Chapter 2: The Mayor's Feast

A woman tending to the plants in the reception hall jerked around. The watering can slipped from her hand, spilling its contents onto the floor. She smelled fresh, young, with a hint of fear that Reuben particularly relished.

"Sir?" she asked, after recovering from her initial shock. "Can I help you?"

"I'll help myself. Carry on," Reuben replied as he made his way toward the grand staircase opposite the door. The overpowering stench of frying fat, permeating the entire house, told Reuben enough.

"The mayor is currently occupied," the woman hurried after him, standing in his way. "Please come back later."

Reuben grabbed the woman and pushed her aside. She let out a startled cry and retreated from him. A foolish woman! There was only one thing the mayor of Willowbrook could be occupied with. Lips pressed together, Reuben climbed the stairs and turned to the right. There was the dining room, as he knew from his numerous visits. The likelihood that the fat man was inside was high. In the dining room or in his bed.

Reuben swung the double doors open with such force that they crashed against the wall. The stench was most intense here. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. As expected, the mayor sat at a lavishly set table in his finest, grease-stained suit, gazing at him with full cheeks.

"Who let you in?" he snapped at Reuben and swallowed the bite he had been chewing on, fat dripping from his sausage-like, jewel-encrusted fingers.

"I did," Reuben replied coldly, positioning himself in front of the table. The scent of roasted, dead animals penetrated his nostrils so pungently that it did him no good not to breathe. Humans had no idea what was good. They were filled with the only delicious thing this world had to offer. The thought of that sweet red life elixir made Reuben 's tongue eagerly glide over his lips. He watched the blood pulsate in the mayor's jugular vein and struggled to control the impulse to launch himself at him right away.

The mayor cast an indignant look at him. "This is not a charity meal! Get your own food!"

"I will, soon enough, don't you worry," growled Reuben , regretfully tearing his gaze away from the throbbing artery.

"Why I am here... Have you made a decision to release Scarlett from the asylum?"

The mayor snorted derisively. "There's nothing to decide! That witch is as crazy as the rest of them! With her strange disease, she'd infect us all and make us lose our minds too! I'll never allow her to set foot outside the asylum!"

Reuben 's eye twitched. Wrong answer. Stay calm. Think of the horrors of the Crusade. Don't pounce. After all, fat people didn't taste as good anyway.

"You said, the next time..."

"There won't be a next time! Get out! Otherwise, I might consider you moving into the asylum with your red-haired tramp!"

Reuben stared at him. There it was, the point at which he would drop his guard for the first time. The realization felt good, oddly calming.

"Is this your final word?" He was too forgiving, always had been. He should have exterminated this lot weeks ago for what they did to Scarlett. Yet he was giving them one last chance to save themselves.

"Yes! Now, go away and leave me to my duties as the mayor!"

Reuben smiled and turned away. The mayor had just signed Willowbrook's death warrant.

With brisk steps, he left the mansion and Willowbrook. When he had distanced himself enough from the village, he allowed his body's contours to disappear once more. But instead of turning into shapeless mist, his form contracted, forming small, leathery wings. After his death, every Nightstalker learned this ability, just like a human child learns to walk: stumbling a few times at first, learning it once, and never forgetting it.

For the rest of the day, he would rest in his castle, returning to Willowbrook when darkness fell. This cursed village would pay for what it had done to him and his beloved. He would leave no witnesses. In a few days, the surrounding villages would believe that Willowbrook had fallen victim to a hungry pack of wolves.

The time for revenge had finally arrived.

Reuben opened his eyes. Around him was such profound darkness that not even he could see anything. He slowly opened the lid of his coffin and stretched. The few hours of sleep had done him good. Now it was time for some action.

He stepped out of his coffin, and the torches on the walls of his crypt lit up as if by magic. He didn't need to change his clothes; why bother? Since his dead body didn't produce sweat, he didn't stink like the filthy human rats. The only thing he fastened was his saber, although he doubted he would need it. There were better methods and means to kill people. More efficient ones.

On his way to his breakfast, Reuben ruminated continuously about the various torture methods he had always wanted to try. How long had it been since he had properly and extensively tortured and murdered someone? How long had it been since he last heard the terrified screams of a human? He didn't know, and that alone was bad enough. It had been too long. His fear of another Crusade against the Nightstalkers had made him cautious. He had perfected his methods of bloodsucking so that his victims didn't even realize their blood had been taken. With a bite, he could numb them, and when they woke up a few hours later, there was no sign he had ever been there.

This method of acquiring blood was efficient because he didn't have to kill people. He could tap them like a farmer milking his cows. But in the long run, it was highly unsatisfying. His black soul craved screams of pain, wanted to see the panic in his victims' eyes, wanted to hurt, maim, and slowly and painfully kill them. Finally, the time had come to unleash the beast within and give in to his urges unhindered.