Sean didn't miss the fact that Doctor Death didn't deny he considered Sean a patsy. Say that three times fast, and you got the perfect feeling of the con job.
"The least you could do is consider it," said Doctor Death. "You could do lots of good. Help people." He positioned his amorphous self on the counter in front of Sean. He solidified his face into the image of his human self.
Sean sucked in some air that he didn't need to live.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I was." Doctor Death smirked. "A lot of good it ever did me."
Sean flicked his hands at the objects in the sterile kitchen, shaking his head at an entire room furnished with high-end appliances and yet never used.
"I suppose you grew up rich, too."
"Oh, yes," said Doctor Death. "We had the best the world could offer, including the most advanced lessons on human depravity." The ghost poofed gone.
Rubbing his fingers against the counter surface, Sean marveled at the marble appearance of his skin. The gallon of John Smith's blood he had sucked out of the man's body made no difference to the tint of his skin.
He got up and went to the kitchen window. He held his arm out to the light. Where the sun shone on him, his flesh disappeared. He played in the sun at the kitchen window until dusk, and the light moved off around the building.
Doctor Death had a point. He needed a base of operations if he were to find the person who made him a monster. All he had was a memory of a face and a place. He'd need time, money, and resources to track down his maker. And let's not forget the blood. The one undeniable fact of his new life was that he needed human blood to thrive. While not an original concept, killing bad guys would at least salve his conscience.
He'd turn himself into an avenging angel. The opposite of Lucifer in name, but with the same purpose. He'd wash the world of evil and send the souls of his condemned to the Bearer of Light in his grave, dark hole without any pity. He would create himself as Noctifer, Night-Bringer, the god of death and vengeance, hope to victims everywhere.
He'd need another name (Are you confused yet by all of the names? Well, buck up, Buttercup. There will be many more.)
"Doctor Death?" Sean called out to the stale kitchen air.
No response.
Sean headed down the hall. May as well investigate the place.
Dark blue walls served as a midnight backdrop to crystal snowflakes, each with a tiny label identifying its origin: Waterford, Lenox, Swarovski. Lasers, their mechanisms hidden in the Damask wallpaper, sparked on the ornaments, millions of stars dancing in the narrow space.
Sean stumbled, palm on the wall to support himself. He needed to give this body a rest. Six days of constant movement depleted even the walking dead. Most of that time, he didn't refuel; the low octane of rodents not enough to count. He could lie down in the midnight hall. The carpeting was two inches thick, soft, clean-smelling. Who would disturb him? Well, that was the thing. He didn't know who might bother him.
The safest place must be in John Smith's bedroom. He couldn't imagine anyone going in that room of horrors willingly.
Leaning against walls, he made his way back to the killing field.
He tossed all of the stuffed animals into a corner. He took the pink bedspread and wrapped Smith's desiccated body in it, dragged it to the plushy pile, and covered it with the toys. He kicked the dead man's clothes over to the same corner.
The carpet needed replacing. Blood splattered the cotton candy fibers with deep rust, this spot looking like a set of lungs, that spot like two hands making a shadow butterfly.
He locked all of the doors and windows, except for the transoms above the French doors, allowing a breeze to air out the smell of death.
Rifling through some cabinets in the bathroom, he found fresh bed linens, all in pink except for one set in white. What was with this guy and pink? He'd ask Doctor Death the next time he graced Sean with his presence.
He changed the sheets. He didn't want to think about what might have taken place on that bed, but at least it looked clean. He didn't know if he could catch any diseases or illnesses. He hadn't been a vampire for long, and no one had given him an operating manual. So far, some things were very different from folklore, so he learned as he went.
An oval, full-length Cheval mirror in white oak stood in the walk-in clothes closet. Sean moved it out into the room, next to the bed. Using a tube of bright red lipstick he found in a drawer in the bathroom, he wrote Doctor Death a note. The ghost needed to know not to wake him. He needed a good twenty-four hours of downtime.
Plus, he wanted the ghost toasty to know that he was seriously considering the dead man's idea. They just needed to get some things straight, maybe even write out a contract. Nah, no written evidence. They couldn't sign anything in blood. DD didn't have any blood. Perhaps he could use ectoplasm. But Sean's blood wasn't his own. Would it be binding? How could you create a binding agreement between a vampire and a ghost? They could swear on a bible. Would their words be enough? He vaguely remembered something about binding spirits in his extensive reading. He knew it involved some cost. Nothing was free. He already lost his soul. What else was there to give?
He lay down, crossed his arms over his chest like Bela Lugosi asleep in his coffin. He chuckled at the image.
Yeah, he definitely needed a nap.
* With a bloody flux of oaths vows deep revenge. ~ Francis Quarles
Good stuff. Liked it a lot.
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