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Count Vicole and the Slayer MAG
The young Count Vicole breathed deeply as he stood on the balcony of his castle. “I love the moonlight’s glow upon my face,” he said to no one in particular. Little did he know that a simple thing like moonlight was just what this young vampire should fear.
Elsewhere a 16-year-old demon slayer sat in a quiet corner of a candlelit pub. He drank his chalice of banshee breath while he told the bartender of his adventures.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a hellhound leapt through, closely followed by a werewolf. Half the people were so drunk, they didn’t notice. As the hellhound slaughtered three people, the werewolf lunged at the demon slayer, but he was faster, dodging and drawing his pistol loaded with silver bullets. He took aim, but before he could fire, the hellhound snatched the gun.
Confronted by two monsters, the slayer reached for another weapon: his whip with shards of silver dangling from the tip, reflecting the glittering candlelight. The hellhound snarled and charged, but the slayer somersaulted through the air, landing on the bar. He cracked his whip and the werewolf turned into a human corpse, then evaporated, leaving only a fang behind.
The hellhound leapt and clawed at him. But the slayer had yet another trick up his sleeve, or rather a holy knife. He threw it, and it pierced the hellhound in the head. The beast shriveled into a dried-out carcass.
The young slayer retrieved his weapons. He suspected who had tried to kill him: the one who went by the name of Vicole.
Though Vicole tried to hide it, the slayer knew the count was a vampire. He intended to kill that vampire and get his memories back. Who was he and why were his reflexes so fast? They had saved him so many times. He was faster than any other slayer, faster even than any other human. First, he would need to get supplies before he paid a visit to the count.
In his tower, Vicole was drinking a tall glass of red wine. It didn’t taste as good as blood, but he had stopped drinking blood – it was inhumane, and he had sworn to protect humanity.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the front door, and somewhere in the distance a window broke. Vicole could hear booted feet running toward him. He checked that his knives were firmly attached to his belt, and then put on a cloak to conceal them. He grabbed his swords and was ready to defend his home or go to hell trying.
The young slayer rushed in behind his mercenaries.
There are only a few ways to kill a vampire. The first is to cut his head clean off. The second is to drive a wooden stake into his heart. The last is to infect his blood with werewolf saliva.
The slayer had taken the werewolf’s fang, still dripping with saliva, from the pub. Everything else he found at the weapons store. There was no way that this vampire would survive. The first hired hand rushed in and Vicole easily slaughtered him with his sword. The second man slashed at the count, who somersaulted, using an ancient fighting style to fend off a flurry of attacks from muscle number two.
The mercenary’s swings became clumsy as he tired. He dropped his guard for an instant, but that was all Vicole needed. After several minutes, a circle of mercenary bodies surrounded Vicole. His white gloves were now a dark red from where he was sliced, and his cloak was torn to shreds. He had thrown all his knives. Only the young demon slayer remained. The slayer had just a few cuts on his legs and arms.
He aimed his crossbow at Vicole’s heart and fired. If it hit, it would finally be over. To the slayer’s surprise, just before the shaft reached Vicole, the count exploded into a flurry of bats that flew to the second floor, where he rematerialized.
In a calm voice, the count said, “Please, I don’t want to hurt you. I have done nothing against you.” The slayer only felt anger. He knew the count had tried to kill him and had stolen his memories, but Vicole played innocent. How pathetic. The angered slayer took out the wolf’s fang and with all the hatred he had for the count, threw it at Vicole’s head. This was the end for Vicole.
The demon slayer threw something at him. He hadn’t listened when Vicole tried to explain his innocence. With a gloved hand the count caught the projectile. It was a wolf’s fang. Furious, he threw it back. It sank deep into the slayer’s arm.
Vicole knew it would be just a few hours before the full moon rose and this young slayer transformed into a werewolf and was under its curse forever. There was only one rumored cure. He would have to kill the master werewolf – the one older than even he. Vicole watched as the young slayer collapsed. He didn’t know why or how, but he knew he had to save this human.
Vicole tied up the slayer with strong silver chains. At least he would be safe, he hoped. The count went into the woods and made a deep cut in his arm to lure werewolves. There was only one problem with his plan. It would attract all the werewolves in the area – and there was no telling if the master werewolf would come.
The young slayer awoke with a start. He was lying on a stone slab, tied with chains. He remembered throwing the fang. Vicole had caught it and thrown it back. Then he’d blacked out. As he lay there, he thought maybe Vicole wasn’t the guilty one after all. He easily could have killed him, but he didn’t. The slayer could almost see the moonlight streaming from the window. He suddenly felt dizzy, full of new strength, and for some reason had an urge to cry out at the moon.
Blood seeped from a dozen places on the count’s body where he had been wounded by werewolves. Still, Vicole didn’t forfeit. He was a blur as his silver chain danced, reflecting the moonlight. Vicole had slaughtered dozens of werewolves already, but not the master wolf; he was running out of time, for the moon was almost full in the sky.
Suddenly, Vicole sensed something behind him in the underbrush. He cartwheeled out of the way as a dark shadow shot past. He turned toward the looming shadow. It was a werewolf, perhaps the master. Surprisingly, the wolf spoke: “Tell me, vampire, why would you risk your life for a human?” Vicole knew this had to be the master werewolf, the one who was the origin of all the others.
“There is who we really are, and who we need to be in times of hardship,” Vicole replied. “We must sometimes do things we don’t usually do to overcome these hardships.”
With that, the epic battle begin. Claws and silver clashed. Neither the vampire nor the werewolf backed down. Finally, the wolf crushed Vicole’s chain in his teeth. Then he spoke again: “This human, he has tried to kill you, but still you feel no hatred.”
Suddenly everything fit together in Vicole’s mind. “You were the one who took the slayer’s memories, and you planted a false memory of me doing it!” Vicole cried. He tried to calm his rage. At the same time, the master wolf’s blood thirst took over, and he howled at the moon. An eerie silence followed, the night as still as death.
Somewhere in the distance, something scared a flock of crows from their roost. Out of the cover of a patch of trees stepped the slayer. Only he was part werewolf; the transformation was almost complete. Vicole knew if he didn’t slay the master wolf soon, he would have to kill the slayer. He would not let that happen.
Vicole suspected that the slayer’s mind might have already become that of a blood-thirsty werewolf. “Slayer, I have summoned you,” said the master wolf. “Here is the one who stole the thing you hold dear. Let us attack him together and restore your memories.”
Vicole tried to protest, but he didn’t know if the slayer was listening. He bent on his hind legs, ready to maul Vicole. Just before he pounced, he did something strange. He gave a smile and a wink that only Vicole saw.
The slayer jumped, but changed direction in midair, clawing at the werewolf. The master wolf swatted the slayer and knocked him out cold.
It was just minutes until the transformation would be complete, and Vicole had no more weapons. Still, he attacked the master wolf now with bare hands, receiving a claw deep in his abdomen that sent him hurling through the air, landing beside the slayer.
Vicole was exhausted and knew this was the end. He had no strength, and the master wolf was getting closer. Just as all hope seemed lost, he noticed a key dangling from the slayer’s neck. It looked like sterling silver. At least Vicole hoped so. Mustering up an ounce of strength, he grabbed the glittering key, slid under the master wolf, and stabbed him in the gut.
At first nothing happened, and Vicole worried that perhaps the key was not silver. Then the master wolf vanished, leaving only a shining box. Vicole grabbed the key and crawled to the box. He was even more surprised when the key fit and it clicked open. Inside was a shimmering orb that floated toward the slayer. As soon as it touched his head, he started looking human again, and in a few minutes he regained consciousness.
Vicole was exhausted. “Let’s return to my castle. We can talk there,” he suggested.
Back at Vicole’s castle, the broken windows were fixed and the mercenaries buried, while the slayer tended to his wounds. Later that night, around a roaring fire, the slayer properly introduced himself as Wyriden the Elf. Vicole had heard that elves have incredible speed and grace, which explained why Wyriden was one of the best slayers.
Then Wyriden made an interesting business proposition. The two of them would become demon hunters. After Vicole thought for a minute, he agreed.
That night the elf and vampire rested. And for once in his life, even in the home of a vampire, Wyriden knew he was safe.
Overland Park, Kansas
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