liquid sloshed over the brim of the cup, burning her hand and splashing upon the stranger’s white shirt and riding jacket.
“Sheissen!” she screamed, looking up in horror. “Es tut mir Leid!”
“It’s fine,” a lighthearted voice responded from the stranger. “Really, not that bad at all.”
“Oh,” Kara looked at him for the first time, her eyes opening wide. “Oh, thank God, you speak English. It’s so much easier to freak out in your own—”
“I was actually hoping the English would help you to calm down,” he smiled down at her with a friendly wink. Kara stared in jittered shock. Reaching for a fistful of napkins he added, “It’s fine. Really.”
Embarrassed, Kara shoved a lock of hair behind her ear. “Can I at least get you something to drink?”
“Tea,” he said, soaking up the liquid on his front. “Tea would be great.”
She turned back to the server who had watched the entire affair with a look of sheer amusement and ordered another coffee and a reparation cup of tea. Carefully, she walked back to the stranger who had now moved to the garbage can with his bundle of soaked napkins. With an uneasy smile she extended the cup to him in peace. “I’m sorry, really.”
“You’ve said,” he winked at her, taking a sip from the cup.
“Right,” Kara nodded, shaking her head. “I did.”
She made her way to a small table in the corner and sat down and, staring deep into the abysmal brown sea inside her coffee cup, and buried her head in her hands. She was so tired her vision was blurry, how bad the effects would be on her driving she couldn’t tell.
“May I sit down?” he asked, sipping coolly on his cup of tea.
“Sure,” she spoke down to the table. She heard the chair slide across the floor and scoot back in but didn’t bother to look up at him.
“So, what are you running from?”
She pulled her head out and squinted hard. When his image finally came back into focus she stuttered. “What?”
“I’ve seen that look in your eyes many times before. What are you running from? Family?”
“I haven’t seen my family in five years,” she told herself more than she told him. The statement made her cringe. She missed her half-sister and her aunt. She missed them more now than she had in the last five.
“A bad relationship then?”
She opened her mouth to protest his intrusion upon her personal life but stopped, choking on her own words before she allowed them to escape.
“Abusive boyfriend?”
She furrowed her brow then shook her head, deciding to turn to her coffee for solace instead.
He grew quiet. He’d struck a nerve, and that was just his objective. He knew all about her personal life, but desired to appear as if he were actually concerned. She looked like a train wreck. He pretended to be the concerned motorist, the kind that was only truly worried about her condition out on the road. He was surprised when she spoke up.
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“It probably was. You shouldn’t blame yourself for this sort of—”
“It wasn’t ‘that sort of’ thing,” she cut him off. “He wasn’t abusive. He— he loved me. I think.”
“You think? Isn’t that something you typically know?”
Kara paused, gnawing on her lower lip. “He wasn’t exactly one with words.”
He could see the memories flashing through her eyes like a film without sound. Gradually the image grew darker and darker until finally she shook her head and popped a piece of sausage into her mouth. She chewed heavily then swallowed.
“Doesn’t matter now. I’m gone.”
“You could go back.”
“I’m not going back,” she said affirmatively. She brought herself to look at him, really look at him for the first time. His skin was pale, hair dark, face chiseled, eyes a stormy grey. He was handsome, horribly handsome, pretty even. She wondered what he was playing at and when she attempted to read his mind she came up with nothing. She was so exhausted that even her supernatural strengths were failing her. The ‘Wolf could go only so far.
“So, where are you going?”
“Weissenberg.” She realized she was staring and instead turned her gaze outside to the darkness. A waning moon hung over the Bavarian tree tops, soaking them in a mystic glow.
“What’s in Weissenberg?” he drew on his tea and raised a curious eyebrow. He was intrigued by the girl, smitten with her even. If there was anything to be said about Dylan Vorcla, it was that he had impeccable taste in women.
“Family…I think.”
“You seem to think a lot.”
“It’s a long story.”
“How long?”
“About two hundred and sixty years long, actually.”
“I’ve got time,” he playfully threw open his arms and reclined in his chair, pushing it back on to its hind legs. “I’m honestly in no great rush to get anywhere and you’re the most conversation I’ve had since I left home.”
“And where is home?”
“Romania.”
“Thought so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he leaned forward, smiling.
“I had a Romanian friend growing up. Your accent is almost identical,” Kara reminisced upon her childhood with a fond smile. She missed how simple life once was. “Anyways, my mother’s ancestors immigrated from Weissenberg to America in the 1700’s. I’m not ready to go home just yet so who knows, perhaps I’ll turn up a distant relative or two.”
“Preferably one with a pulse,” he grinned at her story.
She blushed at the attention he was giving her and shook her head. “Alright, what’s your story, Dracula?”
“Dracula?” he chuckled. “Where did that come from?”
“Only Romanian I know.”
“What about your old friend?”
“You’d rather I call you Bogden?”
He made a face and shook his head. “Well, given the alternative, Dracula will do just fine. Anyways, I have no concrete story, just sort of on the road for now.”
“No family?”
“None living.”
“No girlfriend?”
“None living,” he smirked. Kara’s shoulders bobbed lightly as she laughed to herself.
“I’m sorry, that must sound-”
“No,” Kara stopped him and covered her mouth, still laughing. “Your morbid sense of humor is greatly appreciated.”
“Ah, well, so long as you’re not offended.”
“Not in the least.”
The two smiled at each other for a long moment. The ringing of a cell phone interrupted the silence. He looked down at Kara’s black backpack then up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. Casually, she polished off her coffee. “You’re not going to answer that?”
“Nope,” she stood up with her empty cup and half eaten wurst and tossed them into the garbage can by the door. “Chances are I’m not speaking to whoever is trying to speak to me.”
He shrugged understandingly and took a final sip of tea. She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder before looking at him with an odd smile. “Well, Drac-”
“Nilos.”
“Come again?”
“Nilos LaGory,” he stood and extended his hand. She took it haphazardly, still looking over her shoulder towards her bike.
“Of course,” she turned back to him. “Well, Nilos, it’s been a pleasure scalding you with cheap coffee but I’m—”
“You are?”
“—Leaving. Exactly. I’m leaving. So—uhm—” awkwardly she turned back towards the door and bit her lip. With a nervous laugh she added, “Good bye.”
She left the café and he watched as she knelt beside her bike and hustled out of the café after her.
“Wait,” he called as she lifted her leg over the seat and straddled the Ducati. “Can I go with you to Wiessenburg?”
She stared at him as he unlocked the bike beside her. It was a Triumph Street Triple R, a top of the line model that she had only been able to see pictures of online; a bike made to burn asphalt and significantly newer than her Ducati. She did a mental check to assure that no slobber was trailing out of the corner of her mouth. He caught her stare and sent her a playful and slightly suggestive wink.
She shook her head before putting on her helmet. She ignited the engine and revved it once, allowing the mellow purr of the bike to soothe her haywire hormones.
“Well?” he asked, before cramming on his own helmet. “Can I?”
She lifted her visor and with a teasing smile added, “Sure— if you can keep up.”
She slammed down the polarized lid, and without saying anything else ripped out of the gas station parking lot, beads of moisture from the light drizzle flying off tangent from the wheels of her bike.
) Keep up the good work! Hope my comments help a bit...
will eat you!
Re: Vorcla's Quest Three: Reconciliation (Two)
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