Two
11 May, 1995, Manhattan
“What am I looking at?” Logan asked with disinterest. “Another vampire, another twelve ounces of dust waiting to be.”
“Not just another vampire,” Whistler replied gazing with Logan from a tall hedge at the vamp who held the limp body in his arms. “This one lost his soul.”
Logan slowly turned to him, complete contempt on his face. “They all lost their souls!” he hissed, standing from the damp earth from his stakeout position to leave. “I’ve got better things to do than kill nobody vampires.”
“This ain’t no nobody vampire,” Whistler grabbed Logan by the sleeve and pulled him back to the ground. “This one lost his soul two days ago,” he explained, gazing intently at the dark haired creature of the night. The streetlight picked out only glimpses of the vamp’s face, in all its unnatural glory, as he ducked to feed on the still warm girl in his arms.
“So?” Prompted the self-proclaimed demon-killer. “So he’s fresh, so what? Is this some sort of hard luck, tragedy? Am I supposed to feel sorry for him?”
“He’s special, because he was sired two hundred years ago,” Whistler continued undaunted, peering eagerly through the bushes at the dark figure who now moved into the alley, sensing he was being watched.
This brought Logan’s fuming to a halt. “And he only lost his soul two days ago?” He made a sound of distant disgust. “Some processes are getting rusty, aren’t they? What can you count on any more?”
“This vampire,” Whistler went on, “was cursed with his soul. To remember all the deeds he has done. To regret them.”
“Tough luck,” Logan sighed, “so you’re wanting me to end this fellow’s misery, is that it?”
“No,” Whistler finally turned to the man beside him. “I want you to give him his soul back.”
Kilpatrick’s eyes widened, his jaw tightening. He wanted to kill this stupid- He took a breath, calming himself. It was requiring more and more effort these days. “You want me to what?” He asked, trying to retain some semblance of rationality.
“Y’see, the thing about this curse is that if he ever felt a moment of true happiness, poof, there goes the soul and it’s back to dental surgery.” Whistler returned his gaze to the man skulking in the alleyway, watching them watching him. “Nobody really thought he had a chance of finding any kind of happiness, what with resigning himself to eating rats and all.”
“So what happened?” Logan demanded, “he eat a particularly good rat?”
“Nah,” Whistler shook his head. “A bump on the head to take care of the remorse, then a night with a pretty girl’s apparently all it took.” He went on, as if this were a textbook case. “They had some drinks ‘So what’d you do?’ ‘Sorry, I can’t remember’ ‘Oh, fascinating’ and then kissy-kissy, smoochy-smoochy, he takes her to wherever she’s living and... well, he wakes up soulless, she wakes up eaten.”
“And you want me to give him back his soul?” Kilpatrick shook his head and sighed. “You know, I do also kill things that are evil. In fact, that’s the bold print on my resumé.” He raised a hand to silence the demon beside him before he could speak. “But- Let me guess, Those That Be want him for their coming-out party? He’s the... caterer?”
“Do this,” Whistler stood and turned from the hedge, “and you’ll know where to find your blonde haired charmer.” He began to walk away.
“I thought you didn’t make agreements,” Logan called after him.
“Call it good foresight.” And the demon was gone into the next dark alley he came upon.
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