He stood on the balcony, frowning down at the empty nightclub. Cutler must have spent an hour at least, replaying glitzy, neon-flashing scenes from his last visit. The werewolf had skulked towards the crowd, baring its sharp, yellowed fangs, as though a fox that had chanced upon a warren of rabbits. The vampire had leant across the railings, trembling and stomach churning at the prospect of making his first raw and oozy mark on history.

Then Hal had ruined everything.

The werewolf should have torn a few of the sweaty, screaming clubbers to shreds. Try and explain those deaths, media. Mr Snow and the rest of the snobby Old Ones would have kissed his feet then. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, shuddering breath, trying not to punch and kick in the walls, or fling tables and chairs over the balcony. He’d spent many days and nights sprawled in bed, groaning and writhing as he remembered his exchange with Mr Snow, his sticky, blistered flesh sliming the blankets.

A small window gawped above his head, letting in the last ruddy rays of the day. They gave the illusion of blood, splattered across the ceiling, dripping down the walls and pooling across the ground. Wishful thinking. The vampire felt heat on his back, causing him to step out of the way, as he did not wish to feel warm again. He’d undone a few of his shirt buttons, unintentionally exposing the top of a desiccated old burn scarring his chest. Now and again, his heavy black coat and posh suit rubbed against the others tear jerkingly.

Cutler took a long sip of his Cabernet Sauvignon, grimacing as he realised that it had turned lukewarm. He tipped the contents of his wine glass over the balcony.

He lumbered through the nightclub, hoping to find that slimy little rat. What was his name? Nick Cutlery? See! He could take the piss out of names too! He’d heard whispers about him going barmy and trying to force his way uninvited into Honolulu Heights, turning his face into a pizza that’d been stomped and trodden on by a whole marching band. Hoo hum! The Vampire Recorder was glad that he’d missed that nasty sight, being busy touring the world and having loads of hot sex with his new girlfriend.

Some sort of tepid fluid splattered over his head, smearing his spectacles and soaking his shabby green jacket and Team Edward t-shirt. Regus harrumphed loudly and peered up at the balcony, managing to make out the blurry outline of a man. He took off his glasses and rubbed them against a dry, crinkled corner of his coat. Good job the slippery snake was out of reach, otherwise he’d… He’d… He’d…

The Vampire Recorder licked his lips, relieved to taste wine rather than something more unsanitary. Blimey! Fancy wasting that nice plonk! He popped his glasses back on his snout, corrected vision confirming the identity of the man. He didn’t look all pizza-like and pulpy. Nobody would lose their lunch today. Perhaps the stories had been blown out of proportion?

“Cutler! What the bloody hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Do I look like a slab of beef that needs marinating to you?”

His wine soaked that fat old sod, who had that stupid rank. What was it called again? Dungeon Master? Keeper of Scrolls? Duchess of Cornwall? He didn’t really give a monkeys. Cutler somehow managed not to crack a grin, though he was laughing internally at the clumsy geek.

Marinate him?

“What?” he asked, crinkling his eyebrows. Such a moron. “So! You’ve come running back to Barry, now that the threat’s been blown to itty bitty pieces! That’s really courageous of you! While you lot got proper dead or fled with your tails between your legs, I was the only one left to humour those snobby, ancient fossils, you know.”

He replayed their meeting in his head, yet again, clenching his teeth and the empty wine glass as though trying to snap its long, delicate stalk. I’ve already forgotten your name…

CUTLER! He was NICK CUTLER! REMEMBER HIM!

“Why’re you here anyway?” he snapped hotly. “Have you turned into a creepy stalker or something?”

He scowled and harrumphed at the snide dig, but didn’t object or offer alternative explanations. The greasy snake was right, though he’d also wanted to keep his girlfriend out of harm’s way. He was delighted that somebody had blasted the Old Ones to bits, because now they could go back to gallivanting in the shadows.

“Your cronies mentioned something about you going barmy, getting burnt to a crisp and wandering around like a little lost puppy,” he replied. “Funny, you don’t look as though you’ve spent months drying up in the desert. You look more like some sort of weedy, arrogant pillock, who’s harbouring a big grudge about something.

“What happened in Barry?” Regus wished that they were both at the same level, so that he could shake him until his teeth rattled noisily. He frowned around the darkening, desolate nightclub, trying to spot some stairs to the lofty balcony. “Who killed them and the baby? Was it the supernatural trio? You? Buffy?”

Cutler kept his face blank, the insults failing to leave a mark on him. They were compliments, when compared to the devastating venom that’d trickled out of the brown stained mouth of Mr Snow.

“You screwed up the prophecy,” he remarked, momentarily ignoring his volley of questions. “The baby wouldn’t have destroyed us by staying alive. It would’ve destroyed them. We’re doomed now that it’s dead.”

So why weren’t they? He outstretched his arms, tilting his head to gape up at the ceiling, as though expecting a knobbly streak of lightning to strike him. Those scrolls had just been horoscopes and tea leaves!

“I don’t know who killed the baby.” He dropped his arms to his waist. “I was busy lying in bed, recovering from an attempted staking and third-degree burns.”

“You’re pulling my blooming leg, aren’t you?” he gaped at him. The baby would’ve destroyed humans? That was a bit of a shock! Obviously, he’d have to pay a nice little visit to the residents of Honolulu Heights, who would hopefully give him more helpful information than this sneaky little worm. “Blimey!

He paused to let the revelation fully sink into his ancient, albeit big, brain. He’d have to dig deep into his archives and try to find out more information, this time hopefully correct information. It must’ve been because of that missing scrap of the scroll. Damn!

Attempted staking and third-degree burns? Youch! He’d probably best change the subject to something more positive and exciting, at least presumably from the other vampire’s point of view.

“How was the visit with the Old Ones then?” he asked brightly. “I bet you scored major points, being the only one of us left!”

Cutler just stared at the old prick, wondering whether he was genuine or taking the piss out of him. Regardless of context, the remark sent a flash of fury pricking his skin, boiling his blood and roaring through his head.

Without thinking, he flung his empty wine glass at the bumbling clown, it smashing against the wall above his head. He’d always had inferior aim. He swore under his breath, though at least it relieved some of the tension. The duty solicitor wished that he had a few more objects to chuck at him. An anchor preferably.

He turned his back on him, clutching at his head and breathing in sharply.

“Christ!” Regus flinched and ducked down, tiny, jagged shards of glass raining on his skull. He should’ve brought his special hat as protection. “It went badly then?”

He rose back to his feet, giving his head a doggish shake and making a strange strangled sound. The Vampire Recorder winced up at the balcony, finding that the violent little arsehole had turned around and was “having a moment”.

“I guess it’s a bad time to talk about them? Or, well, one of them?” Regus ran a clumsy hand through what remained of his handsome golden locks, yelping and jerking it away as he pricked the meaty pad of his thumb. He sucked at it as though a hungry baby. Blood. Yum. “Did you know that Hettie wasn’t there when Stoker went kaboom? She’s holding a meeting next week.”

Cutler kept his back to the big, clumsy clown, glaring hard at the wall. He listened to his throaty babbling, his glare practically glowing in the darkening nightclub. An Old One was still left alive. Wasn’t that just delightful? They could go back to being a bunch of vampiric sheep, led by their little brat kid of a shepherd.

“I know,” he replied dully. “I’m the one who stuck around Barry, not you, so I should know what’s happening in my local community. Thanks. I suppose she’ll expect us to attend.”

He wanted to leave the nightclub, but that would mean taking the stairs or lift, and being on the same level as him. Ugh. With his puerile mind, the keeper of scrolls ought to get bored first and go away. Cutler was good at waiting.

He grumbled under his breath at the sarcasm. Rotten little prick. He was tired of wasting his time and breath on him. Regus might as well find somebody who appreciated him, such as the ravishing Michaela. Ooh. Yeah.

“You going to show your silly face at the meeting?” he asked, slowly making his way towards the exit. “Or want me to make up an excuse on your behalf? You fell down the stairs? Ate some dodgy curry? Got your little pecker caught in your zip again?”

Emphasis on little.

He pulled a disgruntled face at the last remark. “Just keep your big, uncoordinated mouth shut, okay? I haven’t decided yet, not that it’s your business anyway. Why the chivalry? Feeling guilty about deserting us?”

You knew his feelings on certain vampires who deserted him.

Cutler gripped the balcony railings, trying to hide his eagerness at seeing the pathetic geek sod off out of his sight. A scrawny teenage boy, with pitted skin and a protruding set of upper teeth, took this opportunity to swagger into the nightclub.

“Hey! Hey!” he honked like a duck. “I see the party’s already started!”

“Not in the slightest,” he responded to the snide dig, his face grave and grumpy. Regus hoped he didn’t show up at the meeting, then they wouldn’t have to tolerate his stupid wisecracks and biting criticisms every three seconds.

He went to leave the nightclub, but some unfortunate looking teen was blocking his way. The Vampire Recorder had probably once resembled him, all greasy ginger hair, wonky glasses and dirty Timbuk3 t-shirt. Forget the t-shirt. He’d been a teenager way before the birth of their blooming great-great-great grandparents.

“Sorry, we’re too old to party,” he told him, turning his hard, suspicious scowl on the other vamp. “Cutler! Are you coming?”

Regus didn’t trust him alone with the lad. He liked to deny arseholes their drinks.

Regus expected him to follow? Had he gotten a new job as a comedian and was practicing lacklustre jokes on him? Cutler opened his mouth, ready to tell him to kindly go away, but realised that he didn’t want to stay in the nightclub with an annoying, pustule riddled kid. He might catch a horrible skin condition. Mind you, he had recovered phenomenally from blisters and boils.

“I’ll get my coat,” he deadpanned.

He took the stairs two at a time, sliding one of his hands down the pleasantly chilly banister rail. It reminded him of the ice baths that he’d enjoyed earlier in his recovery. His burnt, aching skin had practically caused the room to steam.

Cutler met the pair of them at the bottom, gesturing at the other vampire dramatically. “Lead the way, mighty Keeper of Scrolls!”

“I am The Vampire Recorder!” he corrected him, keeping his voice low so the teenager wouldn’t hear anything of interest.

Regus lumbered out of the nightclub, hoping that he had the slippery little worm in tow. He strolled down the quiet street, the sun lower and duller in the sky, causing buildings and streetlights to have long, distorted shadows.

“What did you think of the bombing then?” he asked conversationally. “You pleased or disappointed about their deaths?”

He strolled after the crazy old coot, rolling his eyes and sighing now and again. What did he think of the bombing? He was asking a lot of personal questions.

“A bit of both,” he shrugged indifferently. “I’m pleased they’re dead, but disappointed that I didn’t get to kill them.”

That certainly would’ve cemented him in history. He could’ve proper died happy then.

Since the Keeper of Scrolls was in a bare your soul sort of mood, Cutler might as well ask a question that’d been nagging at him: “Why did you lie to us about the baby? Why did you help them?”

He’d wanted to kill them?

His mouth dropped open, only widening as he asked those awkward questions. Regus harrumphed self-importantly, before replying: “I decided to side with the good guys. Why did you want to kill the Old Ones? Have you turned over a new leaf as well?”

Blimey! The world had gone barmy!

Side with the good guys? Turned over a new leaf? He let out a bitter little laugh. Cutler thought about smiling and nodding, but the sugary thought nearly made him retch in his mouth. He didn’t side with the good and bad, having been marooned on his own.

“You’re funny,” he remarked, his dry tone indicating the contrary. “Leopards can’t change their spots. See you at the meeting.”

He walked away.

Exit!

Regus harrumphed again, scowling at the slippery little worm, who was busy wriggling his way out of the conversation. He was still rotten then. Typical.

He lumbered off in the opposite direction, trying to remember the bus times back to work.

-End-