Bell Tower Blues: Part 1

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Part one of the Bell Tower Blues seris. Aedan and Alastar, two Irish vampire hunters who just took on a simple job, protect an old lady from getting her blood sucked out by a vampire. But the two Irishmen soon discover that their new enemy is no normal vampire. He is something far more powerful. The creature's imeanse power comes from a secret that is far more deadly than the creature itself.

Submitted: July 20, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 20, 2007



Night is a curious time. When the sun falls, robbing one side of the earth with light and warmth, the moon jumps up to take it's place, almost like an understudy jumping on the chance to fill in for a lead role. The moon is an understudy, although not quite as good at providing light and completely unable to add warmth to the play, she still performs exceptionally. And her audience, oh what an audience! What adoring fans! The moon has quite a fan base, despite her lacking performance. When her silvery, cratered form jumps into the sky, everyone from drunkards, to businessmen, to lovely couples go looking for a little magic in the moonlight. However, these . . . these insignificant humans are not the audience that the moon performs for, oh no.

The moon performs for those who slither beneath her lights. She performs for the ghosts, the goblins, and the bogeymen that go bump in the night. The monsters who posses, devour, and terrorize in order to fulfill their own lust for blood, souls, or whatever slates their thirst. The moon's performance gives these creatures hope, confidence, and the will to do what they do. But most importantly, the moon and her performance gives them the one thing they all lust for.


So tonight, just like every night, the moon performs high in the sky. She performs and she watches the audience below her. Tonight, let us see what she sees.

* * *

Ghostly fog rolls it's evanescent tendrils through the cobblestone streets of the small British city. Gothic architecture flanks the streets on either side, throwing shadows across the sidewalks, but not the street itself. No one inhabits the streets tonight, no one except a single man. A single, normal looking man, who runs in mortal fear of his life down the cobblestone street. His leather shoes slapping against the stone. He disturbs the fog as he flees some enemy, disturbing the moon's stage.

An object whistles through the air, the man lurches forward. He trips over his over feet and stumbles to the cobblestone street. The shaft of a crossbow bolt protrudes from the base of his back. The man howls in pain, the bolt not killing him, only disabling his legs. He grips the cobblestones of the street trying to pull his paralyzed body forward.

His attackers seem to form from the fog itself. They are not particularly big or intimidating men. They stand at about five feet, eleven inches tall. One has black hair with a well trimmed goatee. The other has has short, messy blond hair and has a smooth face, not a single hair on it. Both wear over coats, vests, and tall boots. The black haired one carries a revolver, the other carries the crossbow that shot the bolt at the man dragging his self along the street. The two approach their wounded prey. The blond one bends down to examine him.

The wounded man claws at his attackers face. The man jumps back the avoid the blow.

“Woah! Easy there, laddie. I can't have ye scratching up my handsome face. Isn't that right, Alastar.” the blond one says in an authentic Irish accent.

“Aye. It'd be a bit of a shame, Aedan. What say you and I finish this wee little vampire off so we can get on to the job we're getting paid fer.” Alastar responds, his Irish accent just as thick. The vampire bares his elongated canines, hissing like a cat. Alastar smooths down his black hair and puts his revolver away.

“Hold his head up so I can chop it off.” he says. He opens the left side of his coat, revealing a three foot long, wide bladed sword. The blade slides out of it's scabbard easily, hardly making a sound. Aedan reaches for the vampire's disheveled hair. The creature snarls and bite at Aedan's hand.

“Hey! Enough of that!” he shouts. He fire another cross bow bolt into the vampire's spine, paralyzing him completely. Blue smoke rises from the wound and the previous one. He grabs a wad of the creature's hair and pulls him up to his knees.

“A'right, hold 'em steady now.” Alastar says. He slides the blade across the back of the vampire's neck.

“What's that fer?” Aedan asks.

“Gives me something to aim at.” Alastar retorts. He brings the blade back and swings elegantly. The gleaming weapon bites through the creature's neck easily. The body separates from the head and drops to the ground.

“Ye didn't even come close to yer mark!” Aedan says still holding the head. The monster's mouth still hangs open in a fierce snarl.

“Ah, so my aim ain't what it to be.” Alastar wipes the blood off on the vampire's clothes and sheathes the sword.

“Oh, I'm sure ye'll be saying that when ye have shoot at a vampire lunging fer yer throat.”

“Just hold the head steady.” Alastar pulls a small bomb from his coat. He strikes a match and lites the long fuse. He sticks the bomb in the creature's open jaw. Aedan tosses the head aside a shields his eyes. The bomb doesn't really explode, instead it spews flame from it's nozzle, setting the severed head aflame.

Severing a vampire's head does kill a vampire, but it has always been common practice among vampire hunters to burn the head and the body, just in case.

Aedan and Alastar repeat the process with the body, cutting a long, deep slit in the chest and putting the bomb inside. As they bodies are quickly reduced to ash (vampire bodies burn quicker than human bodies), Aedan folds the arms of his crossbow and returns it to his pack.

“How come we run into more vampires that we don't get payed to kill?” he says.

“Cause they're more vampires than money.” Alastar responds. “Get yer gear, we're late.” He starts off down the street. Aedan throws his pack over his shoulder and jogs after his hunting partner.

* * *

The two Irish men arrive at their next area of employment in fifteen minutes. Alastar grips the iron door knocker, cast in the shape of a dragon head. He pounds the knocker against the massive door three times. They only wait for a few seconds before an well dressed elderly man answers.

“Hello, sirs. Are you the vampire hunters.” he says.

“Aye, that's us. My name be Aedan, an' this is Alastar.” Aedan said jabbing a finger at his fellow hunter.

“Nice to meet you, sirs. Mrs. Alison is waiting for you upstairs.” the man says motioning for them to enter. The two Irishmen stepped into the front hall.

“I have a question before we get to work.” Alastar says.

“What's that, sir.” the old man says stopping to face them.

“Ain't Mrs. Alison a devout Catholic? Why didn't she go to the church fer here vampire problems?”

“She did, sir. But . . .”

“But what?” Aedan says.

“They refused to help for some reason.”

“More of that 'not enough evidence of vampires' stuff.”

“Not exactly. You see-” the old man is interrupted by two men carrying a coffin through the front hall. As they pass the Irishmen, the lead man trips over his own feet and drops the coffin. The lid pops off and both the Irishmen recoil in shock. The body inside has it's head split down the middle. It looks more like it was torn apart like a chunk of bread.

“The church didn't believe that a vampire was likely to do . . . this.” the elderly man says.

“My ass.” Aedan says. The two men carrying the coffin nervously scoop the corpse back in.

To be continued in Part 2 . . .

© Copyright 2020 Aleksander Azrael. All rights reserved.

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