The Return (8 page)

Zac wasn't sure how he found himself here of all places. Perched on the embankment that ran down to the mouth of the cave, he played with a stick, frowning at the boulder that blocked the entrance. His entire existence seemed like an endless joke and the joke was on him. 

He had dreamed of Aya. Not once, but twice, her horrible end playing out in front of his eyes. Dropping the stick, he clutched his head in his hands and sobbed. She had never spoke about her past to any of them and he now knew why. There was no doubt now that the other dream he had
was
about her as well. He wished above all else that he could hold her in his arms and comfort her, but she was dead and gone. 

She had told them her blood was poison to anyone who drank it. Was this the reason why? Those who drank it would learn her secrets? See her memories?
He couldn't believe it
,
he refused to
. It was too far fetched. 

Aericura, Aeriaya, Aya. Who was she?

He was so engrossed in his melancholy, he didn't hear the approach he should have been aware of minutes before. A branch snapped behind him and he was on his feet in an instant, turning towards the forest. His breath caught at the sight of a familiar figure leaning against a tree. 

"
Morgan
?" 

"Hello, Zac," the woman said, a grin on her face. Tall, blonde and flawless, she looked like she had stepped right out of a 1940s wartime propaganda poster. Her clothes were different, but she was exactly as he remembered her. And she was the last person he'd ever expect to see out here of all places.
In the middle of nothing.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, of course," she grinned, walking towards him. Of course, she would have looked at the house first and followed him when he left Liz in the garden.

"You haven't changed one bit," he sighed.

"Except maybe the uniform." She embraced him, her familiar form strangely comforting.

"Nurse Knowles." He forced a smile.

"Man, you look strung out," she laughed. "I can see nothing's changed with you."

"I'm a hard case, you know that," he shook his head. "How did you find me?"

"When word reached me of the bloody demise of a werewolf pack down in Louisiana, I had to come and see for myself. And lo and behold," she gestured to him. 

Zac snorted, turning away.

"I have been thinking about you a lot lately," she said, standing beside him. "Wondering how you were doing."

"I was doing fine."

"Was?" she cocked her head to the side. "Does it have anything to do with that huge old rock you're staring at?"

He grimaced, looking back towards the cave, "Yeah."

When he didn't continue, Morgan nudged him with an elbow. "And?"

"It's a long story."

"Then give me the
Reader's Digest
version."

Zac ran a hand over his face and shrugged, "I killed Victoria here. And Aya is buried in the cave."

"Who's Aya?" Morgan asked, her brow furrowing.

"The love of my pathetic afterlife," he snorted.

She sighed, turning her face away for a moment. When she looked at him again, she smiled wryly, "So, this is where you killed the psycho bitch that turned you?"

"Ironic, huh?"

"An unfortunate association," she shook her head.

Zac sighed, his head dipping. "I was going to die this morning."

"What do you mean?" Morgan grabbed his arm, turning him around to face her.

"I don't think I was really going to do it," he shrugged, looking at her, his expression empty. "Not really."

"You were going to kill yourself?" She was horrified and rightly so.

"I thought about it."

She raised her hand, running a thumb across his cheek, brushing away a tear that had escaped from the corner of his eye. "You must have loved her very much," she whispered.

"I do," he held her hand against his face, closing his eyes. "That's the problem."

"Come," Morgan coxed him to sit beside her.

"I-We're in a lot of trouble," he grimaced as he sat heavily beside her. "If you're going to stick around, you might be pulled into it whether you want to or not."

"So be it."

"Just warning you."

"Wait, we're in a lot of trouble? Who else is here?"

"My brother and some friends."

"Your brother, Sam?"

"Yes." He had told her a lot about Sam back when they had first met. But, he had never told anyone about Morgan. At the time, she was a part of his life that needed to stay buried.

"Does he know what you went through during the war?" she asked carefully.

"No, and I want it to stay that way. He trusted me, Morgan. If he knew how bad it really was it would tear him up. I've put him through enough lately without dragging up old shit. I never told him about you and I."

"Well, you know I've got your back," she placed an arm across his back. "What's been going on? Can I help?"

"Morgan," he rubbed his eyes. "It's bad. I can't ask you to help us."

"Out with it, Degaud."

He couldn't help but smile at her forceful use of his surname; it reminded him of the war, the army. She'd been a breath of fresh air, right when he needed it. But, she couldn't know all of it. He wouldn't tell her all of it. The less she knew, the better. "A few months ago, I got into a fight with an old vampire."

"How old?"

"Five hundred at least," he shrugged. "I killed him, but somehow caught the attention of a very old and powerful witch. She was plotting to kill me and we had no idea how to stop her, so we found a vampire that was willing to help us. One that was hunted by the same witch." 

"Who was the vampire?" Morgan asked, when he paused.

"Aya."

"Oh," she said, her arm dropping away.

"She helped us above and beyond what was asked of her. She helped me," he looked away, knowing that Morgan would get it. "The thing she didn't tell us right away was that she was mixed up with the founding vampires."

"The first vampires?" she said, a note of hesitation in her voice.

"Yeah. Two thousand year old assholes," he scuffed his boot into the dirt, shaking his head. "She helped us take out the witch and one of the founders, but..."

"They killed her, didn't they?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, Zac." Morgan wrapped her arms around him, her head resting against his shoulder.

"He's still here, Morgan," he said seriously, his arm snaking around her back. "Arturius. We're not sure what he wants, but I'm sure it has something to do with our friend, Gabby."

"Gabby? Is she a vampire, too?"

"No," he grimaced at the notion. "She's a witch."

Morgan whistled, knowing that it was a huge deal that a vampire and a witch were best buddies.

"I have no idea what to do," he frowned. "I can't - I can't stop thinking about her." Aya, it was his fault that she had died. If he hadn't of been cursed by that hag, Katrin, then she would still be here. Hell, if he had of kept his big mouth shut the day Alistair had walked into Max's bar, he wouldn't have met her, but she would still be alive.

"It's okay, Zac. I'm here to help you. I managed it the last time, right?" Morgan grinned, trying to pull him out of his depression.

"I know."

The last time he had lost hold of his humanity, he could no longer tell friend from foe. He'd digressed into a predator. Victoria would have been proud of her creation. This was much different to that, but if he wasn't careful, he could just as easily go back down the same road. And death would be the only thing he was capable of.

Normandy, France

August,
1944
 

Z
ac had been a vampire for eighty years and he still couldn't control himself all of the time. War was familiar to him. Fighting for a cause, killing in the name of King and Country, that was
him
through and through. This time he was fighting with Britain against the oppression of the Nazi regime and their stranglehold on Europe. Hitler had to go and that seemed like a noble cause to lose
himself
in.

The battlefield was vastly different this time. The American Civil War had been brutal; it was a war between brothers. World War I had been nothing but a massacre that had fed his bloodlust. This
war, that had become known as World War II,
would either be his end or his saving grace.

He would learn control here. He
had
to.

Zac had fared well up until they had finally deployed to Normandy. Long ago, his family had immigrated to America from Reims in Northern France. Perhaps this time, he would see it.

Two months of hard fighting on enemy soil had seen tens of thousands of lives lost, but the Allies were set to win back much of the North from German control. Paris was next on the list to liberate.

It was the evening after a particularly bloody fight on the approach to the French capital that Zac felt his control slipping. He stood in the middle of the village green in a small hamlet they had been tasked to neutralize. Standing there in the wake of the carnage, he realized he was alone. Everyone was dead. Even with all his speed and strength, everyone had still died.

The bodies of men, British and German alike, were strewn across the square, torn to shreds by machine gun fire. The air was clogged with the smell of dirty blood and gunpowder and it made Zac gag. As he felt the familiar burn in his throat he hightailed it out of there as fast as he could.

When he finally rendezvoused with a neighboring unit and gave his report to the CO, he had had enough. The best thing for everyone, including himself, was to get the hell out of there. He was so
hungry,
he would go through the entire unit to sate it.

Standing to attention before the Commanding Officer he gave his report as calmly as he could. "Twenty Germans dead, fourteen British. They ambushed us as we entered the village. They came from behind and in front, machine guns were stationed on rooftops and cleverly camouflaged, sir."

"Any civilian casualties?"

"Zero. The village was empty, sir."

The CO frowned and wrote something on the map on his desk. A minute passed before he looked up at Zac, "And how did you manage to escape, soldier?"

"I was sent to neutralize the guns, sir. I was the best covert they had. When I realized I was the last one left, I commandeered one of their points and took out the remaining hostiles, sir." That was mostly the truth. The last few, he had tore apart with his bare hands, but he couldn't tell the CO
that
.

"Dismissed, Degaud." the CO said curtly. "Report to Major Lewis in the morning for reassignment."

Zac didn't want reassignment. He wanted out of there. There was only one thing left to do.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

The CO looked at him curiously, and nodded sharply.

"I'm sorry sir, but I have to go. If anyone stops me, they will die. You will discharge me from service as wounded. If anyone enquires, I have been sent back to London with the other casualties. I will leave this camp unchallenged. Do you understand?" He didn't want any trouble on the road. If he were stopped, it would become very messy, very fast.

The CO was looking at him, slack jawed, his expression vacant as he absorbed Zac's command. He nodded his understanding as the compulsion took hold. "Dismissed, Lieutenant. Safe journey home."

He wasn't challenged as he left the camp, the sentries didn't even see him pass in the darkness. The countryside passed by in a blur and he was hardly aware of anyone or anything. He had to run to clear his head and he didn't care what direction he went in. If any enemy activity was around, he didn't see anything.

It was some time before he realized the city limits were surrounding him. Paris. No sane person wearing a British military uniform would come here.
Paris was occupied by the Germans
.

Zac found himself deep in the city in the area he knew to be Montmartre. He stood on Rue d'Orsel and stared up at the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur, hardly believing that his vampire feet had taken him so far so quickly. The basilica was shrouded in silver moonlight, making the grey stone look haunted. The streets were empty, the threat of imminent invasion had scared everyone indoors and into bunkers, all save for a few brave souls that lingered around the Moulin Rouge and the whorehouses that littered the side streets.

Gestapo officers, soldiers and sympathetic locals hurried to and fro as he lingered in the shadows pondering his next move. The familiar clink of metal drew his attention to the opposite end of the street. A patrol was advancing on his position, boots thumping on the flagstones as they scanned windows and doorways. It would have been smarter to retreat and avoid confrontation entirely, but he was hungry and his wits gone.

There were only five soldiers and one officer, Gestapo. They were looking for someone or something; there was no reason for one of them to be out here with regular infantry.
Well
, he thought to himself,
whatever they're doing, I'll save that one for last
.

Stepping from the shadows into the moonlight, he tilted his head and listened, waiting to see what they would do. Five rifles and one revolver were cocked and aimed directly at him.

"Halt!" the Gestapo officer cried.

Zac didn't move as they came forward, their guns never dropping. One of the soldiers came forward and patted him down, checking for any concealed weapons.

"
löschen
," he said, stepping back.

"British," the officer said in English, his thick accent making the word sound strange. "What are you doing out here? Reconnaissance, secret mission?"

When Zac didn't reply, he gestured for his men to take him. As an arm reached out to grab him, he twisted to the side behind the soldier to his left as his comrades fired. But, the bullets only hit their friend, the spray of blood staining his shirt. Zac grabbed the dying man from behind and snapped his neck, letting the limp body fall to the ground. "Actually, I'm American."

Time seemed to slow down as he felt his eyes mist into blackness at the promise of more blood. The remaining soldiers all took a step backwards, eyes wide. The Gestapo officer looked horrified, like he was about to piss his pants. 

"Who wants to go first?" Zac asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

Bullets ripped through the material of his jacket, grazing the skin of his arms, embedding into his stomach, but he kept coming. Wrenching a rifle away from one man, he stabbed it backwards, the bayonet impaling the soldier behind. As the blade was still slicing, his hands came up and grasped the helmeted head of the man in front, twisting. The audible snap hardly registered as he turned for the reminder of his prey, who
were
now running in the opposite direction.

Before the soldiers could reach the end of the street, Zac was in front of them, plunging his hands into their chests. Tearing away, he let their hearts fall to the ground beside their dead owners.

The Gestapo officer skidded to a halt, dropping his revolver with a clatter. Twenty seconds had passed since the man had given the order to take him and all his men were dead. Zac felt the warm sticky blood drip down his fingers and onto the ground as he stepped forward. This was the part he would enjoy the most.

The officer began to plead for his life. Zac let out a laugh as he pushed the man against the wall of a closed cafe, hand tight around his neck. The stench of blood was driving him mad.

"Do you show mercy to those you kill?" he asked, seething as the man begged for mercy. His grip tightened around his neck and he began to choke. "Because I don't."

The man began to scream as Zac lunged, his fangs tearing into the officer's jugular. His blood tasted foul, like fear, murder and cowardice. He groaned as the blood filled his veins. This was what he wanted. As the man's heart stopped beating, he let him drop and staggered backwards, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Two minutes. It had only taken him two minutes to slaughter six armed men. This was exactly the thing he was trying to overcome. How had he let himself do this? He could have saved someone tonight, someone the Gestapo were looking for, but how did that make him any better than them? Slaughter and murder walked hand in hand.

Not wanting to be near the stench of his own failure, he fled into the darkness, backtracking across the city towards the hidden British units. He couldn't be found here. Challenge would see nothing but death. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

Zac limped through a field on the outskirts of Paris, blood running from the gunshot wounds in his stomach. Stumbling against a stone fence, he knelt in the dirt, grimacing. Digging his fingers into his own flesh he pulled the annoying bullets out and waited for the wounds to heal. As he sat there, hidden from he road, he caught the sounds of something approaching.

Peering over the fence, he caught sight of a convoy in the distance, travelling down another major road. But, he wasn't alone. Movement in the darkness of the country lane he was alongside gave him reason to pause. It was a group of six men, who he guessed had been sent out to scout the surrounding countryside. He hovered in the tree line, watching their progress. As they came closer he caught a familiar scent on the air. These men had been fighting. Gunpowder, sweat and blood filled his head.
The scent of war.
 

The scene he had fled back in Paris filled his mind and he stumbled backwards. A hairs breadth separated him from losing it again and if he did, these men would die. He didn't have the strength to stop anymore.

"Who goes there?" An unmistakable British accent came from the shadows, but Zac could only smell the man's blood. At some point he had been injured, but it didn't matter if it was only a scrape. In his state, he would still smell it.

Before he realized what he was doing, Zac found himself standing in the middle of the dark road staring down the six soldiers. They came to a sudden stop, rifles aimed at the unknown assailant that had magically appeared in front of them.

"Stop!" the lead soldier cried, but Zac kept walking forward, the order landing on deaf ears.

The crack of a single gunshot rang out across the silent countryside and Zac hissed as he felt the bullet lodge in his chest. He dropped to one knee in surprise and began to dig the bullet out with shaking fingers. The horrified eyes of the British soldiers were on him as he tore the annoying piece of metal from his flesh and tossed it to the side.

A growl came deep from his chest as he stood, eyes black and fangs bared. The sound of six rifles cocking didn't stop his advance. The smell of their fear egged him on, a game made especially for his darkest urges.

Then, he was directly in front of the lead soldier. He wrenched the rifle from the man's grasp and before he could stop himself, he swung the butt directly at the soldier's head, his skull splintering with a sickening crunch. As he fell to the ground, the remaining soldiers stumbled backwards, eyes wide with fear, hearts hammering in their chests.

The stench of blood from the soldier's caved skull was everywhere. As he felt his fangs grow in completely, he knew it was too late. The soldiers would run and it would be pointless.

Zac scarcely comprehended what he was doing as his fangs tore into flesh, the animal inside of him taking over. The remaining five men had fallen before they could fire another shot, their blood staining his face and hands, the taste of it on his tongue.

Stumbling backwards as he realized what he had done again, he fell into the mud at the side of the road and sobbed. Rolling onto his back he held his breath to stop the stench of blood from taking him again.

Monster
.