Path of the Vampire forum

Breaking and entering offered a certain buzz, an adrenaline rush as guards were dodged, and loot was plundered. However, this wasn’t the kind of high that one got from jumping out of a plane or snowboarding down an insanely steep mountainside. In those circumstances, one could whoop and cheer, and a rapidly beating heart was par for the course. When sneaking around a secure building, stealth and silence were required. Coolness beyond the normal limits of endurance was essential. Burglary gave Grant Stonehouse an internal boost of endorphins, one that had to be kept hidden from sight, like a caged beast. Excitement was bad news, and a rush of blood, albeit cold, vampiric blood, could totally blow the cover of even the most able-bodied thief.

A much greater surge of energy, an overload on one’s senses, could be obtained through killing. Stealing the life force of another soul, even an undead soul, could make even the calmest of customers shiver with ecstasy. It was verging on orgasmic, that spine-tingling shudder as a knife plunged deep into the heart of the victim at close range, or the feeling of utter elation as a rifle’s bullet struck its intended target squarely between the eyes.

The problem Stonehouse faced was that killing wasn’t really his business. Business was his business. The budding entrepreneur stole goods from local factories and warehouses, then peddled the booty through his so-called legitimate enterprises. Generally speaking, he was pretty adept at both aspects of his venture. The thrill of pulling in a huge haul of state of the art electrical items, like a fisherman landing the catch of his life, filled Stonehouse with unbridled joy. Palming off the bounty like an urban pirate, afforded the thief a double whammy of delight. However, sometimes he just wanted… more.

In the early months of his stay in Harper Rock, Stonehouse had picked up basic fighting skills from a blonde assassin named Corentine. Strangely enough, the femme fatale had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth, leaving the pupil to ponder the fate of his teacher. Had she bitten off more than she could chew, and had the huntress become the hunted? Was she now lying in a shallow grave, paying for her past misdemeanours? In many ways, the whereabouts of the trainer was irrelevant. She had served her purpose, bestowing combat techniques upon the dedicated student.

Stonehouse’s ability with both firearms and melee weapons was at best competent, but with his newly learned methods, he had managed to get himself out of a few tricky scrapes with some of the less welcoming local inhabitants. The hunters who lurked in the dark recesses of the sewer tunnels, and the magical shape-shifters who dwelled in the caverns towards the edge of the city had proven to be worthy foes. Without knowledge of weaponry, the businessman would have surely been long since dead by now, if one could actually die a second time.

Brains over brawn: that was the usual hierarchy of Stonehouse’s established thoughts when dealing with conflict. He was a thinker, not a fighter. Charm and intelligence had dragged him out of many seemingly unwinnable battles before the fighting had even begun, but there were occasions when dexterity and raw strength had to take the lead. That’s when the real adrenaline seemed to kick in like a stubborn mule. Stonehouse knew that he shouldn’t enjoy that intense blast of hormones, but somehow it felt so good, almost addictive. He could empathize with those around him who had chosen the path of the killer to walk along in their immortal lives. Then again, an existence blending in with the shadows had, for the most part, kept the wise Englishman out of harm’s reach.

As Stonehouse stood motionless, the back of his winter jacket pressed firmly against the cold stone wall of a sewer tunnel, he wondered who was in greater danger: the feisty young woman, dressed in a sleeveless grey hoodie that clearly exposed her damaged arm; or the male with exquisite tattoos adorning his torso who was currently lying prone on the damp floor of the underground labyrinth.

Stonehouse had inadvertently stumbled across a duel, the cause of which was currently unknown. The male attacker was more than likely a human hunter, a paladin, hell-bent on destroying vampires. This, along with the hazy limb dangling out of the woman’s clothing like a limp stick of celery, lead the ever-astute Stonehouse to draw an instant conclusion that she was a vampire. It was a classic match up, mortal versus immortal, gladiators in an underworld arena fighting for supremacy.

Stonehouse’s initial reaction was to rush in, headlong, and assist the damsel in distress like some kind of knight in shining armour. Kill the bad guy and leave the attractive woman with a debt to pay. Sadly, there was nothing chivalrous about his reasoning; it would be a simple business arrangement. He’d scratch her back, so to speak, and she would need to scratch his at a later date. Allies were hard to come by on the shady streets of Harper Rock, but someone indebted to the control freak would be most beneficial.

Something prevented Stonehouse from exiting his fortress of shadows. It was a mixture of caution, and a curiosity to see who would prevail in the ensuing struggle. For now, he would watch, mentally placing a bet to see who would be triumphant. If the situation worsened for the young woman, who he estimated to be around twenty years old, Stonehouse would intervene. After all, he wasn’t completely heartless. Not completely.

Stonehouse loved an action movie. Those fantastic cinematic scenes involving high-speed car chases and explosions would always leave the thrill-seeker on the edge of his seat. He particularly enjoyed the fight sequences, especially if the bad guy was a huge beefcake of a man, with steroid boosted muscles popping out of every inch of skin, and the hero was basically an average kind of bloke, perhaps with a tendency to visit the gym once in a while rather than every day.

The tall Englishman had an athletic physique, but was definitely built for speed and dexterity rather than brute strength and power. He always cheered for the actor with whom he could relate, as opposed to the one who looked like he’d jumped straight out of the pages of a fantasy comic book. Not everyone could look like Rocky or Conan.

The way that the action scenes were choreographed so precisely, pitting technique against raw power, was amazing. Each move was so carefully prepared, like a dance routine in a music video, with each actor dancing an elaborate tango. The results were usually spectacular, often mind-blowing, bringing realism and fantasy into one awesome show-stopping piece. However, there was always than nagging doubt at the back of Stonehouse’s mind; that annoying nugget of knowledge that prevented the realist from being completely consumed in a movie. At the end of the day, it wasn’t real, and nobody actually got hurt. As Stonehouse watched the fight between the human paladin and the injured vampire unfold before his keen eyes, he couldn’t help but get excited. This scene was real. There was no acting, no pretending. It was as genuine and as brutal as it comes; a true fight to the death.

The female was feisty, trading blows with the physically stronger looking male paladin, and certainly giving as good as she got. Stonehouse admired the threats that she hurled at her opponent; a warning that he should flee before the situation got worse. Needless to say, the human ignored her words, and continued in his crazed mission to eliminate the vampire.

Although Stonehouse had become engrossed in the proceedings, he knew that this display of aggression was not a performance, elaborately staged for his benefit. He had bought no ticket for the movie, and there would be no usher selling blood-flavoured ice cream during an interval. If it were available on a pay-per-view TV channel, then perhaps a whole heap of cash could have been made from the event, but alas, that wasn’t the case. As the battle appeared to be reaching its climax, with the maimed female vampire seemingly on top and about to deliver the fatal blow, Stonehouse almost felt a faint twinge of disappointment that the curtain was about to fall on the show. Maybe there’d be a sequel, Sewer Fight 2: The Paladin’s Revenge?

Throughout the assault, the female vampire had appeared pasty, probably depleted of that vital elixir which was blood. There was no doubt in Stonehouse’s mind that her previous encounters, including the one that had left her with a severed limb, had taken their toll upon her youthful body. Over time, perhaps a few days, maybe a week if she was unlucky, the immortal shell would repair itself, but the need for blood was clearly more immediate. A broad grin spread across the chiselled face of Stonehouse as he watched the victorious vampire sink her razor-sharp fangs into the juicy flesh of her victim. He imagined how good the rich crimson juice would taste as it gushed into her hungry mouth.

That was his signal to move. Stonehouse hadn’t needed to intervene, as the woman had dealt more than adequately with her foe, and he was fairly sure that the wounded vampire wouldn’t be in the mood for another skirmish. Stepping out from the comfort of the shadows, Stonehouse moved into plain sight. He began to gently applaud the woman, his face conveying a smile of approval.

“That was an impressive performance,” he said, wandering slowly closer towards the woman, but no so close that it would cause alarm. “What do you do for your next trick? Are you available for hire at birthday parties?”

Stonehouse paused, taking stock of the situation. He didn’t want to appear as though he was mocking the woman’s achievements, and inadvertently cause any offence.

“Seriously,” he continued, “you showed some real fighting spirit just now, especially with your… injury.”

A casual finger pointed in the general direction of the longhaired woman. The young vampire may well have been triumphant in her duel with the human, but that didn’t detract from the fact she was wounded, and more than likely quite weak.

“Are you in need of any assistance?” asked Stonehouse. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you, but you do look like you may need a hand… no pun intended.”

Blood, human blood, was a fascinating substance. The fact that it transported oxygen around the body of its mortal host, or had the ability to clot off wounds, was now entirely irrelevant to the normally scientifically minded Stonehouse. Nowadays, he only cared about one property of the crimson liquid, one amazing function of the magical elixir of immortal life: the fact that it kept him “alive”.

Blood was everything. Vampires required the ruby juice to sustain their magical existence, to replenish their unholy energy. There was a need for an almost permanent blood transfusion to top up the tank, to replace lost fuel used up during the daily, or should that be nightly, activities carried out by the undead community of Harper Rock. Some vampires drank their medicine reluctantly, while others guzzled it down with an obvious delight.

Stonehouse loved blood. He adored the way that the warm, velvety cream coated his tongue as it oozed into his greedy mouth from the fresh wounds of his latest victim. Often, he would swirl it around his mouth like a fine wine, before allowing the red nectar to trickle, sensually, down his parched throat. Closing his eyes to enhance the experience, Stonehouse would regularly imagine that he was in a French vineyard, sampling the latest harvest. It was divine.

Granted, some people’s blood was far tastier than others. One person’s scarlet syrup may have the flavour of ripe blackberries and vanilla, with the sumptuous texture of molten Belgian chocolate, while other’s tasted of lukewarm camel piss that had been left to fester in the Saharan midday sun. By the look of the reaction on the young female vampire’s face, she’d just swigged back a mouthful of the latter. Her lips had contorted, as if she’d been licking bitter lemon from a stinging nettle, and it was clear that her guts were thoroughly unimpressed by the recent delivery.

“You’ve dribbled a bit down your chin,” said Stonehouse, indicating on his own face with a fingertip where the bloody blemish could be found. “I have a handkerchief if you need it.”

There was a small part of Stonehouse that was tempted to wander straight up to the longhaired woman and wipe the stain from her face, like a doting mother fussing with her child after a sloppy feed. There was always one embarrassing mother at the school gates who would clear snot from their child’s nose right in front of their little friends, leading to a daylong session of teasing. Instead, Stonehouse was happy to simply offer his services, like a gentleman, rather than steam into the situation like a busybody.

“And I have no idea why some hunters leave such a bad taste in one’s mouth,” he continued, withdrawing his white silken handkerchief, and holding it out in front of him like some kind miniature flag of surrender. “I’m sure it’s some kind of magical mumbo-jumbo. You’ll just have to be more careful about who you choose to nibble on, I’m afraid. Did your mother not warn you about what not to do on a first date?”

Stonehouse cast a mischievous grin towards the woman as she stood, hands in pockets, facing him. In all fairness, he didn’t exactly know why some humans, particularly the hunters who lurked in the shadows waiting to pounce on unsuspecting vampires, had some kind of poisonous blood. It was effectively some sort of defence mechanism, an attempt to dissuade the bloodsuckers from sinking their teeth into their precious flesh. The problem was determining who possessed such a vindictive ability, working out who was the rotten egg in the basket. The general rule of thumb was to avoid the hunters, the paladins. Stick to the innocents who drifted along the dimly lit streets or parks. Of course, there was always the option of visiting a shady back-alley vendor who would gladly supply you with blood in a bag, but where was the fun or enjoyment in that? Why sit alone with a $5 bottle of Lambrusco when you could be at a swanky wine bar sipping Champagne from a freshly popped bottle?

Attentive eyes scanned over the young woman, taking in every intricate feature of her face, her physique, and her overall posture. She’d displayed a reasonable amount of talent to dispatch her foe, but it was clear in Stonehouse’s perceptive mind that the youthful vampire was weak. Her injuries were plain to see, particularly the girl’s wounded arm, and the skirmish would have surely taken a chunk of energy out of her stamina reserves. Add to that the consumption of the contaminated blood, and it was a reasonable assumption that the feisty female needed help.

“I’ll hazard a guess that you aren’t feeling too great right now,” added Stonehouse, “and let’s be honest, if that hunter comes back, especially if he brings a mate or two with him, can you be sure that you’ll come out on top again?”

Stonehouse paused, allowing his words to soak into the woman’s ears. Maybe she could withstand another attack, maybe he wasn’t giving her the credit that she deserved, but maybe she’d end up as fish food for the inhabitants of the local river. Could she really take that risk?

“My offer for assistance still stands,” said Stonehouse, as he carefully edged his way closer to the woman.

Some people believe in the idea of karma. It is a spiritual principle of cause and effect, where the intent and actions of an individual (the cause) will ultimately influence the future of that individual (the effect). In other words, there are consequences to each and every activity undertaken. Good intentions and noble deeds will contribute to positive karma, with rich rewards and future happiness, while bad intentions and devious deeds will lead to negative karma, and a life of suffering.

In essence, the concept is very simple: be nice, and nice things will happen, or be nasty, and nasty things will happen; what comes around, goes around. Karma translates into social interactions very easily, and could be likened to that old biblical quote about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. If you decided to help someone, then it was more likely that they’d help you out in return somewhere down the line. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. But if you knocked them down, and made their life a misery, then they were probably going to kick your arse if given even half an opportunity; an eye for an eye, so to speak.

Grant Stonehouse was far more entrenched in scientific facts and formulae than mystical mumbo-jumbo. His Westernized, mathematical brain loosely equated karma to Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Formally stated, the law says that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The similarities to the Eastern notion were apparent to everyone. If you do something, there is always going to be a consequence.

Strangely enough, one of the common themes of karma theory is the concept of reincarnation or the cycle of rebirths. Perhaps it would be appropriate for vampires to pay more attention to karma, following on from their own supernatural rebirths? Could the cosmic forces be using their powers to reward worthy humans with the gift of eternal life, once they had been transformed into an immortal creature of the night? Alternatively, maybe an endless existence as a monstrous bloodsucker was some kind of karmic punishment for previous earthly endeavours?

Whatever belief or scientific law made up the actual truth, Stonehouse was certain that there would always be repercussions for whatever transpired in the shady world of Harper Rock. Those pesky zombies that tormented him during his first few weeks in the ruins of the Quarantine Zone had been subsequently brushed aside like meaningless pests as Stonehouse’s strength grew. The lowlife gangsters who frequented the Gangland Slums, pedalling their drugs and guns, had been dealt a hefty blow of vigilante justice. Even the aggressive hunters, who stalked the damp sewers beneath the city taking shots at Stonehouse whenever an opportunity arose, often while he slept, were now no match for his combat skills. The worm had turned; the fast-learning vampire was dishing out his own form of karma, Stonehouse’s First Law of Revenge.

The young woman standing close to the tall Englishman had clearly taken a beating in the recent past, judging by her wounds, yet here she was, handing out a good old fashioning thrashing to one of the human hunters who had been patrolling the underground network. Maybe that was karma in action right in front of his dark, sparking eyes? The question was, just how long would it be until he returned to administer a slice of painful retribution?

The same thought was apparently circling through the mind of the woman, as she reluctantly accepted Stonehouse’s offer of assistance. She may not have required his handkerchief to mop the traces of blood from her face, but potentially standing up to another assault alone was something that the injured woman didn’t seem to fancy.

Stonehouse followed in the footsteps of the girl as she turned and headed down one of the many dimly lit sewer tunnels. The gentle tip-tap of her feet barely made a sound. He deliberately kept a reasonable distance away from her, so that he didn’t appear to be inhibiting her personal space. After all, he didn’t know exactly who she was, or how dangerous she could be. Even a wounded tiger could maul you with its razor sharp claws if you weren’t cautious enough.

“So, do you have a name?” asked Stonehouse. “And what happened to you? Why are you so badly injured?”

The flow of questions was suddenly interrupted before it had barely begun by the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the eerie labyrinth of the underground network, and the woman’s subsequent wish to avoid any further conflict.

“I agree,” said Stonehouse, responding to his counterpart’s statement. “Preventing any further conflict would be a great idea, especially because I imagine your old friend would have gone to get reinforcements.”

Although Stonehouse was becoming increasingly more confident with his own abilities, he would never actively engage in a fight without first knowing his enemy. Being forewarned was being forearmed when it came to the art of combat. A straight face to face battle with whoever was heading their way would be a last resort, particularly when one of the troopers was already badly wounded.

One of the first survival tricks that Stonehouse had learned was the ability to hide in the shadows, somehow blending into the surroundings like a chameleon. He could remain camouflaged for minutes, hours even, shrouded from the prying eyes of casual passers-by or vindictive hunters alike. It was a talent that had served him well over the last few months, one that had certainly saved him from imminent danger on many occasions.

“I have an idea,” announced Stonehouse, “one that will hopefully prevent any need for another skirmish. We can use the shadows as cover, use the darkness as our friend, and wait until the hunting party has passed us by.”

Stonehouse had no idea whether or not he would be able to teach the girl his trick. Perhaps she was already skilled at evasion techniques? However, it was certainly worth a try. Needless to say, at the back of the businessman’s scheming mind, he was already thinking about how the woman would be able to repay him for his time and help. He may have had some noble intentions by offering his assistance, but there was definitely also the opportunity to get something back. Every action, of course, should have an equal reaction, so the pair would hopefully be trading favours.

Life can be full of surprises. Unexpected emails or letters from long-lost friends that can bring a smile to even the most gloomy of faces, or an amazing gift bought for a birthday that almost chokes the recipient with pure emotion, can stop a person dead in their tracks. It’s as if a freight train full of shock and awe has smashed into the receiver’s face. Everyone loves a “nice” surprise, that moment when our breath is taken away and we cannot believe our own bewildered eyes. But there are also “nasty” surprises. The late-night phone call that delivers saddening news of the death of an uncle, or the backstabbing behaviour of a so-called friend who sleeps with your ex-girlfriend to wind you up, can totally floor you.

Grant Stonehouse had received enough surprises lately to last a hundred Christmas mornings rolled into one. Being amazed had almost become his default setting around Harper Rock. Just when he thought that his all-consuming eyes had seen it all, something else jumped out at him like a crazy jack-in-the-box. Unbelievable creatures that had previously only been found in horror movies or scary fairy-tales, lurked around darkened corners, while powers that should have been confined to the pages of a superhero comic were abundant in the shadowy underworld of the city.

Should it really have come as much of a surprise that the young woman, apparently named Xylia, had managed to fend off a burly hunter, despite the fact that her appearance was more suited to a life on a catwalk modelling designer label clothes than bloodthirsty fighting in a gladiatorial arena or boxing ring? She was youthful, beautiful, the kind of woman that you’d gladly take home to meet your parents, yet here she was, soaked in blood and dirt, kicking *** like a mixed martial arts champion. Never judge a book by its cover, right?

As Stonehouse blended his tall, athletic frame into the surroundings, like a chameleon camouflaging itself against its environment, he crossed his fingers in hope. Would his new acquaintance be able to follow suit and do the same? The Englishman was neither disappointed, nor surprised, as the woman vanished before his shining eyes. A wry grin swept across Stonehouse’s chiselled face, accompanied by a gentle shake of his head. No, nothing really surprised him anymore in this bizarre new world.

Evolution is a wonderful thing, and to Stonehouse - a scientist by nature - vampires were simply the next rung up on the evolutionary ladder, taking humankind to the next, inevitable level. Snakes had developed deadly venom to paralyse their prey, bats had echolocation, sonar, to navigate their flight in the dark, and apes had developed opposable thumbs - a massive leap forward. Similarly, vampires had acquired powers to assist in their existence, to propel them one step higher than their human counterparts. The key difference with vampires was they could adapt much quicker, and evolve at a rapid pace. New skills took only months, weeks, or even days to master, rather than generations.

Stonehouse used to find that he worked better under pressure, when a deadline was looming like an evil fog, ready to consume those who failed the task. The fear of rejection, of failure, of being labelled second best would always spur him on to succeed. It appeared that Xylia had the same thought process. She had to learn quickly, incredibly quickly, or risk being swamped by the onrushing hunters. And learn she did!

There was, of course, one rather large problem with the woman’s rapid learning skills. Once the trio of angry humans had whizzed passed the pair of hidden vampires, oblivious to that fact that their intended victims were watching their every step, and Stonehouse was momentarily left in a smug haze because his plan had succeeded, the next stage would normally be to immerge from the cloak of shadows. However, invisibility doesn’t simply vanish, it needs to be dispelled, folded up into a neat pile and placed back in its drawer to be used again at a later date.

The slender woman had made a dash towards a nearby exit, at least Stonehouse assumed that the faint waft of cool air brushing passed his face like the breath of an angel was his new friend. He couldn’t actually see her.

“Bugger me!” exclaimed Stonehouse, hoping that he hadn’t spurted the words out too loudly, attracting the fading attention of the hunters. “Where is she going?”

Someone with a pretty face would always grab the attention of Stonehouse, but somebody with a pretty face and magical abilities was well worth pursuing. Spinning on his heels, the impressed vampire sprinted towards the nearby sewer exit, hoping that his instincts were leading him in the right direction.

“Hey, Xylia!” he whispered as loudly as possible without breaking into an actual yell. “Hold up a minute, I’m on my way!”