The horrible news about the “rape academy” filled me with so much helpless rage that my one-year, burnout-fueled writer’s block evaporated, and I wrote the first draft of The Slayer in one month. It began as a short story called The Hunt and snowballed into a gory as hell, pitch-black, unapologetically violent female rage and revenge novel with a dash of sapphic spice. Here’s the first chapter for your entertainment. Or horror. I don’t know. Feel free to tell me in the comments.
Humans were right when they claimed that immortals’ greatest weakness was tedium.
Not that I’d bother doing a poll about it, or ever would. Staying away from other vampires meant fewer chances of running into the one I’d pissed off so much two centuries ago that he’d tortured me and turned me into a monster just like him. He’d tear me to pieces if he ever saw me again. Slowly, I’d bet. And my boredom hadn’t reached suicidal levels.
Yet.
Sitting on my couch, with the TV on, while staring aimlessly at the wall for the last gods-only-know-how many hours was probably a new low, however.
I sighed, licking my dry lips, and blinked several times, doing my best to reboot my heavy brain. Ah, that was the reason I had turned into a couch potato—the migraines. I was quite sure vampires weren’t meant to suffer those when properly fed and less depressed, because once upon a time I’d been properly fed and less depressed.
But since being well-fed had the obnoxious tendency to make me more depressed lately, I had to choose what sort of headache I preferred, and I had settled for the nutrition-related one.
“The Halloween Killer, truth or myth?” said a blonde woman on the TV.
I blinked. The news? On that channel? Really?
I’d either fallen irreparably low, or my subconscious was offering me a solution for my migraines. Killers were, after all, usually part of my menu.
“‘Stay safe from the Halloween killer’ pamphlets are being spread across the city by a group of girls who call themselves The Watchers,” the blonde anchor continued, her vexing voice colored with disbelief and too much snide mockery to pass as professional. But that was nothing new coming from that garbage network. “These ‘Watchers’ are convinced there is a serial killer out there who only comes out on Halloween, like a vampire.” She laughed.
I didn’t.
Halloween could be the perfect cover for a vampire to hunt. I would know, I’d done it before.
The annoying news anchor disappeared from the screen, making way for a street reporter and a small goth girl.
“Tell us why you and your friends are convinced there’s a serial killer out there, Melanie,” the reporter asked the girl. He tried to hold on to a veneer of professionalism, but I could see the amused disbelief in his eyes.
The girl—I doubted she was twenty yet—gulped, nerves plain on her pale, round face. “Samantha, my friend, disappeared from a Halloween party last year.” She held up a photo of a beautiful, young white woman with black hair and blue eyes. “It took us a while to notice because she’d been dancing with this guy, and we thought she’d left with him. But then he was alone, and she was gone. The cops found her body in a garbage container the next day.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” the reporter said, his fake sympathy so transparent it made me wish I could smack him through the screen. “But one victim doesn’t mean there’s a serial killer.”
Melanie licked her black-painted lips anxiously. “Yes, but there are more cases. All on Halloween. You can see them in The Watchers’ forum. Several people have reported missing girlfriends there.”
The reporter hummed. “Don’t you think the police would know if there was a serial killer out there?”
Melanie shook her head. “The police don’t care about us. They never take us seriously. They didn’t even admit The Halloween Killer raped Samantha—”
The reporter immediately moved the microphone away from Melanie and laughed, humorless and artificial like most people presenting the news did on that gods-forsaken channel. “You heard it, folks. The police can’t connect these alleged serial killings, but girls on the internet can!”
The consternation on Melanie’s face was plain to see before the cameraman cut her from the image and the annoying blonde anchor appeared again, laughing some more. “Girls on the Internet solving crimes. What has the world come to?”
Growling low, I turned off the TV and headed for my desk. The computer had a layer of dust on it. Yet another sign I’d been rotting away in this place that was a house but not a home for too long.
I paced until the machine booted up, then sat in the desk chair and opened the browser, going first to The Watchers’ forum. The pinned post had the photos and names of all the Halloween Killer’s suspected victims, along with links to the paltry news articles they’d appeared in. Some of the victims’ bodies had been found. Some hadn’t. The bodies they’d found showed signs of sexual assault, according to the people in the forum. The Medical Examiner hadn’t declared assault on all the found victims, saying it was undetermined or that it could have been “rough sex.” Because, of course, the myriads of bruises on the victims’ faces weren’t enough of a fucking clue.
Melanie had been right—the police didn’t care enough about women being raped and killed. I would know. I’d been one of them some decades before. My stint as a detective hadn’t lasted too long, or rather, I’d quit after a year, before my coworkers started to suspect I’d killed several of their colleagues. Human traffickers were at the top of the list of acceptable prey. Child traffickers shared the first position along with rapists. Cops who not only took payments from child sex traffickers to look the other way but also abused the kidnapped children themselves deserved a slow, painful death as far as I was concerned. I’d enjoyed making them scream.
‘No discernible pattern,’ the police claimed in an official response to the best-written article about The Halloween Killer in a reputable newspaper the previous year.
“Are they fucking blind?” I wondered aloud, voice creaky with disuse.
The victims were all females between fifteen and twenty-five years old. Their skin color varied, as did other characteristics such as height, occupation, marital status, and socio-economic background. But they were all young, beautiful, slim, and had gone to a Halloween party the night they’d gone missing. That was a pattern worth investigating as far as I was concerned.
An hour of scouring the web later, I had a list of locations where Halloween parties aimed at a younger demographic would take place tonight and a mission.
Well, more like an urge to quench the bloodlust always roaring in a corner of my brain, burning in my veins, making my very bones ache.
An urge I’d promised myself to keep at bay unless I ran into a degenerate by chance. But, well, some promises were made to be broken. Especially if breaking them meant keeping innocent women safe, quenching my maddening hunger, and alleviating my decade-long migraine all at once.
As I showered, I pondered what was motivating me most.
The pie chart probably looked evenly split, if I were to be honest.
Maybe the ‘protecting innocents’ slice was bigger.
Or maybe I wanted to believe that, because the slippery slope from vigilante to villain was indeed very slippery.
Anyway…
I dressed all in black: knee-high boots, leather pants I’d bought a few years before on a whim, a slim-fit long-sleeved top with a corset on top of it, and a long leather trench coat, which I left open to show off the corset and tight trousers. Although they were a tad less tight than when I’d bought them.
Which meant I’d lost weight.
Worse, I’d lost muscle mass.
Not much. But just enough to remind me of the decorative merchant’s daughter I’d once been. Little more than chattel to be sold. Weak. And that was just unacceptable. It’d been months, maybe a year, since I’d eaten a pervert. And unless I wanted to become a victim again, I’d have to get back to one prey a month and jogging at least once a week.
I didn’t have much energy to do more than apply eyeliner and lipstick, but that was enough. There was no point in being coy with myself; I was beautiful. Teal-blue eyes, pore-less pale skin, long mahogany hair, features that many would pay a surgeon to emulate, over six feet tall. Granted, the last feature wasn’t a favorite of most men. But even the too-pale skin, dark semi-circles under my eyes, and general look of dejection wouldn’t be enough to deter most humans from ogling, which was precisely what I wanted tonight. If anything, the anemic and exhausted look could be confused as part of the paltry attempt at a Halloween disguise. A sliver of wry amusement broke through my numbness when I realized what I’d done: dress like a stereotypical vampire. Something I’d avoided for decades, afraid of the possibility of being hunted down.
Fortunately for me, most humans had long ago stopped believing vampires are real. Unfortunately for those who still believed and fancied themselves hunters, I couldn’t be stopped by crosses, garlic, or prayers, and if I ran into one of them tonight, I’d eat them.
I left my brownstone with my keys, a full wallet, and a travel-size bottle of mouthwash.
A wave of dizziness assaulted me as soon as I reached the pavement. There were people milling about, wearing costumes. Children and adults. So many of them. My stomach tightened with the mingled voices, the roaring engines of passing cars, the scent of candy, exhaust, perfume, dried leaves, and human skin in the cold air.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, commanding my brain to stop whining. Then I gritted my teeth and walked up the street to hail a cab.
* * *
I’d grown unaccustomed to what a noisy, fragrant species humans are.
This was the first nightclub I visited, and I already wanted to call it a night. Loud music—some remix of a pop song—blasted through the many speakers, adding to the cacophony of voices and laughter. The flashing green and blue lights illuminating the dance floor were making my migraine worse. Disturbingly, the mix of perfume and fresh sweat awakened the hungry, slumbering monster I’d had to deal with for the last couple of centuries.
It would be so easy, so enticingly easy, to hypnotize any of the several humans openly ogling me so they’d come with me to the nearest private corner where I could drain them dry. But no. I hadn’t killed an innocent so far, and I wasn’t about to cross that line. It was one of the few left.
After ordering a shot of vodka that had very little effect on my system, I took a turn about the place. Much like I had been ordered to do by my wretched father at a ball in some noble’s manor back in England when I was still human. The partygoers were dressed in costumes ranging from funny to risque. The music was too loud, and the dancing was certainly not a waltz, but very little had changed at its core. Humans loved gathering in a place for the purpose of finding a mate while drinking, dancing, and talking. It was a ritual that had survived the test of time. Some were too young. Teenagers, even. The impulse to grab them by the ear and demand to know if their parents knew what they were up to made me feel even older than usual.
I let my senses stretch, looking, searching for that dark malaise that lived within human predators, and came up empty.
Sighing, I left the club and hailed another taxi.
* * *
The next two parties proved to be just as fruitless.
No predators. Just a few handsy idiots that I dealt with using a quick burst of hypnosis.
The fourth club I visited managed to be even darker and louder than the previous ones. More gothic too. Or what humans thought passed for gothic: a lot of leather, even more eyeliner, and an obsession with vampires. There were at least a dozen Draculas and more than a few Lestats about.
I started with the mezzanine, rejecting four offers, the last one accompanied by a wrist grab that nearly made me lower my fangs and hiss. But considering this crowd, the handsy prick would probably consider such a display the highlight of his night.
Halfway through my lap around the first floor, my senses prickled.
My eyes landed on a man who poured a white powder into a glass of wine the color of blood with a red lipstick mark. He was tall, thin, pale, and, unsurprisingly, dressed as a vampire. One long finger quickly dipped into the wine to stir it and dissolve the white powder. He dried the finger in a handkerchief just as a small, thin, pale woman with dark hair approached the table. The wannabe vampire offered the glass to the woman. She took it.
I was standing right beside her in the blink of an eye. Before her slow senses could perceive me, I took the glass from her hand and tossed the contents under the table, right onto the arsehole’s shoes. It took both humans three seconds to notice me and what I had done.
The man jumped back. “What the fuck?”
A small push of my mental power shut him up before he could make a scene.
“Hey!” the petite woman called, glaring up at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving you from a spiked drink,” I said.
She blinked, skin turning ashen, dark eyes flitting from me to the idiot across from her. “What?”
“Never accept drinks from strangers,” I said to her, using a minimum amount of hypnosis. “Be careful. Don’t get too drunk. Are you here alone or with friends?”
She gulped. “M-my friends are downstairs.”
“Go back to your friends,” I commanded. “Now.”
She obeyed at once.
Using my power on innocent women always left me feeling creepy, but it sure as hell wasn’t as bad as what would happen to them if I didn’t give them a nudge in the safe direction.
I turned toward the man. He was breathing harder, nostrils flaring. Rage broke through the mild haze I’d caused him. “Who do you think you are to ruin my night?” he challenged, standing, trying to make his two inches of height advantage intimidating. It would have been funny if I’d been in a mood to laugh.
“Follow me,” I commanded, more mentally than aloud, then walked away, not bothering to turn to see if he was following. I knew he was.
It took a few minutes to navigate the many sozzled goths to reach the back of the club.
I held the back door open for my prey, and despite the hypnosis, he hesitated to take the few steps that put him in the alley behind the club. He flinched when I locked the door behind us.
A quick look and scan with my senses told me the alley was deserted.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chilly air.
My fangs slammed down without preamble, the mild discomfort completely swallowed by the rising bloodlust. “Hunting you, obviously.”
I had him pinned by the jaw against the wall before he could even blink, my fangs bared in a low growl.
“V-vampires are not real!” he whined.
“Are you sure about that?” I drawled.
Then I sank my very real fangs into his neck.
He screamed.
Acrid.
Sour.
Perverts’ blood was not palatable, but the taste wasn’t the reason I gorged on them. No, the replenishment of my strength and the drive to end them all, which I had barely managed to curb since I’d become a vampire, was why I hunted. The man tried to hit me. He managed a blow I barely felt before I commanded his limbs into stillness and his throat into silence. I drank deeply, greedily. My headache lessened along with the malaise and the stomach ache I’d been too numb to notice until now. As usual, images reached my mind. Blood memories of my prey. I saw him spiking more drinks. I saw the faces of other young women. Rage bubbled and mixed with the bloodlust burning in my veins when the images of what he did to the drugged women flashed in my mind’s eye.
None of the women matched the suspected victims of the Halloween Killer. But that didn’t mean they didn’t deserve to be avenged.
I stopped just before my prey fell unconscious. My nose scrunched up in revulsion as I licked the punctures closed.
The man dropped to the ground on his arse the second I let him go.
I licked the corners of my lips to erase the evidence of my feeding. I’d learned how not to make a mess when having a meal long ago.
My prey was still on the ground, dizzy with blood loss and terror. Too frozen to even soil himself, fortunately.
I crouched in front of him, meeting his gaze, drinking in his fear, savoring it. “You will pick up your sorry arse from the floor as soon as you can. Then you’ll find the nearest, tallest bridge and jump from it.” I would have finished him myself if we’d been anywhere near a forest where I could bury or burn his body. Dumping him in a garbage container with fang marks on his neck was a tad out of my comfort zone.
“Please,” he managed, shaking like a leaf. “I don’t want to die.”
“And the dozen women you’ve drugged and raped wanted what you did to them?” I asked.
He whimpered. “Please.”
“Pathetic,” I hissed, his acrid blood sloshing uncomfortably in my stomach. I stood. “Get up and get out of my sight before I dismember you with my bare hands.”
He crawled to his feet and stumbled out of the alley.
I tilted my head up to the sky and took a gulp of cool air that was, unfortunately, not fresh. I grimaced, both at the stench of smog and the taste of blood in my mouth. It was ridiculous, perhaps, but blood disgusted me once I was done eating. Which is why I always carried a small bottle of mouthwash or booze when I went out hunting. I rinsed my mouth and headed out of the alley.
The hungry monster within was far from satisfied. It probably wouldn’t have been even if I’d drained the pervert until there wasn’t a drop of blood left in his veins.
My head was clearer and less achy, and the exhaustion had fortunately lessened. I felt physically better than I had in years. A high I knew would come with a low marked by maudlinness and moral arguments I could have with no one but myself and were probably unhealthy for my burned-out mind.
But that would come later.
For now, I had a killer to catch and only a handful more hours to do it.
And I would do it.
The hunt had only just begun.
©Selene Kallan, The Slayer.
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Warnings for The Slayer include: explicit violence, gore, torture, attempted sexual assault, mentions of rape (not explicit and on-page, but also not downplayed), kidnapping of a child, non-explicit mentions of violence and abuse against children, prejudice against queer people, domestic violence, trauma, and suicidal thoughts. None of these horrible situations are condoned.
Also, a lot of cursing, profanity, and blasphemy.
The protagonist is bisexual, so in The Slayer and other stories where she’s the protagonist, there will be same-sex relationships and explicit content. I will include SKIP SMUT buttons, so you don’t have to read sex scenes if you don’t like them, but her attraction to people of all genders will NEVER be subtle.
Proceed with caution.
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Still here and ready to watch our slayer kill all the fucking perverts?
Amazon: https://link.amazon/B01KT69RF
Other places: https://books2read.com/the-slayer-selene-kallan
