The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

So I'm heavily influenced by urban fantasy and like violent, fast-paced stories... it shows



It was around 2200 hours when I arrived at the home of Lawrence Bardwell, head of the up-and-coming GenCorp LTD. He owned a stereotypical large-scale house, otherwise known as a mansion, which all the CEOs seemed to want to boast, though this mansion was still in the making. I slipped a small blue capsule under my tongue, waiting for the SharpEyes to take effect. Within two minutes my pupils had dilated, leaving only a sliver of my green iris around a huge pupil. Although most of the rooms were dark, I could see most of what was in the rooms. There were a few beds, some mirrors, though not many rooms seemed finished, as if they were still in the process of decorating. From what I saw of the upstairs bathroom, they were still building. Half a minute of scanning and I had located my target. Lawrence Bardwell was in his bedroom on the bottom floor, lying in bed with his boyfriend. I made sure I was covered by both the darkness and the hedge at my back before swinging the rifle up to my shoulder. The metal was blackened to avoid it catching any light and giving away my position, so I didn’t have to worry about being revealed in my black bodysuit. I took a deep breath, aimed and fired as I exhaled. Glass shattered and blood spattered as I hit my first target – Larry. The back of his head had exploded with the force of the bullet’s exit, leaving bits of bone and brains on the headboard of the bed. His partner was screaming, high and piteous shrieks until I shut him up with a bullet in the forehead. Another fat paycheque under my belt.

The streets were rank and grimy, uneven and strewn with small rocks sharp enough to cut the unguarded foot. The smell of waste and human decay was overpowering and stifling. People were packed into the limited space so tightly, shoulder to shoulder, soiled front to sweaty, sticky back; fighting for a breath of fresh air and a glance through the milling mass of people. In a corner between the church and the orphanage were three dirt-smeared boys, the eldest no more than nine summers old and the youngest a mere four, busking for what mere offerings the poor crowd could spare. The eldest stood in front of the moving crowd, reciting stanzas of poetry disjointedly, struggling to read from the few lessons offered by his father, half relying on memory to recite. The younger two were begging coins and scraps of food from the crowd, a few listening, most jostling to move through the claustrophobic streets. There were a few mumbled “Thank you ma’am”s and “Good Sir”s followed by chubby little dirt-stained hands diving into pockets and emerging empty.

The wavering, uncertain voice of the boy-child grew louder, snagging attention of the crowd: “Joy has taken flight... Move my faint heart with grief but with delight/No more – Oh never more!”