Blood And Wings

Blood and Wings Eden Ashwood Copyright Copyright 2023 by Ashwood Publishing - All rights reserved. In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved. Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher. Contents 1. Chapter 1: VINCENT 2. Chapter 2: ABIGAIL 3. Chapter 3: VINCENT 4. Chapter 4: ABIGAIL 5. Chapter 5: ABIGAIL 6. Chapter 6: VINCENT 7. Chapter 7: ABIGAIL 8. Chapter 8: VINCENT 9. Chapter 9: ABIGAIL 10. Chapter 10: ABIGAIL 11. Chapter 11: VINCENT 12. Chapter 12: VINCENT 13. Chapter 13: ABIGAIL 14. Chapter 14: VINCENT 15. Chapter 15: ABIGAIL 16. Chapter 16: ABIGAIL 17. Chapter 17: VINCENT 18. Chapter 18: ABIGAIL Chapter 1: VINCENT The scents in the night air were familiar to him: blood, ash, salt, and fear. It was not the true stink of a human quivering in terror, all sweat, a sheep recognizing the wolf for what it was. No, this was the faint, curdled tang of a vampire’s terror, a scavenger being taken down by a far superior predator. Scent was not the only indicator; profound fear trembled out from the pitiable man attempting to crawl away from him on the wet concrete, with shuddering gasps of pain and shock. His guts, pale and dark-veined from his state of undeath, ground beneath him in his futile effort to escape. Perfectly polished leather shoes sounded off in a steady metronome as he approached the last straggler. In his route along the side of the shipping container, he stepped neatly over a withered, headless body in his path. His classically masculine frame cast a dark shadow in his towering approach, each stride purposeful in their stalking measure. The eternal paleness of his own undead state was stark against the inky black of his neatly trimmed hair and beard. Between his perfectly manicured styling and the all-black, tailored suit he wore, he looked as though he was better suited to a boardroom, not a massacre in a dockyard. “No, damn it,” the final victim wheezed, hacking out blackened blood as he attempted to drive himself up on shaking palms. What few inches he had managed to earn himself were instantly lost when the foot of his pursuer cracked down on the back of his spine, driving him down to the ground with a growling gasp of agony. “I didn’t believe them when they said you went batshit crazy, Moreau,” the dying vampire wheezed. “Everyone knows that you’ve broken off, and now you’re out here butchering us?” This whelp’s spite was weaponizing itself into fury, tangible in the air to Vincent’s senses that had been refined by centuries of hunting. The wretched thing writhed a bit, both in reaction to his open torso being compressed against ground and with the wild fury of an animal in a trap. “You fucking geezer. Val was right, the old ones either go nuts or go into a coma. Now the clans are gonna put you down, you rabid piece of shit!” A light huff left Vincent Moreau, the momentary quirk of his mouth disturbing the shape of his tidily trimmed beard. “I must commend you,” he uttered, deep voice chilling in its stoicism, “for having the bravery in your final moments to speak so ill to your elders.” The fine silk of his suit gently wrinkled as he crouched, digging the leg on the other vampire’s back in deeper, leaning his forearm against the bend of his knee. Piercing blue eyes held down his victim, hooded and imperial, locking with the profile glare of the man beneath him. The fanged snarl of the nameless fodder was met only by the frigid regality of Vincent’s expression. “Eat shit and die, you—” Whatever insults left upon that tongue were silenced, as the edge of his heel crunched through bone and muscle, obliterating the heart which carried parasitic lifeblood through the body. A gasping death rattle shook out of his kill, the sustaining influence of the curse fading. Vincent stood, heedless of the gore left upon his foot. The remains began to wither, becoming more arid husk than the wet mess of a true human corpse. Nearly two-hundred years old, his analytical mind noted from the state of decay. If only someone had done the same to him, when he was that age. He stared up, a moment of stillness taken in the silence only death afforded. The aged blinding gold of industrial lights created a haze to the air. Above them burned the bright blue lights of the Vincent Thomas Bridge, as garish and orderly as miniature stars might be. It had been so long since he had known true daylight, but humanity had seen fit to bring some semblance of it to these nocturnal hours. So much had changed in the long years he had roamed this world. A handkerchief was brought out from within the lapels of his suit jacket as he began to stride away, gore fastidiously wiped from his fingers. The bloody carnage he’d left in his wake was abandoned, left to litter the dockyard. Normally, he was quite thorough at cleaning his handiwork, but the mess would serve to deliver a message. The pop of suppressed gunfire ahead alerted him that his men had made contact themselves. Everything was going according to plan. He would allow nothing less. Rounding a corner, he observed the tactically dressed figures stepping their way over bullet-dappled bodies. One of the flanking soldiers turned and noted him, weapon lowering as he approached his superior. “My liege,” came from behind the paramilitary mask obscuring the man’s face. “We’ve secured the area and confirmed the correct cargo containers from their manifest.” “Satisfactory work, Kuwarjeet,” Vincent replied, looking past him to observe the rest of the squad succinctly carrying out their