101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

1

My heart kicks against my ribcage as I feel the soil cave beneath the heel of my boot, and it is all I can do to find support in my other leg, sending a short prayer to the Higher Powers that my heel digs into solid ground.

It sinks into the soft moss covering this section of the cemetery—and it holds.

And though I know better, the thought doesn't stop crossing my mind and locking my muscles: Has the time finally come?

Out of all the ways I saw myself meeting what my sistren and I have dubbed The Slayer's Fate, stepping into a softened plot—in which a musty-dusty vampire would pull me into their musty-dusty grave—was not even on my Top 100.

It is only a fleeting thought, however, immediately laid to rest when I don't feel the cold fingers of the newly-undead wrapping around my ankle. And I realize it isn't a fresh plot with a fresh sire clawing for its first taste of fresh blood. Fate had a different plan for the evening...

...And it involves a rabbit hole hidden in the flattened grass, the sluggy secretions of the recently deceased some-type-of-slug demon I'd just killed with my last stake, and the soiling of my stylish-yet-affordable heeled combat boot.

It's almost disappointing in its predictability. I knew the chances were low that I had made the mistake of walking onto disturbed ground. Not like this, in a boring cemetery after having bested a boring group of boring demons. Each step I take in a graveyard is always made consciously; the smell of fresh dirt is one I've come to scent quite well, steering clear of it when unnecessary and heading straight for it when it matters. That is how I was trained—A vampire slayer of my experience would never be foolish enough to prance about a cemetery without considering the condition of the plots I'm dancing on. Should never be foolish enough.

And this has been too average of a patrol night to fuck up.

But I've also been trained to be prepared for anything—even if I deem it highly unlikely. So even if I'm confident that I'm too attentive, too skilled, too damn good, to fall victim to the grabby hands of a new sire, I can never rule out the possibility.

Arrogance kills slayers.

I grit my teeth at the squishy slime encasing my boot up to the toe—at yet another article of clothing to add to the burn pile once I find a replacement—and remind myself how grateful I am that I'm not dead yet. That this mistake isn't the stupid, fatal, and final one.

A thick sea of clouds veils the full moon, silvering the weathered gravestones and carved monuments as I weave between the tightly packed rows and columns. This part of the cemetery is too old and has too many large trees for the fogged lampposts to be useful for what I do here—here doesn't even have a clear path, covered in moss and ivy, traveling from one headstone to another. Much more neglected, unlike the section to the south.

Despite my slayer abilities granting me near-vampiric night vision, at this angle, with my own shadow swallowing my black boots and the thick grass beneath me, I can only feel that I've stepped into the sluggy secretions; its owner—a jaundice-skinned male with green-black horns wearing a ratty tee-shirt and jeans—is sprawled on the ground to my left, his lower half smooshing a patch of wildflowers. Dead.

I raise my boot to observe the substance's viscosity, noting how it stretches and squelches as it webs from the ground—and wondering if I should expect my leather to start melting sometime soon by some acidic attribute. It is likely harmless, since thirty seconds have gone by and my shoes have yet to disintegrate. Even still, I'm careful not to let it touch my gloves, my exposed fingertips—that's just asking to be infected with something, like an aspect of the demon itself.