8,148. That’s how old I am today. It’s strange, writing down the actual number, my hand feels strange about forcing the pencil to shift into the strange loops and lines of such a large number. Especially in regards to myself. I never assumed I would live this long, either because of my drug use, line of work, or simply running out of reasons to carry on. The latter most reason seemed the more plausible as I made my way through the empty cemetery some 200 years prior.

   A ghoul had taken up residence there if I can remember correctly, which unfortunately I can. Being half vampire is a 100% guarantee that I may remember each and every grisly detail of that night, of every night, down to a T. But, all that aside. This ghoul was nothing out of the ordinary for me, just a spirit that thought it had the stones to dominate a church resting place for it’s own.

   It did not take much to easily dispose of it, a few quick movements, not even a decibel of my strength was required actually, I remember feel disappointed about the entire episode. Hah, ‘feeling disappointed’...vampires do not feel anything at all, but I suppose that dhampir such as myself can, though not very deeply. Emotions are of no use to us, but, again, I find myself getting off-topic. Forgive me.

   Continuing the story. I had just killed the ghoul and began to clean myself off, blood covered my white clothing, much to my disgust. I hate it when my clothes are ruined, dry-cleaning bills alone take up a large percentage of my pay every week. Of course, that is not to say I do not make any money at all. On the contrary, I make more than enough as an Interfectoris Lamias....a Demon Killer. As I cleaned off my hands, I caught sight of the moon, her full face glowing like a gentle pearl in a sea of blackness. The moment of peace seemed to overwhelm me, more so than I had intended it to, and I lost track of time. Maybe I stood there for five, ten, fifteen minutes, mulling over my life up to that point. More specifically, the smell in the air...roses...from the graves...reminded me of my mother’s perfume...

   My mother. Again, the pen feels as alienated to the words as my own mind does. I mouth the words as I write them, to make it seem more real to me, but this fails miserably. It was my mother who was the human contributor to my DNA, and I often thank her and despise her for that. My father, no, he wasn’t that at all, The King is more like it, suggest that she dispose of me when I was still a growing thing inside of her. After all, The King already had an heir to the throne, a son, Vergil, who was also and more importantly a legitimate child. What need of he of another son? I am told that my mother told him, he may not need a son, but she did. So, she gave birth to me April the 25th.

   My early childhood was nothing too special. I lived with my mother, Moyra, in a small bungalow in the country, away from the palace. She raised me as best she could, but I was still The King’s son...I was too much like him to be ignored. This included my eyes, a sharp blue that I can almost remember my mother shivering when she looked at me, and my often uncontrollable blood lust, which all but decimated the local farming community’s supply of livestock. Eventually, my mother could not care for me anymore, and brought me to the palace, with the intention of killing The King and then myself. I suppose even as a child, I was repulsive.

   But, to make a long story short, things did not go as planed, and my mother was the one who ended up dead, by my own hand. Going back to the night I thought of all of this, I was so lost in thought about my mother, that I did not take any notice of the figure that came to stand beside me. In fact, I would have continued to ignore him completely if not for the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in my direction, that and the fact he spoke.

“Hey.” was all he said, I can remember that perfectly.

   I glanced at him sideways, trying to remember more of my mother, unwilling to let that moment of nostalgia slip away into the wee hours of the morning. He was small in frame, very thin, with messy black hair that looked like it had neither been washed nor brushed in ages, and pale skin. At first, I thought he was a vampire, which would mean that his fate was sealed as far as I was concerned; he would have to die. But then I noticed that he was a demon instead, and therefor, not as bad as a vampire. And definitely not as much of a threat. I looked him over, taking note of the intricate markings around his eyes, red, the same color as the orbs that currently were fixed on me.

“Helllooooo? Earth to killer!”

   He spoke again, this time waving his hand in front of my face. There was no point in ignoring him anymore, so I turned to him, my face as apathetic as I could muster it to be. As we exchanged words, and eventually physical blows, that annoying voice in my head spoke to me, and I can assure you, he is as far from a conscience as possible. Dante in face, is the antithesis of what a conscience is; the devil, if you will, that sits on one’s metaphysical shoulder and tells one to do un-Christian things. The problem for me is simple; I am not a Christian, and therefore, have no ‘angel’ to help me. Vampires are not very religious creatures, and we do not believe in angels at all, although sometimes I wish I did. To say that Dante is an angel, however, in the concept of an unrestful spirit is true. He is in fact, the spirit of a vampire who was council to The King, who eventually grew too big for himself, and was killed, his spirit imprisoned in a violin. I released him, but, that is another story for another day.

   All the while, as the fight between this demonic youth and myself, I say youth simply because at the time, I took him to be the sixteen years he appeared to be, Dante did nothing but point out what I already knew. He was a demon. He was an enemy. And he was strangely attractive, but who could say for what reason. I suppose even then, when the fight died down and ended more or less, I could sense the large amount of sorrow and pain that leaked from his eyes like noxious gasses from a tank. For a demon, the way to it’s power it through it’s eyes, as a demon killer it helps one to be aware of this. Just what was causing such distress I did not know at the time, nor did I particularly care to, honestly.

   After more words were exchanged, I had begun to walk away, when noises distracted me. Apparently, my little demonic adversary had made more ‘friends’ than myself that evening. Normally, I enjoy watching demons kill each other, it makes for less work on my part. But something was nagging me about this one...about that demon youth who had put up such a good fight against me. Most are not that good, most would never have peaked my interest, even slightly, as this one had. So, when he asked to hire me to take care of his little friends, I agreed without fully understanding the reasons why.

   I made quick work of these other demons, and turned to the scrawny one that had temporarily become my employer. My rates vary from job to job, depending on the kill itself, and the employer. If I thought they could afford my average prince, somewhere in the seven-figure range, then I asked for a few zeros higher. If not, say if I was hired by a poor community, I asked for a much lower figure, and so on and so on. At the time, I simply wanted to be rid of this annoying little bug of a demon, and named the highest prince I could think of...which happened to be the price that was on my own head at the time. I am worth quite a lot, and I find the whole thing darkly humorous. It see just how much another creature’s life is worth to another.

   It was then, the demon offered me his true name, something that caught me off-guard I have to admit. For a demon to offer it’s name, the only thing it can own in today’s world under the rules imposed by The King, could prove to be very useful. But, that would mean living with another person, and the thought of that bothered me. I prefer my solitude when I can get it, which I cannot anymore so it seems. After a verbal fight, I eventually gave in, and Reizenemo became my personal slave for the delegate 200 years, but for every day conversation, should I decide I even wanted to talk to him at all, I was to use Zero, his common name.

   That was nearly two-hundred years ago, maybe more, and so much has happened to be since then. Creatures which of the large number include a demon who turned out to be Zero’s brother, a vampire/demon halfbreed, three humans, of them on was turned into a vampire, have tripped and fallen through my life as if they were some sort of black parade. Although now, in the deep recesses of my mind, I can call them all friends, and I am glad to have known them. But, most of all, I am very glad to have known Zero.

   That night, I may have been apprehensive about taking this demon with me, and was dreading the coming 200 years, but now, I am glad for all of them. Even though his ‘contract’ binding him to me is over, he still remains with me, no longer a slave but something much, much more. As a friend, a confidant, a lover. I smile as I write that last word, ‘lover’ being written by a creature who has admitted that he cannot feel emotions. I may not be able to feel them as others do, but this scrawny little demon has taught me how, and I am afraid I am not too good of a student. It took me quite some time before I realized just how I felt towards him, and I often mock my own stupidity inwardly. The truth now is, I love him, in every sense of the word.

   As I write this, in fact, he has been sleeping beside me in bed, his head facing towards me. I myself am sitting up in bed with this bit of paper supported by a romance novel I am reading on my knees. Strangely enough, I enjoy such books of passion, lust and love, only because I cannot seem to understand why mortal woman devote themselves to this ideal. In an analytical sense, these novels are quite interesting to read. But, that aside.

   I glance at Zero now, watching him sleep peacefully as the sunlight outside grows brighter and brighter. His right arm is thrown across the pillow under his head, and his left arm is stretched across his body towards me, his fingers intertwined with my own. He is so small compared to myself that, in moments like this I find it almost... ‘cute’. Like he is a child’s doll, warn with the abuses that the child cannot imagine, but so desperate for love that he will be whatever the child wishes; a patient in a made-up hospital, a guest at an imagined tea party, a student in a pretend school. Personally, if I am to consider him my plaything, I only wish him to be happy.

   He is awake now, his red eyes drowsy with sleep and what could very well be contentedness. Zero gazes at me and smiles a little, one of his reserved smiles that I only recently have  managed to tease from him, and I cannot help but smile back. He sits up on his elbows, leaning against my bare shoulder, says nothing as he looks at me with question in his eyes. I am usually a late riser, so he has reason to wonder. He cannot read very well, I am trying to teach him but the little bastard has no patience for it, and what little he can read, my curvy script keeps hidden from his crimson eyes.

   I tell him it is nothing, that I will be finished shortly and that he may go back to sleep while I make him breakfast, but he shakes his head and kisses my shoulder, his hands pull my arm close to him, as he tries to read over my shoulder symbols he would never understand. I think to myself as I kiss his head, yes, I wish Zero to be happy. But I wish for one other thing. Something I wish with the deepest ounce of my heart, that I constantly keep in my mind as the days go by, that gives me a reason to live, to be strong, and to never render to my family’s dark and vile history...



   I wish he will always be mine.