#14 - An Ending

By Adam Koeth

Uncontrollable shivers wracked her body as she lay naked in the dark corner, desperately hugging herself in an attempt to wring some sort of warmth out of the situation. She remembered hands, cold, clammy hands, skittering across her skin, tangling in her hair, probing her. The vampire servants of Jean-Paul had taken their time, following their master's instructions to the letter, checking Elizabeth's body for anything they might consider a weapon.

A form hovered on the edge of her vision, staring down at her with gleaming red eyes. The form, blurry and grey, suddenly moved. A small pile of clothing landed at Elizabeth's feet, and she soon realized that they were hers. Next came a dagger- her only weapon for the trial to come.

"Get dressed," the vampire hissed, withdrawing into the darkness.

Ice glittered balefully beneath the silvery moon, a moon which hovered like a giant lamp in the night sky. Two figures trudged through the cold surroundings, one significantly larger than the other. Their breath would have come out of their mouths in small puffs, if they actually had to breath. But they didn't; the living dead had no need for oxygen.

"Remind me again, sire, why we're here?" the smaller figure whispered slowly, obviously taking great pains to speak out against the man in front of him. His voice was thickly accented, his native Italian mixed with a smattering of French.

The large figure, a former man who once called southern Spain his home, stopped dead in his tracks. He cocked his head to the side and frowned. Turning, he stared down at the chronicler.

"I've brought you along to chronicle my glory, my greatness, my ultimate triumph over the Daywalker," the Moor hissed, taking a step toward his companion. The smaller vampire took an involuntary step backward, quivering with fear. "Not to ask questions. We are in Iceland because I say we need to be in Iceland. When the proper time comes, you will find out why we are here."

Without another word, the Moor continued on, leaving the other vampire a few paces behind. The Archivist decided that he very much liked being a few yards away from the Moor. In fact, he would very much like to be back in the catacombs beneath Paris, none the wiser that this monster was once again walking the Earth.

Elizabeth struggled through the darkness, her eyes focused on a small pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel. The light flickered, casting strange shapes in the shadows. A torch, or a candle, lit to guide her toward whatever was awaiting her.

She emerged a few moments later in a large chamber, in which Jean-Paul's entire tribe of Dwellers had gathered. They stood quietly, staring at her with pupilless red eyes. Jean-Paul himself stood in the center of the chamber, his withered hands resting on the hilt of Blade's sword. Hanging by a chain around his neck was a small vial of Blade's blood.

"Full circle," Jean-Paul said, his voice resonating throughout the chamber. The sound echoed, bounced around the thick stone walls, before seemingly returning to its point of origin. "I destroyed your ancestor, and you are here to destroy me. The last of the Van Helsings, marching to her death."

"One of us will leave here, vampire," replied Elizabeth, her anger fueling a surge in her energy. She could almost feel the adrenaline welling up inside her, ready to burst out at any moment. The dagger was gripped tightly in one hand; her knuckles whitened as her grip tightened. "Just one."

Jean-Paul chuckled. "There can be only one, eh?" He chuckled again, hefting the sword. His eyes searched the blade, noting every nick, every spot of dirt, every gleam from the metal beneath the grime. It was a beautiful device, a beautiful thing that he would use to restore his humanity and rid himself of the curse forever. "When I'm done with you, I'll release myself from this hellish existence. I'll finally be free."

"You'll destroy New Orleans," Elizabeth growled, her eyes fixed on the vial around Jean-Paul's neck. "You can't just throw away a curse like this without repercussions."

"I don't care," said Jean-Paul, smiling. "I'd destroy the world, if I had to."

Something in Jean-Paul's smile suddenly made her believe him. Still smiling, Jean-Paul ran one of his fingers down the sharp edge of the blade, cutting himself wide open. A small drop of blood leaked out, but the cut soon disappeared. With a heavy sigh, Jean-Paul turned his attention back to Elizabeth. "Shall we do this then?"

Mewling quietly, a small kitten cruised through the small copse of trees, it's silvery coat of fur ruffled by the occasional breeze. It brushed against a tree, then another, enjoying the rough texture of the bark against it's skin.

Suddenly, it stopped. The fur on the kitten's back stood on edge, and it hissed loudly. Something was up ahead, something bad, something that was going to--

A figure crashed down on top of the kitten, pinning it to the ground. Before it could try to make an escape, sharp fangs pierced it's neck. Within a few seconds the kitten was devoid of blood, a small, withered husk lying on the ground.

Frank Drake grinned madly, recoiled in horror, and uttered a long, gutteral, howl of shame.

"It doesn't have to be this way."

Drake shot to his feet, looking for the source of the voice. He knew who the voice belonged to, who it was that had found him tasting the fresh blood of a kitten. He could see nothing but darkness, nothing but shadows, but knew that he was there.

"What do you want, King?" Drake roared.

Hannibal King suddenly materialized behind Drake, transforming from a cold, creeping mist. He regarded his friend's back for a moment, noting the leaves and twigs nestled snugly in Drake's coarse hair. "Your salvation."

Drake jumped, startled, and whirled around to face his former partner. They had fought side by side, with Blade, battling supernatural evil as the Nightstalkers. But all of that was behind them, all of that nothing but memories. Their team had been destroyed, shattered beyond repair. As had his life.

"There is no salvation for us!" Drake shouted, slamming his fist against a nearby tree. The thin tree snapped in half and, with a horrendous crash, fell to the ground. "We're vampires, King, the undead! We live only to drink the blood of the living, for if we don't we die a second, final death! There is no hope! No cure, no SALVATION!"

"Yes there is," said King, taking a tentative step toward his former partner. "There is always hope."

Drake sneered, his red eyes gleaming with sudden hatred. "How naive," he whispered, melting away into the darkness. King let him go, knowing that he could find him again, if he chose to. "How very unlike you, King," came Drake's voice from the inky blackness. "Hope is for the flesh bags that we prey upon. Hope is for the weak. Hope is utterly beyond our grasp."

"You know that's not true," said King, but was met only by the silent night. Drake was gone, winding his way through the night to wherever it was he slept. Dawn would be coming soon. With one last, steely look, King turned back toward Whistler's safehouse.

Steel struck steel, throwing small showers of sparks hissing into the murky water. The vampire and the vampire hunter moved at a speed no normal eye could follow, their arms and swords becoming mere blurs. One would push the other backward with a sudden, ferocious attack, but the other would soon parrr, block, and push the other back.

Elizabeth's muscles began to scream, but she pushed the pain into a dark corner of her mind, locking it up tight. Adrenaline surged through her veins, pumping her full of energy. She let every ounce of that energy surge forth, pushing her abilities, and her body, to their limits and beyond. She kept her eyes locked onto Jean-Paul's, her cool gaze hiding her rage.

For his part, Jean-Paul for the first time felt somewhat nervous. He hadn't expected her to put up much of a fight, especially after the vigorous examination her minions had put her through searching for weapons. He soon came to realize that anger and hatred were potent allies for her in this fight. She only had to remember that he had slaughtered her ancestor, and that thought would lend her the strength to carry on.

"Let us end this foolishness," Jean-Paul hissed, narrowly avoiding a swipe from Elizabeth's sword. He lashed out with his own sword, but the vampire hunter was quick to block. The vial of blood bounced against his pale chest, drawing Elizabeth's eye. "Lay down your weapon, and all of this will come to an end."

Elizabeth glared at Jean-Paul, trying to hide her intentions from him. Suddenly she grinned and, blocking Jean-Paul's sword arm with her free arm, cut through the chain dangling around the vampire's neck. The vial fell to the cobbled stone at their feet and shattered.

"NO!" Jean-Paul roared, his eyes wide with shock. He made a futile swipe at the already-shattered bottle, falling to his knees in despair. Horrified, he ran his pale, skinny fingers through the ichor as if he could scoop it up and put it in another bottle.

Soundlessly, Elizabeth raised her sword for the killing stroke. One swoop, and his head would roll across the stones into the dank water a few short feet away. Her eyes glistened with a joy that she had long forgotten.

As her arms came down, Jean-Paul suddenly rolled to his left, avoiding the blow. Grinning madly, he plunged his own blade deep into Elizabeth's stomach, watching with satisfaction as it burst through the small of her back. She dropped her weapon in mute astonishment, looking up into Jean-Paul's eyes. "Ignorant whelp," the vampire hissed, the mad grin still in place on his frosty lips. He spun the blade within Elizabeth's stomach, enjoying her scream of agony. Her insides would be shredded, cut into tiny bits that no doctor could repair. "Did you really think that I would display Blade's blood for you to see? Did you really think I would allow you such an important advantage?"

Elizabeth collapsed to the ground, Jean-Paul's sword still sticking out of her body. Her mind was going black, her body going numb, but she forced those feelings away. The vampire was laughing now, laughing down at her. Because he had won.

It was over.

Jean-Paul turned away from Elizabeth, turning to address his followers. He didn't see the vampire hunter slowly draw the blade from her gut, hardly suppressing the roar of pain that threatened to spill from her lips. Blood gushed out into her lap, as did bits of her own body. Shakily she stood, blood spilling from her lips. It was over. For both of them.

Jean-Paul turned just as Elizabeth severed his head. His eyes mirrored his sudden shock at being ushered from the immortal coil, his shock at seeing his victory suddenly turn into a horrible defeat. The head came to a stop at the foot of one of the vampiric minions. Soon it collapsed into a small pile of ashes, as did the rest of his undead body.

Darkness swam over Elizabeth as she tumbled to the ground, her blood spreading out from her body like a small lake. Jean-Paul's minions stared down at her, knowing that they were, for the first time, free to do as they pleased. The sight of the red fluid leaking from Elizabeth caught their attention.

As her eyes closed for the last time, Elizabeth saw the vampires huddling around her, some of them licking their chops. She felt a sharp pain in her leg, then another in her arm, then another in her abdomen. Her eyes slid closed, and the pain fell away.

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