glance, I navigated to my
apartment door and opened it. Dropping my keys on the table next to
the front
door, I scanned over my apartment with a sigh. It was a disaster. Piles of dirty clothes seemed to live in every corner while half-finished stacks of reports littered the kitchen counter. I should at least buy some dishes to appear human.But when was the last time someone was actually in my apartment? Most humans don't like the company of Vampires. There's something inherently creepy about my species that seems to drive them—the normal ones anyway—away. Perhaps it's our pale white skin, or our unnaturally fierce eyes. Maybe our movements seem too fluid, too perfect. Or was it our razor-sharp fangs never quite hidden by our lips? Most likely it was that we were dead. That seemed like the most logical answer. Every animal on Earth can, in some form or another, sense death, and are repelled by it. This act of self-preservation seems to be programmed in on the genetic level. And, truth be told, I don't particularly care for the company of other Vampires either. There's something about a bunch of pale people dressed in black that just doesn't do it for me. There's nothing worse than a brood of Vampires. They just look like they're waiting for a funeral. Which, if you think about it, probably isn't too far from the truth.
Plus, most Vampires tend to whine a lot. Ever since Anne Rice published her chronicles, all newly-turned Vampires seem to think they need to be tortured souls with the heart of poets. I just can't handle all of that “poor-poor-pitiful-me” garbage anymore. Our species is one of the few who are nearly immortal. It's true that Werewolves have enhanced life spans, if they could get past killing each other, and some Demons tend to live the span of two or three human lifetimes, but Vampires can live for centuries. Sure, there are trade offs—the whole no sunlight thing bothers me from time to time—but there's no sense wasting my afterlife whining. I just have no stomach for that. Hanging my leather jacket on the rack next to the door, I wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. The stark emptiness startled me. Leaning against the open door I stared at the white plastic interior in dismay. Not even a half-filled blood bag remained. I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath. I knew there was something I meant to do on my day off. I'd just have to pick up some more tomorrow at the office.
Closing the door, I retreated past the living room into the bedroom. I called it my “master bedroom” even though it was smaller than the lady's restroom at the office. But it was mine. It was my own little corner of the world. Being nearly immortal, I had been forced over the years to move around a lot to keep up the guise of being human. I had been here for a little more than two years, but of all the apartments and rentals I've had throughout my afterlife, this was easily my favorite. Unbuckling my holster, I slipped the thick leather straps off my shoulders. Holding it in my hand, I kicked off the safety strap, pulled my black Beretta Cougar out, and cradled it in my right hand. I liked this weapon. It wasn't huge or intimidating, but it seemed to fit me. The flat black surface of the Italian pistol felt cool against my hand. Thumbing the release, I pulled the magazine free: one bullet short. I wondered for a moment if it was still imbedded in Vlad's head, or if it had burst free. After snapping the magazine back in with a satisfying click, I replaced the .45 in the holster. I had never owned a gun before working for Brimstone. For some reason they equipped all Seekers with a sidearm. Not that it usually did any good. Unless the Inhuman had a specific aversion to lead, it was little more than a diversionary tactic. I had only once seen a weapon bring down a raging Werewolf, and it wasn't the .45 caliber that I carried, it was one of those cannons they referred to as “elephant guns.” And it had taken both barrels.
It was kind of like working for the FBI, I imagined. I had a gun, a cute little gold badge, ID card and
door, I scanned over my apartment with a sigh. It was a disaster. Piles of dirty clothes seemed to live in every corner while half-finished stacks of reports littered the kitchen counter. I should at least buy some dishes to appear human.But when was the last time someone was actually in my apartment? Most humans don't like the company of Vampires. There's something inherently creepy about my species that seems to drive them—the normal ones anyway—away. Perhaps it's our pale white skin, or our unnaturally fierce eyes. Maybe our movements seem too fluid, too perfect. Or was it our razor-sharp fangs never quite hidden by our lips? Most likely it was that we were dead. That seemed like the most logical answer. Every animal on Earth can, in some form or another, sense death, and are repelled by it. This act of self-preservation seems to be programmed in on the genetic level. And, truth be told, I don't particularly care for the company of other Vampires either. There's something about a bunch of pale people dressed in black that just doesn't do it for me. There's nothing worse than a brood of Vampires. They just look like they're waiting for a funeral. Which, if you think about it, probably isn't too far from the truth.
Plus, most Vampires tend to whine a lot. Ever since Anne Rice published her chronicles, all newly-turned Vampires seem to think they need to be tortured souls with the heart of poets. I just can't handle all of that “poor-poor-pitiful-me” garbage anymore. Our species is one of the few who are nearly immortal. It's true that Werewolves have enhanced life spans, if they could get past killing each other, and some Demons tend to live the span of two or three human lifetimes, but Vampires can live for centuries. Sure, there are trade offs—the whole no sunlight thing bothers me from time to time—but there's no sense wasting my afterlife whining. I just have no stomach for that. Hanging my leather jacket on the rack next to the door, I wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator. The stark emptiness startled me. Leaning against the open door I stared at the white plastic interior in dismay. Not even a half-filled blood bag remained. I closed my eyes and cursed under my breath. I knew there was something I meant to do on my day off. I'd just have to pick up some more tomorrow at the office.
Closing the door, I retreated past the living room into the bedroom. I called it my “master bedroom” even though it was smaller than the lady's restroom at the office. But it was mine. It was my own little corner of the world. Being nearly immortal, I had been forced over the years to move around a lot to keep up the guise of being human. I had been here for a little more than two years, but of all the apartments and rentals I've had throughout my afterlife, this was easily my favorite. Unbuckling my holster, I slipped the thick leather straps off my shoulders. Holding it in my hand, I kicked off the safety strap, pulled my black Beretta Cougar out, and cradled it in my right hand. I liked this weapon. It wasn't huge or intimidating, but it seemed to fit me. The flat black surface of the Italian pistol felt cool against my hand. Thumbing the release, I pulled the magazine free: one bullet short. I wondered for a moment if it was still imbedded in Vlad's head, or if it had burst free. After snapping the magazine back in with a satisfying click, I replaced the .45 in the holster. I had never owned a gun before working for Brimstone. For some reason they equipped all Seekers with a sidearm. Not that it usually did any good. Unless the Inhuman had a specific aversion to lead, it was little more than a diversionary tactic. I had only once seen a weapon bring down a raging Werewolf, and it wasn't the .45 caliber that I carried, it was one of those cannons they referred to as “elephant guns.” And it had taken both barrels.
It was kind of like working for the FBI, I imagined. I had a gun, a cute little gold badge, ID card and