Aven Kelly

Foreword by Author

This is really the full, honest truth behind the novel. It was 2007 when I first started writing it, and I was in a deep, dark, very lonely place. I was being abused emotionally, psychologically and sometimes even physically by someone I thought loved me, and writing was one of the few refuges I had. Well, writing, and spending exorbitant amounts of money on clothes and other general shit I didn't need.

I can't really trace back specifically where I first came up with the idea behind Formaldehyde or the characters. I do vaguely remember thinking of the character Annabelle whilst still in high school (some 13-15 years ago now), but the others were much more recent additions. In reality, Jack was one of the most recent, as strange as that sounds, as in my opinion, he appears the most developed and rounded out and comes across the most 'worked on', but that comes with a story in and of itself. For you see, Jack is in fact, a part of me.

In all the writing and the re-writing and the changing stories and the development of the entire idea in general, I came to realise one evening while I was in the shower that Jack is my shadow. This was a massive breakthrough for me because, as a pagan, shadow work is quite fundamental to becoming a more developed and well-rounded person. Shadows hold the darkest parts of ourselves, the hatred we bear, the insecurities we face and the like. Now, don't take this to read that every time Jack offs someone that it's actually me wishing I'd commit murder. That's not the idea at all. Instead, Jack houses for me some of the most bare, sketchy and scary parts of myself. The parts that I hide from daily life, and the parts that I used to show only to myself.

In recent years, and thanks muchly to my mentor, Angela Street, I've developed the one thing I've always desired in both writing and life in general – confidence. Confidence to have my writing picked through and analysed and read and re-read and criticised. This is huge for me because I used to get shy as all hell when someone would read one of my stories or poems or other work. I decided for a lark for myself (as well as some serious creative stimulation) to sign up for her scriptwriting course, which made me nervous as hell in the first instance. I'd never done something like that before – something that took my writing and bared it so freshly to people who could choose to like or dislike it as they wanted. It was almost liberating to face this fear, and it's part of what has given me the confidence to actually power through and finish Formaldehyde as the novel, and self-publish it.

In the beginning I was really hesitant to share a lot of the story and the idea mainly for fear that people would dismiss it, but instead I found a lot of people who were, refreshingly, supportive. My peers were fabulous and so helpful. I'd thank them all individually if I could, but I just can't as there were so many, but if you're reading this, you know who you are – shout out to Salisbury Arts Centre Scriptwriters and Salisbury Playhouse Emerging Writers and She Writes.

I'm not here to say “Oh, I hope you like it!”. You might not. It's definitely not to everyone's taste and I know that. I also know you can't cater to everyone one hundred percent of the time or you'd end up with one confusing basket of kittens. To be honest, I wrote Formaldehyde for me, and have decided to share it with the world as a story of hope. The characters and the story helped me out of a lot of situations and provided an escape when I felt like I couldn't go on. They gave me a safe place to get out my anger and my fears and my burdens, and for that I thank the characters – particularly Jack.

Other people I'd like to thank are my husband Peter, for his continuous support in listening to me yammer on about characters he hasn't read about yet and for providing his opinion on ideas I come up with. I'd also like to thank my sister, Allie for her continued support as well. I'd like to thank all of my friends and family who have shown support by coming to see bits of Formaldehyde performed at the Salisbury Playhouse in England, and for sharing my social media page and helping get my name and face out there.

Finally I'd like to thank the person who made this story possible in the first place. I won't name names here, but they would know it's them if they read this. This story grew like a phoenix from the ashes and became something I am proud of and happy with, so thank you for being the person you were so I could become the person I am.

Prologue

Dover, England. 1783

Oliver climbed onto the boat and held his hand out for James to help him up the gangway. He was slightly behind him, shorter, thinner and generally smaller. James was a handsome young man, with almost white blond hair and silver eyes and a thick Irish accent. He took Oliver's outstretched hand and hopped over the side of the ship. They threw their bags into the hold with the crews belongings and took a place at the edge of the railing, overlooking the dark water lapping at the wooden pier. Smoke and the smell of the market hung in the air. It obscured the sun somewhat, a pleasant occurrence, considering the heat of the day.

They were bound for France for a bit of a boys weekend away. No reason really, they just wanted to. They had always done what they wanted, when they wanted, how they wanted. Both were seventeen, about to turn eighteen and had met seven years previously when James was sent to England from Ireland for school. They lived in an all boys' dormitory at their Christian boarding academy in Somerset and become best friends, including both getting on the headmaster's list of “naughty” children that needed to be disciplined. That was mostly due to James.

James was wild. He got into all sorts of trouble at school, but never explained where or how he had become so wild and reckless. He acted like he didn't care about dying, doing dangerous stunts, landing him in the infirmary more than a dozen times with broken limbs and black eyes. He had a penchant for fighting, and often orchestrated huge fights in the school with betting circles and made a small profit, which now, was getting them to France with neither the help, nor knowledge, of their parents. Running the betting rings afforded James the majority of control over which people fought, and sometimes even he himself got involved in the physical side of the business. It wasn't uncommon to see him in the halls of the school sporting a fat lip or black eye, some kind of bruising on his face or cuts on his arms. He wore these battle wounds proudly, like he had something to prove. It did however, give him a sense of purpose. As for the school though, James and Oliver had been expelled the previous week and had made their way through the small villages of the West Country to Dover and the ships to the European mainland, leaving behind friends and family and bound for adventure elsewhere.

They waited two days once in Dover for the tide to be favourable for the ship to be able to leave the harbour. The crossing was choppy and took a long time. They slept on the floor of the boat, being stepped over by men of higher standing and sailors alike. James had hardly any clothes with him, and Oliver often shared his clothes freely with James, though they were often baggy on him. They had almost become like brothers, taking care of and looking out for one another. Especially when they got into trouble. Like now.

Trouble wasn't far when they reached the shores of France. It seemed to follow James like the plague. Prostitutes greeted men off the ship in the harbour and James was thrilled. A whole new world of debauchery was to be had, as France already appeared to have easier rules than England or Ireland. He winked at Oliver and wrapped his arm around one woman in a silky, red, form fitting dress and she led him away to whatever back alley she planned to turn her tricks in.

Oliver didn't see him again until later that evening when they went to have dinner at a local alehouse. James came strutting down a cobbled alleyway, grinning like the devil, finding Oliver sitting on an empty wooden barrel near the harbour, waiting. A small, unkempt looking bar was nearby. Oliver slid off the barrel and pointed to it. They made their way over to it over the damp, slippery cobblestone, and went inside.

It was smoky and smelled of old, stale ale. There were hardly any candles lit along the bar, but many of the tables had large oil lamps flaming away. Shadows of patrons danced in the darkness, flickering on the walls in some sort of silent ballet.

“What do you want to eat?” James asked, not particularly looking at Oliver. He was taking in the ambience – if you could call it that – of the pub, his eyes alive with excitement.

“Anything. I'm starving.” Oliver replied, leaning casually on the bar. They were silent for a minute before he couldn't help asking. “So what'd you do with that prostitute?”

James smiled his wild, devious grin and laughed his devilish laugh.

Oliver laughed and clapped James on the back. “That a boy.”

The service was taking longer than expected so James pounded his hand a couple times on the bar.

“Barkeep! Some service would be useful!”

An older man with a moustache came slowly over and in a thick French accent asked them what they wanted. They ordered meat pies with two tankards of ale each. James was pulling his money from his pocket and joking with Oliver when a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair came up beside James and said in a thick German accent

“I'll get that for you, young man.”

They looked at him. He was dressed incredibly well, with a long, dark coat and cream coloured shirt and dark trousers and high boots. He caught them taking him in.

“I'm in horses.” he said, before they could ask. He pre-empted their curiosity and cut it off before it could get in the way.

“What kind of horses?” James asked, narrowing his eyes, and taking in the stranger again.

“Racing horses.” The man replied too quickly.

“Well... thanks for dinner.” James replied. He wasn't about to turn down a free meal. The ale arrived and he raised a tankard to his mouth and took three huge gulps, while staring the man in the face, almost challenging him. Oliver began to feel uneasy.

“Do come and sit with me,” the man said, stepping back and gesturing to a large, round table in the corner, lit only by an oil lamp. He began to walk toward it, leaving the two friends at the bar.

“James, I don't think that's a good idea.” Oliver said.

“Whether it is or not, I think we owe him some company, at least.” James said, not looking at Oliver, still following the stranger who had no real business buying dinner for two young men. He flicked his head back and turned to Oliver then. “What's the worst that could happen?”

They agreed, after some discussion to join the man in the corner. He kept the drinks flowing and the food coming and Oliver and James ate like ravenous animals and drank like drunkards. In the course of the evening the man asked the two friends where they were staying, and it came to pass that they hadn't organised anything. They assumed some rooming house in the town would do. The man insisted it wouldn't and that the boys should go home with him to his small farm a few miles outside town, in the country. Under normal circumstances Oliver would have been hesitant, but the ale in his belly made him slightly more game for things that were normally bordering on dangerous.

They left under cover of darkness in a horse-drawn carriage. It rocked back and forth through the town, over the cobblestone, past whorehouses and more alehouses, people drunk and obnoxious in the street. People falling over, whores turning tricks in the windows upstairs. James was in his element and his eyes sparkled excitedly. The stranger smiled at the two boys – James, taking it all in, and Oliver, who was significantly more reserved. Oliver looked at the stranger's face in the shadows that flickered across it with each passing lit window. He was a creepy looking, but handsome man. Tall, thin, a gaunt face. He wasn't very old – or couldn't be. Maybe in his late thirties. With each passing click-clack of the horse hooves on the cobbles, Oliver grew more and more uneasy. He could almost count them in his head as he played through all the possible outcomes of what was going to come to pass. Out of every possible outcome he thought of, never, at all, could he have been imagined or dreamed the one that did come to be.

It was a magical place, with large rolling fields, a long, low roofed stable and a huge cobblestone courtyard with an old fountain at the centre. The main house, a two storey stone structure with a terra-cotta coloured roof and blue shuttered windows was to the right. There was a staircase against the wall that led to the upper dining hall, also made of stone with a black metal railing and ivy that twisted up alongside. The sun was captured in orange and yellow hues against the building in the evenings, and it looked like a painting Oliver had seen some time ago. Lavender and roses grew in clay pots around the courtyard, and the man employed several servants who wore crisp linen dresses and worked through the day, doing laundry, feeding chickens, gardening and cleaning.

At night the place was quieter than in the day, and they dined on fine cheese, delicious wine and game hens in the dining hall. Torches and candles were plentiful, and they warmed the air nicely in the cool breeze of the night. The man, who they had come to know as Lucius Vex, had a small appetite, and didn't frequently eat much. He instead, seemed to love watching the boys eat and enjoy the fine red wine in the glowing light surrounding them. He smiled, swilled his wine, and afforded them all the luxury of his home.

In the end, Lucius asked the boys to stay, and to work for him, and they did so for several months, well into their eighteenth years. Oliver proved himself a worthy horseman, and James was skilled in gardening and pottery. He still treated them as guests, and fed them handsomely each evening and plied them with wine and opium. They talked of all manner of things well into each night and Oliver finally began to relax into his new routine of shoeing horses and brushing them down at the end of the day before dinner.

They had finished their days work one quiet, cooler evening and had sat down with Lucius for dinner when the discussion surrounding reincarnation and death came up. Lucius had views that were considered fantastical in a time when Christianity was prevalent, and with James and Oliver both having been raised in Christian households and gone to a Christian boarding academy, they had rather finite views about what came after death.

“Death isn't something to be feared.” Lucius said, sipping his red wine. “It should be embraced. We're all going to die sometime. We may as well have some say in when that will be.”

It was a romantic idea – choosing when to die. In some regards, it was almost a compulsion for James. He asked questions, and sometimes left Oliver in the stables with the horses while he spoke to Lucius in private. They would sometimes be gone only awhile, and other times, hours. Oliver was fine with it at first, but as time went on, he became increasingly annoyed with being continually left to feed, brush or shoe the horses himself.

One such evening, much past seven o'clock, James again abandoned Oliver on the premise that he had to take the wine to the hall of the house they had taken up residence in alongside Lucius. Oliver had been becoming increasingly wary of Lucius' motives surrounding treating them to wine and drugs and every manner of vice available, including prostitutes of varying class. Oliver exited the stables, leaving the horses tied to a railing and went into the courtyard. He stopped and looked around. The cobbles caught the light of the dying sun, highlighting the shadows that grew long with the evening. The fountain was a sombre shade of orange, the pink roses growing haphazardly around it, curling up over the edges and brushing lightly against the trickling water. The sun was low in the sky and it cast an eerie orange glow through the courtyard entranceway, an arched wooden gate, rarely closed.

He could hear murmuring sounds, voices as he walked toward the door to the dining hall. Two maids in linen dresses whispered behind their hands as they eyed Oliver wandering the courtyard. He looked at them, and they flicked their eyes away and ducked quickly into an alcove, desperate not to be seen gossiping about the young guests for whom Lucius seemed to have an insatiable obsession.

He reached for the door to the dining hall, and hearing some clinking of glasses and a rustling of silverware, he put his hand on the doorknob and began to turn it. He put all of his weight against the heavy door and as it opened, he saw Lucius and James standing together, clinking wine glasses. He felt altogether slightly abandoned all of a sudden, like they shared a secret that he wasn't privy to.

They looked at him and put the glasses on the table. Lucius welcomed him with open arms.

“Oliver. Come in.” he said in that seductive accent.

“James,” Oliver said. “I've been doing all the work outside.”

“James... is. Busy in here. But now, you . You come in and rest. You have done everything today and will be rewarded.” Lucius pushed him down in a chair at the table, which was suspiciously empty.

“Wh...what's going on?” Oliver asked, beginning to worry. Lucius stood behind the chair he was sitting on, putting his hands on Oliver's shoulders. He looked closely at James who hadn't said anything yet. He noticed, alarmingly, a large amount of blood seeping into the neckline of James' shirt.

“James! What happened?” He asked in a panic. Lucius tightened his grip against Oliver's very obvious desire to get up.

James reached out for the table as he began to sway. He got light-headed, his vision went fuzzy, and he felt himself falling. He fell backwards, onto the cold stone floor of the dining hall, in front of the fire, where he twitched and choked and convulsed, as though poisoned. The flames lit up his face as his eyes gave away a lifetime of pain and suffering. Oliver fought against Lucius' grip.

“You must let him go.” Lucius whispered.

“What's happening to him?!” Oliver demanded, now clearly in an absolute panic.

“He is... just leaving this life.” Lucius replied. “Don't worry my boy. It's not for long.”

Oliver went silent and watched in horror as his best friend died right in front of him, held into a chair by Lucius who was, by this point, telling him to just watch and wait.

A short time after he had ceased all movement, James' body began to twitch. Lucius went over to him, and stood over him, watching the new life of the vampire awaken in his eyes. Oliver watched, perplexed as to what was happening. No one had told him, and Lucius didn't seem interested in telling him much, if any information. He leaned forward in the chair, watching as James seemed to simply come back to life.

He sat up and blinked. His shirt was wet with blood. He was cold as well. He shivered despite the fire behind him and looked up at Lucius, who was smiling down at him. Lucius reached out a hand and James took it to be helped to his feet.

“You should go to rest.” Lucius said. “But not your normal bedroom. Follow me.” He walked out of the dining hall. James started to walk with Lucius, but stopped when he saw that Oliver wasn't following.

“Oliver.... come on.” he whispered. Oliver just looked at him with no real emotion in his face. He shook his head.

“I'm getting out of here.” Oliver said. James looked defeated.

“Please don't. Don't be worried or scared. I'm fine. Really.”

“You don't look fine.”

James stood by the table in his blood soaked shirt, his usually blond hair matted with his own blood.

“I'll have a bath and you will see how fine I am.” he said, before walking out of the room behind Lucius. Oliver stayed, thinking. He needed to get out. Soon.

He was in the bedroom he formerly shared with James. Two single beds were in the centre against the wall with cream coloured linen bedclothes, and the rest was decorated simply with only one wooden table and a small fireplace. It was cold in the room as the fire had long gone out. He packed his bag quickly, without thinking of folding anything. He threw things from the chest by the fireplace onto the bed without care. He was rushing to get out as soon as possible. It was the middle of the night and there was no way he was going to be able to leave before morning. At least he could be ready when someone would be around to take him to town so he could get a boat back to Dover. He didn't know what Lucius was capable of, so he didn't dare take a horse for his own ends.

He was almost done packing when he felt eyes on him. He turned around abruptly and saw James standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his blond hair back to normal and wearing fresh clothes. He looked altogether just like normal James except for what appeared to be a large cut on his neck and a much paler complexion. He froze.

“What are you doing?” James asked.

“Packing.”

“Why?”

“I'm leaving.” Oliver turned away and continued to stuff his clothes in the bag.

“Please don't.” James said. “I need you.”

Oliver turned back to James, exasperated. “You've never needed anyone. That much is clear.”

“I'm scared. I don't know what's happening and you're my best friend.” James pleaded.

Oliver softened then. He looked at James, who had obviously become so wild and insatiable and dangerous because of a lack of confidence and stability in his life. He felt a twinge of sympathy. Maybe more than only a twinge.

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Come see where I'm going to sleep now?” James asked. Oliver agreed.

The catacombs were a secret room beneath the main part of the house, accessible only through a door that only Lucius Vex, James, and now Oliver knew about. Two maids knew about it as well but were sworn to secrecy on pain of death, so they kept their mouths shut about it. It was made of stone and lit in about fifteen small alcoves with huge candles, burning day and night to provide light to the windowless room.

James was excited, he stood in the middle of the room and proclaimed the rooms greatness. He loved it. Again he was in his element – excitement, danger, freedom. Freedom from everything, and especially this time, from death. No more trips to the infirmary for James. He was invincible now. Seemingly.

Oliver stood by the narrow stone stairs, the torchlight from the room flickering against his olive-toned skin. He looked around quickly, his eyes flicking from one strange, large hole in the wall to the next. James saw him looking and went over to one of the holes, about waist height and pulled out a white sheet.

“I'll have a coffin in a week or so, but for now I sleep in here.” he said, motioning to the hole. It was a type of resting chamber. Keep the coffins neat and tidy, Oliver imagined. James went silent and looked at Oliver through his thick eyelashes.

“I wanted to tell you...” he started, then flicking his head up and his hair out of his eyes. “Lucius needed me to... do this. He is sending me to North America. To expand the operation. I... I want you to come with me.”

Oliver was silent. He looked at James, leaning against the place where he would now be resting his head every time he slept. He looked around at the mystical place he was in, feeling strangely drawn to it. It was beautiful, in a secret kind of way. A way he couldn't put his finger on. He looked back at James and agreed.

“But... you need to... be like us.” James said sheepishly. “Can I do it?”

Oliver was alarmed, but he would rather James do it to him than Lucius. There was a brotherly kind of kindness between them and he'd rather get taken by someone he had some sort of pre-existing relationship with rather than some anonymous monster. He thought about it for a moment. He didn't really have much else going for him, and he didn't want to lose his best friend because he had joined some anonymous new army and was being sent away. He relented.

Some time later he stood over Oliver, breathing heavily. Everything was different now, and everything was even more exciting than before. He saw the world for what it was; filled with fat cats and people to be used and abused and taught delicious lessons. Oliver looked up at him, from a pool of his own blood, wishing to God he hadn't agreed. This was already too far, but there was no going back now. The shadows of the room danced around like ghosts and with each new flicker of movement he saw more of himself slip away and something darker take hold inside. He suddenly knew what James was talking about all this time, about being bad, being wild. His soul became wild again and he liked it.

“It's a maddening excitement.” James whispered.

Oliver blinked in the orange glow of the room. “Yeah.” he agreed.

“We're new, different...” James began. “ Let's leave our past behind us.”

“What'd you mean?”

“We need new names. New identities. Not these things we've been made to own by people no longer important to us.”

“What'd you have in mind?”

James took a long pause and looked around the room at the candles slowly burning away in the alcoves lining the catacomb. He took in the light, the movement, he studied it for what felt like both a second and an eternity. He looked back down at Oliver and stretched out his hand to him, as Oliver had done on the boat in Dover for him. Oliver looked at his hand and then looked James in the eye and reached up, taking the offer.

“I'll be Jack.” James finally said confidently. “And you.... Octavian.”

Two hundred years later. Somewhere in western North America.

The phone rang four times before he got to it. Something about the ring was urgent – as they all had been lately. It was wearing him thin.

Ring. Pick it up.

Ring. Pick it up now.

RING. You really need to get this.

RING. Before it's too late.

He answered in his gruff voice. It was Mrs. Castell, the lawyers wife. She was bumbling away and making no sense, obviously panicked and very grief-stricken. How long had it been? Three days. Oh yes, it made perfect sense to wait so goddamn long before reporting someone missing. He told her he'd get on it.

He got up from his desk and went to the far wall where a map of the town of Dark Hollow had been set up by his Deputy Chief Dodson. He grabbed his coffee on his way over. It was going to be another long day. He took a blue coloured thumb tack and pinned it on the spot on the map where the Castell's lived. Blue stood for missing. Red stood for suspicious activity. The only problem with this arrangement was that half the fucking map was pinned red. There'd been an influx of reports of suspicious activity – broken windows, violence, arson, muggings. Things Dark Hollow was definitely not known for. It was a generally happy town, peaceful – the kind of place you'd want to raise a family. It definitely didn't have big city problems like they seemed to be having now. It was out of the ordinary and very concerning.

The media were having a field day over it as well. Journalists from as far away as the capital city had been milling around in town for weeks and it was making the investigations even harder. Chief Samuel and Deputy Dodson would go out and try to question people over the suspicious reports, only to be bombarded with wolf-like journalists and reporters. There weren't an exorbitant amount around, but the ones who were acted like they were on the prowl for information and would stop at nothing to retrieve it. Sometimes they had to get forceful. These journalists were almost like paparazzi in Hollywood, and it was wearing Chief Samuel down.

On the other side, they had been promised civic assistance from the town Mayor, Pinkerton Gravy. Gravy was the kind of man who was questionable at the best of times – strippers, hookers, too much whiskey and maybe even cocaine, although he swore up and down he never touched snow. He wasn't a bad mayor by any sense of the word, and had actually kept Dark Hollow safe, so people generally turned a blind eye. Until recently. Something had changed.

The problem with Pinkerton Gravy was that he was somewhat undependable. He was frequently late to meetings about how to rectify the security situation, and when he did turn up, he looked as though he had been out partying all night. Something about his eyes in the morning though. They told a story that reeked of late night cocktails and cocaine.

Or maybe that was only Samuel's assumption. Either way, he was getting fed up of the bullshit and the interference. He looked at the blue thumb tacks and took a sip of coffee. It was that disgusting instant shit that Dodson insisted on buying. He had no idea why. He had a more developed palate that could pick up smoky Ecuadorian flavours, or strong Colombian ones. The thought of Colombia inevitably brought him back to Pinkerton and cocaine, but his thoughts were interrupted by Dodson standing at the door to the office.

“Another one?” Dodson asked.

“Yeah.” He replied. “Castell.”

“Third one this week.” Dodson mused. “Is there a pattern?”

“If there is, I can't fucking see it.” Samuel admitted. Dodson went to stand next to him and looked at the map. A sea of red with smatterings of blue. They were in trouble. There were only two of them and it was quickly becoming a situation well beyond their control.

“If there wasn't so much goddamn red, we might be able to figure out where they plan to strike next, and who they are.” He sighed and put his coffee mug on the desk. “This shit is disgusting, Dodson.”

Dodson smiled and made his way to his own desk. He shook the mouse awake and entered his password to unlock the computer. It pinged as it woke up. “Disgusting but inexpensive.” he said. He was a cheap bastard.

Dodson was silent a moment while he perused his emails. “This is interesting.”

“What?” Samuel replied. He went to sit in his own desk. He was contemplating going to the shop to get some proper coffee. It was going to be a long day indeed.

“It's an email from the Principal at the school over on fourth avenue.” he read it out.

To: Deputy Seth Dodson (Dark Hollow Task Force/DHTF)

From: Miss Alexandra Smithens (DH Primary)

Subject: Please Help.

Sent with High Priority.

Hi Deputy Dodson,

One of the children was playing outside at lunch time today and found a rather disturbing pile of earth that suggests something is buried beneath it. I've ordered the children not to go near it until you and the Chief can check it out. Urgency is appreciated as it's just off school property and the children are getting curious.

Kind regards,

Alexandra

Dodson and Samuel looked at each other.

“I'll get the keys.” Samuel said, getting up from his desk and heading to the main hall in no particular hurry. Probably another false alarm.

They had been on the scene for two hours when the forensics team from the town of Silence finally decided to show their faces. Investigation into the disturbed earth had indeed caused some level of alarm. There were a lot of signs of it being a very quick job, suggesting whoever had buried whatever was there wanted it done quickly. It was also big enough to house a body. They had found a ring nearby which was known to belong to one of the missing people – a young woman named Sarah. Sarah had been missing for two weeks and was normally exceptionally well behaved, so it was completely out of character for her. Alarm had been almost immediate from her parents, given the nature of the disappearance and the level at which they had been occurring recently.

The forensics team set to work excavating the mound of earth and within only twenty five or thirty minutes had uncovered what was indeed, a dead body. The familiar appearance of pallid skin, sunken eyes and blueish lips greeted the team. The eyes were, thankfully closed. No one liked to be greeted by a dead, staring face, peering up from a hole in the ground. The way the body had been dumped into the shallow grave did indeed suggest a quick job. The right arm rested down the side of the body, while the left arm was draped casually over the torso. The nails had begun to turn a purplish blue colour, denoting that she had been dead awhile. There was no sign of force around the immediate area, and there was no blood on the grass, suggesting she had been murdered in an alternate location and moved her prior to the burial. She wore the sundress that she had been wearing the morning she left home to go to school in Silence. A peach coloured, knee length cotton piece, with embroidery around the neck. It had blood stains throughout, but nothing massive. The way in which she had been murdered was not immediately obvious.

After the body had been removed from the ground and the crime scene team took over taking details and recording any evidence, Samuel and Dodson examined the body before it was taken off to the Coroner, and then the funeral home in Silence. They noted that there were puncture wounds throughout the body – in locations known to house large arteries. The upper thighs and the neck were the two obvious ones, but there were also punctures on the insides of the wrists. Each puncture was in a pair, about an inch and a half apart. Dodson looked at them closely and then flicked his eyes up at Samuel. Maybe the news reports were right.

The news reports by the wolf-like journalists had begun to raise suspicions. There had been a few reports of pale-skinned individuals attacking under cover of darkness with sharp teeth and glassy eyes. These were marked on Samuel and Dodson's map as “red – suspicious activity”. They classed them under muggings/physical attacks. They'd also spent many an hour gathering witness information pertaining to these specific attacks in order to better piece together an overall picture of the potential suspects they were dealing with. The journalists were having a field day with the results. It pointed to vampires. Dodson had to set the record straight.

It was in a press conference that Pinkerton Gravy was meant to be spearheading – and he hadn't shown up to – that Dodson was posed the question. It was an easy one to answer, initially.

“The attacks have been reported to point toward a group of individuals with one specific goal – feeding off the living. Is there any truth to the rumour that vampires walk among us?”

Dodson swallowed hard when he answered and reiterated that vampires weren't real. There was no possible way that in the twentieth century that vampires existed. Or ever existed. It just wasn't viable, or possible or likely. They were a figment of bored imaginations – things people made up in order to keep children in check and the like. The press weren't thrilled with the answer. They were hoping for something juicy like 'Yes, we saw vampires last night, roaming the streets, covered in blood.' They didn't get the juice they were trying to squeeze from the local police force.

The one thing that had happened though, with the recovery of Sarah's body was that it opened the flood gates. After she surfaced, suddenly Dodson's inbox was absolutely inundated with reports and requests and paranoia of random shallow graves turning up all over town. He and Samuel were being worn ragged, call after call and investigation after investigation yielded more and more results that were identical to Sarah. Some were men. Some were women. Some where children or teens or even the elderly. Everyone who had been reported missing initially were now turning up in shallow graves all over town with identical injuries. Each new discovery came with another barrage of questions and more Dodson having to fire fight. It was getting old, and he was getting annoyed every time he had to take Pinkerton's place in front of the cameras and journalists.

After the sixth or seventh body had been discovered, and the news-hungry journalists were really on the case regarding the consistent injuries, Dodson again had to tell everyone that vampires were wild speculation being made up by the media.

“Vampires. Aren't. Real.”

Jack laughed his head off at that. He and Octavian were sitting in the house they had been “gifted” as a part of their gag order by Pinkerton Gravy. Gravy agreed to provide money and a house in order for the two vampires to keep everything under wraps and to keep his secret about embezzlement and misappropriated funds. They were fine with this of course, as it meant that they could kick back and enjoy mountains of cash, mountains of drugs and a deliciously large house, complete with basement and loft. The only problem was that in their desire – and necessity - for sustenance from human blood, they had gotten sloppy in their work. It wouldn't be an issue though. Pinkerton was easily swayed and silenced and would surely come up with a clever ruse.

Jack watched the news every night ever since they had gotten sloppy. He needed to know who the major players in the investigations were. Dodson and Samuel were the given ones, so they would have to go. Pinkerton was already working for them, so they didn't need to worry about him. He ultimately had their best interests at heart – if only to save his own back. A lot of threatening and coercion had gone into Pinkerton Gravy, and Jack was quite sure that he wouldn't be foolish enough to say anything or do anything that would get himself put in harms way. Jack had seen to it by also threatening the Mayor's daughter, Cassie and his wife. He was willing to do anything to save his own family, even selling out the townspeople and sabotaging investigations. If Jack and Octavian knew how to keep his mayoral spot safe, he was willing to do almost anything they wanted to keep it. It was way too sweet.

The one thing that had been the primary height of interest and curiosity for Jack though was the details about funerals for the deceased. The only funeral home within a forty mile radius was one in the neighbouring town of Silence. Funeral parlours were just what he and Octavian needed to take their plan to the next level and to keep it quiet. Embalming was essentially what they had been attempting to do with their puncture wounds on the bodies they'd disposed of – bite the flesh, drain the blood, have some now, bottle the rest for later. It had been a messy operation, and a lot of blood had been wasted. There was also a lot of blood in every body that could be harnessed with the right equipment. It would lead to a more economical operation and realistically speaking, less people would need to be killed.

Jack lit a cigarette and crossed his arms, taking in the news release with great interest. Octavian was sitting in a large leather armchair adjacent to the television, a glass full of gin and tonic on the go. He took a sip and savoured the familiar taste of quinine and citrus. Jack was standing in front of the television, his light hair wild as always, and his small, skinny frame draped in black clothing. His trademark black trench coat brushed the floor just barely. He took a long drag on the cigarette and narrowed his eyes at Dodson on the screen.

“What are you thinkin'?” Octavian asked.

Jack was quiet. It meant he was definitely thinking – weighing up every possible idea, choice and outcome. He was a calculating individual and it paid to be. He rarely made mistakes.

He took another drag off his cigarette and looked at Octavian. “I reckon we need a quieter set up. Something that will net us more bang for our buck.”

“What'd you mean?” Octavian probed.

Jack sat down on the sofa that was behind him. “That funeral place. If we could get our hands on that gear – or better yet – someone who knows how to use it and can be convinced to help us, we could be in a pretty powerful position. Quieter too. Drain 'em. Bottle it. Maybe burn them in the crematorium.”

“What makes you think he's got somewhere to burn bodies?”

“Most places do. If they don't we'll figure something else out.” he replied.

Octavian smiled widely. “You crazy fucker. It might just work.”

“We need it quieter. We need the fuckin' cops off our ass.” Jack said. “And it's so crazy it might just work. But first... we need some intelligence.”

“You mean?”

“Yep. Get Ripper and Stump and go check this out. If the undertaker in Silence is easily swayed, it might not take much to get this guy on side.”

“I'll get Stump to drive. I've already had too much to drink.” Octavian admitted.

“No fucking around on this one.” Jack stipulated looking at Octavian directly, pointing his finger at him. “We need this one clean and serious.”

Clean and serious were not in Octavian's vocabulary. He really liked a party, and often found himself getting into all manner of trouble when working. Working meant things like recruiting new vampires for their gang, finding food, or doing reconnaissance, like he'd be doing shortly. Vampires in North America in the twentieth century needed to be smart. They couldn't go around butchering people – although they had done, and look at the mess they were about to be in. The butcherings and shallow graves were to stop. Worst case scenario, steal embalming equipment from the funeral home in Silence. Best case scenario, get the undertakers help. Obviously this reconnaissance mission needed to be somewhat professional, and Octavian relatively knew when he could have fun and when he couldn't. He knew there'd be room for a bit of enjoyment, but the press releases were getting ridiculous, so professionalism was paramount.

They turned their attention briefly back to the television where Deputy Dodson was still fielding questions about vampirism in the modern day and kept reiterating that vampires weren't real.

“It's like the witches all over again.” Jack mused.

“Huh?” Octavian put his empty glass on the coffee table and sat back in the armchair.

“Remember back in France? When witches were all the rage? Something went wrong, you blamed the witches, and then the Catholic Church tried to convince everyone that they simply weren't real. As if by denying their existence they were somehow safe. It's like the witches all over again.”

Octavian lit a cigarette. “We'll make them believe.”

Jack smiled at him and raised his eyebrows in agreement. “Indeed.”

They were silent for awhile, taking in the continual barrage of questions that Deputy Dodson was being harassed with by the damn journalists. Jack was amused more than anything.

“So... what about this plan?” Octavian said after awhile.

“Take one of the less assuming cars in the garage.” Jack said. “And the darksuits. You'll probably need to be out in the sun for this one.”

“What about the undertaker?”

“Leave his agreement to me.” Jack said. “Just gather some information, his movements and activities and report back to me. Then I'll take it from there. Check out how likely he'd be to help us out. We'll probably need his assistance with the tools anyway. We might have another Pinkerton on our hands.”

“What if he's against it?”

“He won't be. Not in the end anyway.” Jack replied. He mashed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table. “He's going to make a lot of money helping us. More than he'd get in a year of funerals. Besides,” he paused. “Once everyone is dead or a vampire, he won't be in business anyway. He'll agree or we'll make him agree.”

“Everyone usually does.” Octavian agreed. “I'll get the keys.”

Jack flicked off the television with the remote control. “Coke before you go?”

“Damn Jack, you know me well.” Octavian said, smiling and shifting forward in his seat. Jack smiled and pulled a baggie of cocaine from his coat pocket, tossing it to Octavian, who divided it into six fat lines on the coffee table.

“To success.” Jack said and snorted three.

“As though there were any other way.” Octavian agreed, as he bent forward and did his lines, breathing in sharply as the high hit his sinuses. “You crazy fuck.” he reiterated to Jack again as he sat back in the armchair. Jack only smiled.

Ripper and Stump had been in the gang for years. It had been a two man operation – Jack and Octavian against the world, but after years of spending time with the same person day in and day out, they needed to introduce some new personalities. Even power and immortality could get boring when time was spent with the same person all the time. Jack and Octavian had made an agreement on the boat over from France that once they'd gotten more or less settled in America, they would start seeking out others to expand their group. They were rather discerning in the first instance about who they considered for the honour of joining them. They didn't want just anyone, especially when they were just starting out.

It wasn't long before they'd met Ripper, whose real name was Alexander, in Boston after their arrival. He'd chosen his own nickname – presumably some reflection of the life he had been living to that point. They'd met him in much the same way as they'd met Lucius Vex – a bar, in the evening on the harbour front, smoke hanging in the air from open fires and rooftop chimneys, Ripper demanding service from the barkeep and being rather belligerent in general. He was feisty. Jack liked feisty, and watched Ripper intently from the corner of the bar where he'd sat down with Octavian over a tankard of ale. Octavian followed Jack's eyes and they took Ripper in – a tall man, young, dark hair and eyes and an air of confident allure about him. They offered to buy his dinner, which he initially refused, accusing them of being closet homosexuals simply wanting to get into his pants. Some humorous coaxing went into the convincing and eventually Ripper relented and ate dinner with Jack and Octavian, who plied him with alcohol and anything he wanted from the menu. They didn't have to ask him if he wanted to join – after a week or two of hanging around with them, he more or less requested. He'd come to realise he had an absurd amount in common with them both, and felt more at home with them than he had anywhere else.

Ripper was the introduction to turning people for Octavian, and he proceeded from there to recruit most of the people that were now a part of their usual gang. The recruitment job was now slowly passing to Ripper, as Jack needed Octavian for more behind the scenes things. Octavian's last person he turned was Stump, who was himself, a character.

Stump was a much more recent addition to the crew. He was only nineteen and had been a resident of the twentieth century, growing up in a small town in a midwest state, which one though, Octavian was unsure. Ripper and Octavian hadn't had to do much convincing of Stump to join up. He'd been actively seeking the vampires out, and practically begged to join. It made their job ridiculously easy, and so they turned him only a week after meeting him. He'd been tired of his own mediocre existence – again similar to Jack's own life – and had been living hard mostly on the streets. He was from a broken home and had been the victim of some emotional and physical abuse at the hands of his father. Jack's gang itself had a habit of attracting the wayward, the troublemaker and the wanderer. All its members seemed to be from similar backgrounds, all searching for somewhere to belong, and all hunting for acceptance and familiarity. It was as though their presence in the gang was one true final screw you to society – join the undead and live forever freely, to write your own rules.

Stump's real name was George. He'd gotten the nickname Stump in a rather harsh manner. He had a rather large penchant for drugs of any kind, and he would often do so many – and mix so many – at one time that he would often be rendered unconscious. That in itself wasn't a danger for vampires, but in fact, can be when the vampire falls unconscious in plain view of an uncovered window as the night creeps towards dawn. The result was Stump sustaining devastating injuries to his left hand, sun damage, broiled, cooked flesh and bone in an unrecognisable lump at the end of his arm, gaining him the nickname “Stump”.

Octavian met them in the garage of their large house, connected by a door from the main hallway.

Ripper and Stump were waiting by the beat up old Volkswagen they'd be taking to the neighbouring town of Silence. Ripper in his tight and stylish dark clothes with matching hair and eyes, and Stump dressed in skater clothes of baggy jeans and a hoodie. His left hand was perpetually bandaged now, and it was really the only way he could use the mound of flesh that remained after his accident. There was also the accompanying factor that none of the other vampires wanted to see his wound. It disgusted them, but didn't stop them making fun of him for it, and often times if they wanted to pick on him, they'd bash his stump hand for fun.

Ripper had initially expected that they'd be able to take the Mercedes, but it wasn't to be. Jack wasn't an idiot and he knew that they would garner some serious attention that they didn't want if three men in darksuits suddenly rocked up in Silence in a flashy as fuck car. They didn't dare take the Merc for two reasons:

a) Jack said not to.

b) Everyone would be onto them in two seconds flat.

Ripper picked up the duffel bag that was at his feet and put it on the trunk of the car. He unzipped it and opened it wide, taking out three darksuits. A darksuit allowed the vampires the ability to go out in the broad light of day without experiencing the same unfortunate fate that Stump's left hand had met. It comprised of a hooded mask that was reminiscent of that of a fencer, with a long cloak that had sleeves and buttoned to the knees. They had to wear black leather gloves as well, especially as no one wanted to end up like Stump. Once they were all dressed they were physically covered from head to toe in black with black obscured faces and looked identical, that is, if it weren't for Stump being significantly shorter than Ripper and Octavian, who were more or less the same height, pushing on to six feet tall.

“Right.” Octavian said, clapping his hands together excitedly once. “We ready?”

“Yep.” Ripper replied. “Stump?”

“Ready as ever.” Stump replied, opening the drivers side door and lowering himself into the beat up Beetle behind the wheel. He took a small bag of amphetamine out of the glove compartment and used a piece of broken glass to divide up a few fat lines. Octavian got into the passenger seat and Ripper got into the back. It always ended up that way, for no reason in particular.

“Speed?” Stump asked, lifting his mask up to expose his face one last time before leaning over and snorting three lines of the white powder that looked a bit chunkier and damp than Jack's cocaine had.

“I just had some coke with Jack a few minutes ago, but thanks.” Octavian replied.

“Pass it back here. I'll get in on that.” Ripper said. Stump passed the broken glass back to Ripper and then put the key into the ignition. He shuddered with the rush of the drugs and took a sharp breath.

“Man that's nice.” he said. He tried the car. It didn't start immediately, but took three tries before it came to life, rumbling a low growl, like a far off thunderstorm.

“I fucking hate this thing.” he complained. “What if we need to get out quick? No one wants to sit around trying to turn the fuckin' thing on for five minutes when you got someone on your ass.” Ripper and Octavian just smiled and chuckled under their breath. Stump could be downright hilarious when he was moaning about random shit.

Stump put the car in reverse and let it coast from the shadows of the garage and into the bright light of day. They all unanimously thought that they were grateful for the tinted windows – one of the few modifications on the old car – so that people wouldn't get wise to the three of them, fully hooded figures travelling down the road in a Volkswagen Beetle. As it was, it was around high noon and the world was lit up brightly by the sun and all its normal inhabitants were out in full force. Ripper had once gotten away with being questioned by someone about the darksuit he was wearing when his quick thinking lent him the excuse that he had a severe sun allergy. That was certainly one way to put it.

It was a forty-five minute drive to the town of Silence from their large house in Dark Hollow. It was mainly on rough, unkempt roads through forests of leafy green trees with the occasional patch of conifers and farmers fields dotted with black and white cows. It was in one of these fields as they drove that Stump posed the question about blood.

“If getting humans is risky and hard, why don't we just drain cows?” he asked innocently.

“Gross.” Octavian said, snickering and looking out the window at a cow. “We need human blood. Cow blood just wouldn't cut it. I don't know how else to explain it.”

“Well, isn't blood, blood?” Stump mused.

“Why don't you switch to an all-bovine diet and let us know how it goes for you.” Ripper said jokingly from the back seat. Octavian chuckled and heard his phone go off, the familiar three chiming sounds that indicated a text message. He reached into his pocket for it and flicked the phone on, reading the message.

“It's from Jack.” he told the others. “Coming down. Bring me wine.” They all laughed.

“When isn't he coming down?” Ripper asked with some humour in his voice. He'd been in the gang long enough now that he could ask questions of this rather personal nature about Jack without any real concern. Jack actually found his forthrightness rather endearing.

“What'd you mean?” Octavian asked, feigning seriousness.

“He takes enough drugs to light up the fuckin' fourth of July all over the country.” Ripper said. “If there was a poster-boy for substance abuse, it'd be Jack.”

“I was being sarcastic.” Octavian began. “He's had a rough time. Don't hold it against him.”

“How?”

Octavian thought about that question for a minute, gazing out the window through his dark, obscuring mask. It was a loaded question that he didn't know how to answer. Maybe it wasn't even his place to try and make others understand Jack. In fact, he himself didn't fully understand Jack. They had been best friends for over two hundred years, but he still didn't know just why he had come from Ireland to England already so wild and untameable. His eyes rested on an upcoming forest green road sign that read 'SILENCE – ONE MILE. ALL ACCESS' in faded white lettering. They were nearly there.

“He just has.” he finally replied, before going silent as the thought of boarding school fighting rings and naughty boys getting into all kinds of trouble entered his head. Nothing had changed in two hundred years.

They found the funeral parlour easy enough and decided on an unassuming parking spot across the road, under the shade of a giant oak tree amid the other local cars which would camouflage them with ease.

“What a gay name.” Ripper said, looking at the sign outside the funeral home that read 'Lasting Memory'. He shifted over to the right side window of the car for a better look. He took in the green lawn glinting in the bright sunlight, and had a momentary fleeting thought that he wished to go and roll around in the grass like a child. There was something about the way the light was shimmering brightly off each blade that made him reminisce about childhood and carefree days.

“What are we looking for?” Stump asked, straining to see.

“I dunno.” Octavian admitted. He took out a pair of binoculars and peered through them at the windows of the building. “I don't really see much in the way of life in there.” They all sniggered.

It was a slow afternoon. They watched the sun go from high and bright in the sky, behind the safety of their masks and cloaks and tinted windows to being low, stretching the dark shadows long across the lawn, making it look as though each blade of grass was now on fire in the dying light of day. There had been no movement whatsoever from inside the funeral parlour, and no one had been coming or going at all since they'd gotten there. It was beginning to be a bit of a waste of time.

Octavian, who did not have a penchant for patience, decided to liven things up a bit and took the same glass that Stump had snorted amphetamine off of earlier in the day. Stump had remarked that he was feeling another line or two, but Octavian decided to opt again for cocaine. He prepared a few lines for himself and had Stump hold the glass steady while he lifted his mask to snorted them all at once.

“Pure Colombian fishscale, motherfucker.” he said as he passed the empty glass back to Stump who set about making a few lines of speed. Ripper joined in the fun with Stump, and soon they were all a fair bit more lively than before.

“What are we waiting for anyway?” Stump asked, readjusting his mask and craning his neck to see around Octavian. He took a sharp breath as the drugs hit him. “Jesus. Good shit.”

“The undertaker.” Octavian said, raising the binoculars to his eyes again and peering through the mask. “We have to scope him out. Jack thinks he might be useful for the operation of draining and bottling blood for mass production. Quieter. You know.”

“Well we haven't been quiet or careful.” Stump admitted. “We didn't exactly plan the graves well either.”

“Speak for yourself.” Ripper mumbled.

“I know... we.... definitely fucked that up big time.” Octavian admitted, putting the binoculars down. “It's hard to control yourself when you're in the zone.”

“Anything yet?” Ripper asked.

“No.”

“Fuck this. Let's give it another half hour and if nothing has happened let's go back to Dark Hollow.” Ripper replied.

“Either he's not there or he's fuckin' busy.” Octavian admitted. “And if he isn't there we have no idea where to look for him. Half an hour it is. That okay with you, Stump?”

“Whatever. I'm mainly here to drive your lazy asses around.” he replied.

Octavian smiled behind the mesh mask. “We're all in agreement then.”

They somehow got distracted, probably because of the drugs, and ended up hanging around for more like forty-five minutes than half an hour. It was lucky they had, because as they were just realising what they'd done and begun to prepare to depart, the door to the funeral parlour opened and out came the undertaker.

He was a tall, thin man with wild silver hair. He wasn't old – in fact, he appeared to be only around thirty years of age. He was well dressed, in a tight, form fitting charcoal waistcoat, and trousers with a white dress shirt. He was carrying what was presumed to be his suit jacket in one hand and a folder of papers in the other. Octavian raised the binoculars to his eyes once again and studied the undertaker for a moment. From what he could see initially, they shared similar taste in style and he presumed that they would probably get along incredibly well.

The undertaker got in his beat up Chevrolet and started the engine. He didn't do anything immediately, during which time Octavian turned to Ripper, still in the back seat and said

“You guys tail him and text me the address of where ever he's going. I'm guessing given the time of day he's going home. I'm going to get a closer look at the set up here.”

They waited until the undertaker had pulled out of the driveway and slowly driven down the street before they took any kind of action. They could see that he'd rolled a cigarette and was smoking it as he went. It was obviously why he'd taken forever to get going.

When he was out of immediate sight, Octavian dove out of the car and into the dying light of the sun. Stump put the car in drive and they took off after the undertaker while Octavian, now solo, rushed across the street and onto the grounds of the funeral home.

He enjoyed these parts of the job. He really liked reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. He probably could have been a spy if he'd not been born in the age he was and turned into the thing he became. It made him feel alive and excited and like he was doing something worthwhile, instead of just surviving in a barrage of murders in the name of self-preservation. He wasn't sure when he had developed a taste for it, but he always enjoyed being at the centre of social activity, and knowing what was going on with people and when. He was naturally a bit of a snoop, and some would call him nosey, but the fact was that he just liked knowing what was going on and what he could expect from situations. It did him no favours to be left in the dark.

He slinked around the back of the building, looking for any way inside. He tried any doors he came across, and paid attention to windows. One such window at the back was loose and with some effort he managed to pull it open. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to fit through, but had a peek inside. There wasn't anything in the way inside, and if he managed to fall just right, he could slide through on his belly and roll onto the floor. He decided to give it a try, and heaved himself up, using one foot on the sand coloured bricks of the outside wall to hold himself steady as he pushed himself through the open window like a snake. He fell to the soft carpet inside with a soft thud, and pushed himself up immediately. He closed the window as quickly as he could, noting that the latch was broken, which was how he'd been able to pull it open. There was no sense alerting anyone to a potential break in here and more suspicious activity – especially following on so shortly from all of the action in Dark Hollow.

The inside of the building was tastefully and modernly decorated and Octavian took it all in slowly. He really admired the style, and thought for a brief moment that it would be how he'd decorate his own home if he had one. A thick, beige carpet was throughout, covering the floor from the main oak doors through to the hallway he was in now. It was obviously the main entrance hall he was in. Oak side tables were occasionally placed against the walls with large floral arrangements placed in the centre of each, paintings by various artists hung on the walls- themes of seas, forests and other comforting places. There were three closed doors to his immediate left, spaced almost perfectly apart from each other, and he noted that the wood matched throughout the entire room. Everything was a polished, dark oak.

He moved to his right, where the room opened up a bit more. He took off his mask and gloves so he could see better – there was no need to be covered up inside. He placed them casually on one of the side tables and looked up at the wall. There was a plastic display case of various informational pamphlets relating to death and dying, preparation, caskets. He picked one of these up and thumbed through it quickly, noting the plushness of the coffins. He chuckled to himself thinking they could all use a new bed. They didn't typically use coffins – that was something that had been thankfully retired some time ago. The absence of coffins meant they could move more freely, without needing to take that into consideration. Instead they typically used blackout curtains, even tin foil on windows to ensure an absolutely dark atmosphere.

The pamphlet housed some other interesting information – the name of the undertaker, which was Spirit Erickson. He and his photograph were listed alongside three other people who worked at the funeral parlour. A young, delicious looking woman named Alexis was listed as the restorative artist and another woman named Jane did the administration. A man named Bruce was listed as customer service. The pamphlet went into some brief detail about how Spirit had inherited the business from his father and how he had basically grown up around death and the dying. This piqued Octavian's interest – it prepared him easily for dealing with the vampires, and as the owner, it gave them a particularly strong position in which to be. The owner of a business could usually do whatever they wanted with said business or its assets. That could be incredibly useful.

He studied Spirit's photograph for a moment. He found it almost bizarre how he looked so similar to Jack. They could almost be brothers. Maybe it was the hair – they both had light coloured, shaggy hair and greyish silvery eyes. As they had seen not long before when they watched Spirit leave in his beat up old car, he did in fact actually have grey hair, but he barely had a wrinkle on his face, so it wasn't due to age.

A sound behind him made him jump. A glugging noise. He swung around quickly and flicked his eyes about. It was a water cooler, next to two brown leather sofas placed about six feet apart with an oak – yes oak – coffee table between them. Octavian pocketed the pamphlet – Jack would find it useful – as he wandered around the rest of the room. Spirit would never miss one pamphlet. Not unless he was incredibly obsessive compulsive and counted them every morning. That was unlikely. Or was it? The more Octavian explored the room, the more he began to think it was entirely possible. The place was almost creepily perfect. It was obviously Spirit's baby.

He meandered over toward the water cooler, taking in more comforting paintings on the walls and the continued theme of perfection and modernity. He spied a double door that wasn't immediately visible before – oak again – and wondered what was behind it. He made his way over and looked at the door handle. It didn't appear to have a key hole, so he tried the latch. It was definitely unlocked, and he pulled it open, which required some level of force as it was quite heavy. It was a darker room, and it felt cold. He could feel a weird energy in there that the rest of the place didn't have. It was sad and cold and lonely, and he wasn't exactly a fan. He tried to peer into the pseudo-darkness at what was inside but couldn't make much out. Despite being a vampire, it didn't lend itself to having perfect night vision. They tended to let their senses guide them in a darkness filled hunt rather than vision.

He spied a light switch on the wall to his left. He guessed it was for this room, so he reached over and flicked the switch. The lights came flooding on with a low buzzing sound at first, and then the room came into plain view with a burst of sudden brightness. As his eyes adjusted, he was preparing in the split second to take in the room, but he didn't get the chance. The first thing his eyes rested on was a small, unassuming gold cross at the front of the room on a table. His eyes seared and he covered them with his hands, hissing in pain and falling backwards onto the floor, sprawling on the plush carpet as the oak door he'd let go of closed slowly and silently.

“Fuck!”

He laid on the floor for a minute, letting his eyes readjust. He felt like he'd had about fifty photographers all snapping away with flash right in his face. White dots clouded his vision for a few minutes and he sat up and rubbed his eyes, blinking repeatedly. He was surprised. He'd not seen a cross in a long while.

When he finally stopped seeing stars, he regained his composure and got off the carpet, steadying himself on one of the leather sofas nearby. He moved slowly, so as not to disorientate himself again. His head was aching a bit now, and he wondered if in one of the other rooms he may find some headache pills to make the uncomfortable throb go away, even if it was just standard painkiller.

He made his way over to the window where he'd come in, forgetting his mask and gloves on the side table. He went up to the first of three doors and hoped he would find the office where Spirit and his employees did their administrative tasks. He thought for a moment, despite his discomfort, that perhaps Spirit's desk would give him more information about the man in general – his likes, dislikes, general attitude and beliefs and the possibility of him being willing to help. At the very least, it may give Octavian some information that would help get them on the same footing, an in of some kind, some common ground with which to gain some trust.

The first door he tried led to a small hallway, some storage space and a staircase downstairs, into presumably the place they would prepare the bodies. He'd come back to this. He closed the door and tried the next one along. This one did indeed take him into the office area. Four desks were spaced out in the large room, and this room was significantly less tidy than the front hall. It was refreshing to see some disorder, even if it was slight. The pristine tidiness of the front hall freaked him out.

He saw Spirit's desk immediately. It was the same size as the other three, and casually decorated with a framed photo of two older people – presumably his parents – and a small cactus. He knew it was Spirit's as it had a name bar on the desk – Spirit Erickson – Owner. He sat down at the desk and pulled the drawers open one by one. Nothing of acute interest to be found, some yellow sticky notes, a blank notebook, a ledger, and – finally – some headache tablets. He noted with curiosity though that these were prescription, so obviously the poor guy suffered with the pain bad enough to warrant being given proper drugs for them. He felt a twinge of sympathy. He couldn't imagine getting them so badly or so frequently that it required medication. He took the small bottle out and read the label: Spirit Erickson, take two tablets at onset of pain with water or a small meal. Do not drink alcohol. Do not operate heavy machinery under influence. May cause drowsiness. He opened the bottle and took two of the small white pills out into his palm. He threw them into the back of his throat and swallowed them without water.

He went to put the bottle back into the desk but spied something else of interest – another bottle of prescription medication. He took this one out and read the label: Spirit Erickson – Citalopram – take one tablet daily with water. May cause drowsiness. Do not drink alcohol. Citalopram? He thought for a second. He'd heard that somewhere before.

Anti-depressant, he suddenly realised. This guy was on anti-depressants. He looked around the room at the set up. No wonder he was on anti-depressant medication. Anyone would be depressed having first grown up around this shit and then having to live it day in and out for work. Maybe he'd not had a choice and was forced to take it on. There was any number of reasons he could be depressed. Maybe work wasn't even involved.

He put the tablets back in the desk and rummaged around a bit more. Nothing else interesting to note, and he closed the drawer slowly. As he did, he noted a photograph in the waste basket next to the desk. A picture of Spirit and a woman in front of a fountain, but the woman's face had been burned away with what looked like a lit cigarette. Octavian ran his index finger around the charred ring of a face and thought hard for a second. Things were beginning to make sense, in a lot of ways. He betted himself that a breakup of some kind had caused Spirit's decline in mental health, perhaps alongside a few other factors. For instance, the man in the framed photo on the desk looked as though he was the type to be difficult and hard on a potential successor. The woman had a lovely, kind face, but her general appearance gave away a thousand words in one photo. She looked as though she had more or less not enjoyed decades of marriage to a potential brute.

He pocketed the photograph from the waste paper basket and stood up. He had to get going or else Ripper and Stump would start wondering where the fuck he was. He hoped they were getting along as well as he was. He checked his phone, but he didn't have a single message or even a missed call. That could be good news, but it could also be bad news. He didn't know what was keeping them from getting in contact.