Blooding

We left the Legion's Lausanne Operations Center just after 21:30 and headed for Lausanne's beating heart: St. François or "Sainf" to the locals. From the roof of the Portes du St-François – a mini-mall with only high-end stores - I let my gaze sweep back and forth across the open expanse. Snow swirled and danced from the gusting winter winds.

To the immediate right of the building, we perched on was the Manora Restaurant – they serve university-grade cafeteria chow on a good day – and across from that was the steep Rue du Petit Chêne wound down Lausanne's central train station. Sainf is the modern commercial centre of Lausanne, dominated by the bulk of the post office along one road. Opposite that is the Eglise St-François, the city's oldest church and historical landmark.

The church stood on a narrow ridge - the Bourg - between two gorges, and before the nineteenth century, it was a separate, wealthier community. The Rue de Bourg is the glitzy shopping street that rose steeply from behind the church, lined with restaurants and luxury shops. To the immediate left of the Portes du St-François was the Rue Pépinet that led down to the Flon District.

Once full of merchants and traders, the warehouses and offices have converted into dance clubs, alternative cafés, galleries, and theatre spaces. Typical Friday nights in Lausanne tend to see the entire city in St. François for dinner and drinks and then on to any of the city's six major nightclubs. I was thankful that it was nearing Christmas as this emptied the streets somewhat. Lausanne's still prowling serial killer probably helped keep the roads clear after sunset.

Throughout humanity's history, serial killers and serial rapists, spree killers, and acts of violence have shocked and stunned the world. Some are deliberate; some are purely random. Lausanne, unfortunately, had become both the home and hunting grounds of one such psychopath. His reign of terror had seen over a dozen women disappear in six months.

"The Eraser" was his unofficial nickname. I thought only the American media were vapid enough to credit and nickname these disturbed individuals. Despite that, the name was fitting: His victims ceased to exist, erased from existence. Law enforcement had dead-end missing person cases with zero interrogations and suspects. The only thing left behind were the pleas from the families and friends of the disappeared, haunted for years to come.

It was late, and the snow underfoot was thick enough not to crunch where we walked. Along with the many changes comes that crazy metabolism that makes us immune to extremes of heat and cold. I still saw Tamara's eyes dart towards the Starbucks as the last two employees left, locking the door behind them and dropping a large Starbucks paper bag at the base of the door. The employees hurried away.

I rose from my crouch and stepped off the side of the building. It was a five-floor drop before I landed in the snow, rolling to avoid injury. I grabbed the bag and returned to our perch, nearly losing my balance on a patch of ice.

Thankfully I didn't spill anything and rejoined Tamara, seated overlooking Place du St. François. I pulled my coffee and made a point of ignoring her frown of disapproval as I sipped mine, embracing the warm bitterness. The frown became a disapproving head shake as I pulled a Cinnamon roll from the bag and started chewing on it.

"Venti Caramel Macchiato with extra vanilla syrup and caramel topping." Tamara sighed and took the offered cup. One of the jokes about being in the Legion was that you had to be a caffeine and sugar addict. I took another bite, "Figured you'd want a snack."

"I don't like those cinnamon rolls –too sweet," she replied, even as she sipped her coffee with extra vanilla, caramel topping, and three sugars. She shook the snow out of her hair.

"Who said anything about a cinnamon roll?" I countered. She reached into the bag and smiled. The night didn't seem too cold or dark for those brief instants as she pulled the blueberry muffins from the pack. Her winter jacket was a crumpled pile around her feet, and I took my eyes off the street to study the tattoo on her arm and its intricate details.

The angel tattoo has delicate, almost elfin features, clad in an armoured cuirass with heavy shoulder guards. Slung over its shoulder was perhaps a spear, with a short sword in one hand carrying a heavy broad curved shield in the other. There was no mistaking it for anything other than a warrior angel with wings spread behind it, the tips of the feathers stained with dust and grime and a long five o'clock shadow. I looked up and realized that she'd caught me staring. She grinned, "You'll get yours soon enough." I knew that.

The seconds stretched as the hours ticked by one lazy minute at a time. It was there, on the wind. I could almost taste it. The snow had piled up on the ledge of the building, and my coffee cup was half-buried in the snow when I spotted it. My voice must have sounded like ice cracking when liquor is poured over it, "Down the street. Non-human, female, shoulder-length red hair, white jacket with fur-lined collar and cuffs, white pants and knee-high boots."

I've trained to spot them by how they move, dress, and smell, leaving the taste of thick parchment and tomb dust in the back of your throat. There was no need for binoculars as the vampire led its inebriated meal penis first. From our perch, Tamara studied my target and confirmed my target. Surviving training was the starting point. This was the moment to make a difference, contribute, and take the fight to the eternal enemy. A true blooding against the enemy.

I drew my guns and took a slow deep breath to centre myself. Despite all our supernatural strength and abilities, we still use guns because swords, claws, and fangs generally leave too many questions unanswered.

Below, the odd couple halted, and he slumped, having been cracked across the back of the head with enough strength to kill. We were up high on the roof and, more importantly, downwind of the target. I walked off the side of the building, and the snow crunched beneath my boots as I walked towards them.

She spun around, and her nose twitched as she took in not just my appearance but probably my scent, which was more animal than human and feline than canine. I straightened, and she hissed a warning, "Find your own damn meal."

Her eyes, originally blue, turned into orbs of red fire upon black. Throughout history, you hear about great battles prefaced by commentary and exchanged words. Her jacket opened to reveal the black lace wrap-around top, the embroidery, done in white, stood out against the basic black. But her arms were a blur of motion, and then the bullets crunched into my body armour, one of my ribs cracking beneath the cluster of impacts.

I returned fire, the red beams of my laser sights chasing her as her reverse somersault took her over the nearest vehicle. I dropped and sprayed gunfire beneath the van, shredding all four tires.

Predictably, she dove aside and out and sent a return barrage that I could narrowly avoid with a roll across the ground. Her bullets struck the wall of the building and walked up the concrete, shattering glass windows and doors. But she kept the pressure on, advancing with short controlled bursts. I rolled back to my feet and skittered out of the lead storm, returning fire whenever I could get a bead upon her through the falling snow.

She rolled behind the same van, no doubt seeking cover for a quick reload. But she'd made the mistake of assuming that I was fully human. My coat flared around me as empty magazines flew from my guns partway through a forward flip-and-turn combination. Fresh clips slammed home at the apex of my jump, and both guns howled their fury as I descended.

The first few shots sparked off the uneven cobblestone pavement and a sorry-looking van before the rest found their mark. She jerked and danced in time to the bullet impacts. I tumbled left, partly out of necessity, as a distraction as I reloaded again.

She took the direct approach, coming around the front. Instead of engaging, I circled away, letting her waste ammo, and use her precious energy to heal the numerous wounds. I swept around to reengage at point-blank range. She barely moved, and I got sucker-punched.

Her fist caught me in the side, and she followed with a lightning-fast snap kick. I could barely turn the foot aside, but the heel of her damn boot punched through my hand like a knife. I got my hand back and focused a moment's attention on healing my hand and preventing the loss of my middle finger.

Only my abnormal reflexes let me duck and weave through her bullet barrage, and there was no end to her potent lead storm. Glass and snow broke and crunched until they backed into a corner.

The first bullet caught my left arm, frigid pain tearing through my bicep. A stabbing pain followed in my right thigh. Broken bones and tattered muscles refused to move. Another bullet ripped through my left shoulder, throwing me onto my back. I rolled clear as her bullets gouged the pavement.

The snow was cold, helpful to dull some of the pain and staunch some of the blood. Already my right shoulder had healed. The bullet in my left shoulder had just been pushed out of my flesh when she appeared, towering over me. Then she picked me up with one hand. My fingers desperately twitched when I found one of the magazines still on my belt. I palmed several bullets as her eyes glowed red in triumph.

The rest of her impassive and unimpressed face broke into a smile that was more fangs than teeth as she hoisted me to my feet. The scar that bisected her lower lip and chin began to open and bleed her face split open as she wrapped her hand around my throat and began to squeeze.

Her face opened like a flayed flower of pulsing gristle, meat, and bone, inches closer to my chest, eager to feed.

I grabbed her flaming red hair with my free hand, wound it around my fist, and yanked hard.

It sounded like tearing fabric as a clump of hair came away with a portion of her scalp. Her eyes widened, and she roared in a mix of surprise and pain. I slapped the palmed bullets into her distended maw and slapped it shut with my hands. Her eyes bugged open just a little wider as I jerked back and drove my barely healed knee into her face. The bullets ignited and blasted forward into the back of her head.

Her face exploded.

I was showered in blood, grey matter, and bone fragments as she slumped while I hit the pavement. I lay there for a moment and enjoyed the luxury of feeling pain. It told me I was still alive and, more importantly, I'd survived.

The pain slowed me, and a hunger clawed at my brain as my wounds healed. Fortunately, there wasn't much clean-up as I threw the thermite detonator on the corpse and confirmed it had ignited as I turned my attention to the concussed victim.

I dragged him to the nearest bus stop, planted him in a seat, took his wallet and watch, and used his cell phone to call the police and give his location asking for help, making things look like a mugging gone wrong.

The police pulled up within minutes of my call, and I rejoined Tamara on the roof, watching as the police tended to the very fortunate prey. Tamara had not interfered because she felt that I had it under control.

She gave me a tight nod, and there was the hint of an approving smile on her face, "Congratulations, and welcome to the Legion."

Tamara and I were whispers on the wind as we ran the rooftops, leaving the police to do the civilian clean-up, none the wiser to what had just transpired.