Disclaimer: NO, Lestat, the main character has absolutely nothing to do with you.
1. Lestat the Hunter
The old wooden sign hung lopsidedly over an old wooden door. There were once words on it, but time and weather had reduced them to illegible marks on the half-rotten wood.
“So...this is the place?”
A rat ran past the man who spoke, as he lifted his glasses, trying in vain to see better in the alley. The alley was unusually dark, even for the slums, the entry so dark and inconspicious that any who wasn't looking for it very carefully would most definitely have missed it. Already narrow, the alley was made even more cramped by piles of rubbish. Outside the alley the clock had just struck noon, the marketplace was in full force, and waves of people piled against each other in the bright sunlight, bargaining, stealing, fighting, or simply being pushed along. But here, inside the alley, it might as well have been midnight, dark and silent, the only noise coming from the rats and cockroaches feeding upon the rubbish – and from the unusual visitor.
The man who now stood outside the door looked about thirty years of age. His fine cloak, silk shirt and pants were all black, hid his tall frame in the alley's darkness. His left hand was holding a heavy-looking tome, while his right hand busily adjusted his large, round glasses. The face behind the glasses were handsome and clean-shaven, but weak, the face of a sterotypical scholar. The face was smiling, but had anyone been there to see it, he would have felt nothing but a chill. Behind the glasses, piercing eyes, eyes which did not belong to the weak face, scanned the sign and door as their owner stopped adjusting his glasses and knocked gently on the door.
“The door is not locked. Come in.”
The old wooden door gave a loud creak as the man entered. The room was lit only by two candles placed on a table, a crystal ball in between, and a wrinkled old woman behind it, garbed in what seemed to be a red cloak, and wearing a ruby ring on her left hand which seemed several sizes too large for her hand. The man scanned his surroundings. The room was still dark, like the valley, but it was at least clean, warm and dry. Seemingly satisfied, he proceeded to the table and sat down, facing the woman.
“Five questions.” His voice was soft and warm, yet mildly threatening.
“Fifty rutes. No haggling.”
“First question. I will go to a tavern in the slums tonight. Will there be danger?”
Some mumbling, and the crystal ball glowed. After several seconds, the light began to fade, and the man felt the room grow slightly darker. The woman slowly opened her mouth and spoke,”Yes. Bad things happen when people are not drunk. Do not be drunk.”
“Second question. I will go to the Midsummer Feast next week. Will it rain?”
The candles flickered. The crystal ball glowed again, but the room seemed to become even darker. The answer came,”No, but you have more important things to do.”
The man hesitated slightly before asking his third question. “Third question. I have been alone for a long time. Any chance for me to change that this year?”
The crystal ball glowed like a lonely moon in the darkness, as shadows seemed to creep around the room, the candles, and the man. But the answer came promptly,”No.”
Still grasping his book, the man adjusted his glasses again, before asking his fourth question. “I've heard tales of people being attacked in this region of town. Would I be safe on my way home?”
For the first time the old woman seemed to hesitate, and even shuffled uncomfortably. But eventually the crystal ball glowed, and the answer came,”Yes. No danger would come to you on your way home.”
The two candles were now but embers, two tiny stars in the almost completely dark room. Shadows seemed to creep at every corner, every nook. The man held out his hand in front of him; it was only barely visible in the faint fading light of the candles. The old woman's face was now completely hidden in the darkness. The man breathed deeply, and asked his last question.
“What happened to the other people who came here for fortune-telling?”
The embers went out. Hearing the sound of a chair falling, the man, too, stood up, and took a step backward. He felt a rush of wind past the tip of his nose, and, suddenly, out of nowhere, a clawed hand, wearing a large ruby ring, grabbed the front of his cloak.
But the man was quicker, and his right hand struck out, hitting his attacker in the chest.
The darkness vanished, and light came into the room from a window that the man had not seen when he entered. The light from the candles, too, came back, and the man saw his attacker fall down to the ground, choking and writhing in pain.
The man looked at the blood dripping from his hand in disgust, and wiped his hand on his attacker's cloak, flipping it over in the process.
It wore the old woman's red cloak, but the wrinkled human face was gone, replaced by a black demonic face, with narrow, crimson red eyes, long ears, and fangs that would have suited a tiger well. As the demon struggled, its body began to change as well, into a small and thin frame, seemingly devoid of harm except for the horrible face and sharp claws. The fortune-teller's garb was by now dripping with blood from the wound inflicted on the demon's chest. It's eyes, still blazing with rage several seconds ago, now stared at the man in disbelief.
“What...are...you...?”
The man ignored it, and bowed down to inspect his prize. “A shadow imp. A creature that lives in darkness and sustained by darkness.” He straightened up. “Such a pity. You did not need to feed on humans to survive, and a low-level creature like you would have attracted no attention had you merely stayed put and fed only on darkness and the occasional rat.” He bent down again. “I see that greed is not a vice that is restricted to humans, eh?”
The imp could no longer speak, but only gargled incomprehensibly, as blood bubbled in its mouth. The man smiled and reached into his pocket, fishing out an amulet with a fang and claw inscribed on it.
The narrow eyes widened, as the creature finally realized just what it had tried to feed on. “The Sign of Vlad...”
“The name's Lestat Thanatos. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The imp let out a final death rattle, and expired.
“May your afterlife be dark and full of food...amen.” Said the man as he left the lifeless body, and began to ransack the room. “Hmm...humans skulls. Yuck.”
“Oh, and I almost forgot.” Clink, and five gold coins dropped onto the corpse.
“Your fee.”
* * *
Night has fallen, and the man – or shall we call him Lestat? - was sitting at the bar table of a noisy and crowded tavern, enjoying his drink – which was devoid of alcohol – and examining the crystal ball that he had retrieved from the imp.
A hand patted him on the shoulder. Lestat did not look up, and the hand's owner sat down beside him. “One mead, no alcohol.” Ignoring the bartender's cold gaze, the newcomer turned to Lestat. “Well, well, how did it turn out? That's the toy I asked you to buy, no?”
Lestat turned his head very slightly. The newcomer, in front of whom now sat a cup of dirty water, smiled toothily at him. He wore rough leather from head to toe, with a leather cap, leather coat, leather trousers and leather boots(and in the middle of summer, reflected Lestat), and had a mousy moustache to go with his equally mousy face. Somehow, Lestat was reminded of the imp he killed earlier in the day, and smiled back, a malicious glint in his eyes.
“It's done. The Dusk Stalker is dead, and your crystal ball is here.”
The man took the crystal ball from Lestat's hands, and turned it over carefully. Then he hid the crystal ball under the table, took out a piece of paper, and placed it close to the sphere. The piece of paper glowed slightly, and the man looked satisfied.
“This seems to be in order. His Holiness would be most pleased.” The man smirked, as he put the crystal ball into his cloak.
Or tried to, at any rate. Half a second later, the sphere was back in Lestat's hands.
“Huh?” The man halted, taken aback, then glared at Lestat.
“Payment first. Do you not remember the rules?”
The man sighed and took a sip from his cup. “How much?”
Lestat put his elbows on the bar table and thought for a while. Finally, he answered, “Eight thousand rutes should do it.”
Ignoring the choked gasp from beside him, and the coughing that followed, Lestat took another sip from his cup. “It's a fair price. Take it or leave it.”
The mousy man narrowed his eyes and clenched his fist, but took out a bunch of thousand-rute notes nevertheless. Lestat took the notes, counted them, and put them in his book.
“Well, here's your toy. I'll take my leave now, if you'd excuse me.”
* * *
Linear Mode
