No Life Kid 9A

Jessica’s scent was still fading from the entryway of the Weatherhell House, the phantom pressure of her lips across his jaw something Zander could feel almost a full hour after Walter had driven her home.

He rolled his shoulders as he moved through the house, shadows clinging to him as he strode up the stairs and into the master suite where his wardrobe awaited the night shift. 

White fangs slid out; a different sort of hunger beckoning them free, expectation for the hunt and not just simple blood making his instincts sing. Hands enclosed around twin doorknobs, Zander pulled the heavy wooden doors open and strode into the walk-in closet.

He pulled the back t-shirt off and over his head, reaching for a black silk dress shirt. In a matter of seconds, he buttoned it up with one free hand, kicking his jeans free with each step deeper and deeper into the too-big closet until he stood at the very end.

Black collar up, a royal blue tie slid around his neck, the ends of the fabric coming together in a neat windsor knot he needed no mirror for. A pair of well-tailored blue slacks went on next, a black belt tight around his waist as a pair of neat black leather boots found themselves on his feet. Nice.

One hand reached out and pulled a coat from a hanger, leather long enough to hit his calves winking back at him. The duster was custom made, perfectly tinted, and carefully designed, all the sharp aggressive tailoring and detail that money could buy. Next, the gloves; black leather the same material as the jacket. A silver crucifix eased around his collar, stark against the black of his shirt and blue of the tie. 

The world went blue again behind the teashade lenses as he plopped a hat atop his head; wide-brimmed, elegant, and more than a little Carmen Sandiego, he tilted it low over his eyes and grinned into the mirror with a mouth that had far too many teeth.

Jackpot.

“Walter.” He didn’t have to shout, well aware the old man was always listening. “Tell me good news.”

The former soldier stood by the door, summoned as if by magic with a manila folder held in front of him “Master Cray, Miss Alexis has identified three targets, all high-priority in the Seattle metropolitan area.”

Zander walked up to the manservant, adjusting his gloves with a raised eyebrow. “What’d she find, Walter?”

The folder opened, the innards nearly as thick as a bible with documents and photos stacked high but balanced in gloved hands. “One Marcus Hendrick, age thirty-four. Two previous sexual assault convictions. Acquitted of the rape and homicide of a minor due to a lack of evidence on part of the prosecution. Currently violating a no-contact order and escalating to stalking behavior.” He held a photo up, the grainy surveillance shot showing Zander what looked like a thumb with a goatee. 

“Kevin Moreson.” Walter peeled off another sheet, this one a photo of a thin Black man with dead eyes, glasses and a weak chin. “Forty-one. Served nine years for one count of first degree sexual assault and two third degree.”

Zander frowned. “Nine?”

“Yes, sir, in no small part due to a bevy of plea deals and good behavior while in prison. However, he’s already showing patterns of reoffense.” The butler let out a sigh. “Loitering near campuses, for one.”

“First degree…” He wasn’t going to pretend like he knew everything about the law, especially not in Washington State, but that had to be something serious. Probably with a weapon or something. 

“And David Chen. Twenty-three, suspected involvement in the disappearance of three Gamma Phi Beta sorority sisters, but wealthy family connections have prevented prosecution.” Walter placed the final photo down, a clean-cut half-Asian kid staring back at them. 

“Daddy buys the judges…”

“Indeed, sir.”

Zander stared at the photos a bit longer, a purr starting in his chest as his eyes stayed locked on and unmoving. “Oh… that’s the good stuff right there.” Fangs slid out of his gums at full extension, a wet shink sound that felt like reloading a weapon. “Walter, you magnificent Englishman, you’ve made my whole month.”

“I appreciate your appreciation, Master Cray,” the old man hummed. “But we must thank Miss Armstrong for this.”

Zander nodded, waving one hand. “Yeah, sure, of course, just…” His tongue trailed his right fang slowly. “This… this intel fresher than Subway claims their ingredients are?”

“Moreson, especially so…” Walter’s gloved finger trailed a sheet of paper. “The man was reported three evenings past following a college student home from her job. He claimed to be walking to see a friend who lived in that neighborhood and the report was shelved.” The man frowned. “Chen is known for bragging about beating a ‘fake case’ while also having repeated instances of his family settling out of court for repeat incidents of a sexual nature.”

Expected.

“And Hendrick violated his restraining order this week and has been . He was seen outside the victim’s workplace an hour ago.”

Zander picked up the thin man’s photo from the folder, a single finger tap-tap-tapping against the glossy paper. “Who’s taking point on Moreson, you or Lexey?”

“Miss Armstrong volunteered for Moreson.” Walter’s nose wrinkled slightly, a microscopic display of distaste. “She expressed… strong opinions about the violent nature of his sexual proclivities. I believe the phrase ‘gelding the bastard’ was used.”

Yeah, that sounds like her. Zander snorted out loud. “Let her have him.”

“I will be conducting further reconnaissance on Chen,” Walter said, closing the folder with a sharp thwap. “His security detail requires a certain subtlety before any true engagement.”

“Smart.” Zander nodded his way. “Prep the car, Walter. We’ve got a night on the town to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, the library door swung open and a tall blond walked into the room, the woman as leggy as she was busty. “Armstrong, reporting for duty, young master!”

Alexis Armstrong leaned against the frame, his personal chef looking like a Call of Duty operator. Black cargo pants sat tight around her thighs, just above a pair of boots heavy enough to hammer a nail. On top of all that was a fitted vest straining to hold itself in place, the woman inside it grinning wide enough to stretch the scar on the right side of her face. Blonde hair pulled back in a thick braid stretching down to the small of her back, Alexis slid the twin short swords in her hand into sheaths on her thighs.

Always with the blades with this one. Zander rolled his eyes over the rim of his glasses.

Just like Walter, the scarred woman was a legacy hire. In a sense, yeah… A former employee of “Great-Grandpa” Harland Whittemore Kingsley. 

A chef and a soldier, but she cut meat just the same both ways. And just like Walter, the loyalty wasn’t bought with a paycheck.

No, Zander used the ultimate currency; blood.

Even now, that connection throbbing in the back of his skull with them both so close to him, their dual beats on either side of him in time with the hearts in their chests. It was that same low-frequency static that connected him to both of them; a messier bond than vampirism, with no sire bond, no turning them into monsters (technically).

Still, stronger than cash.

Walter wanted to turn back the clock, the man was fifty-six when Zander had found him with the old man; long past feeling the creak of his knees, when he was used to the fight that was his life before becoming a butler. A drop of Zander’s blood, dosed out once a month, turned back the clock, greased the gears and dropped nitrous into the tank. All in all, he was far stronger, faster and sharper than any twenty-year-old could ever be.

Alexis, though? The tall woman was terrified of the rot, too scared of losing her edge and her chance to stay young before having to settle down. The blood slowed the clock down to a fraction of what it should be, while adding on enough strength to toss a grown man through a window.

Man, I love familiars. Zander shook his head with a grin. No angst. No ‘oh god I’m a monster’ speeches. Just results. Part of that wasn’t just by choice, honestly. Being real, he had no idea if biting someone to transform them would fix them, given Hellsing rules had some strong Christian vibes on purity and virginity and the opposite sex so rather than risk it, he had gone the Renfield route.

Sure, they were addicted.

More to the power than the blood, but so were alcoholics. 

“Ready then?” Alexis’s Scottish drawl had a jagged edge, the paramilitary woman turned Chef Barbie wearing a grin to match his own. “Walter’s taking damn near forever with his bloody work, isn’t he? Checking the tire pressure again, are we, grandad?”

“Proper preparation prevents problems.” Walter recited the words like a nursery rhyme as he stood in the hallway, adjusting his cuffs with the grimness of a man on his way to a funeral. 

Which, in a way, he was.

“Proper preparation is what I call following the bastard for ten minutes and then kicking his damned door in.” Alexis puffed her chest out as she jabbed a thumb into the vest. “But I’ll trust in your wisdom, grandfather.”

“I am not a grandfather.” Walter’s voice was almost a growl, something clipped leaking through the polish as the taller elder loomed more than a few good inches over the nearly six foot woman. “I am in my prime.”

“Prime sounds rather creaky, ya old bastard.”

“Play nice.” Zander clicked his tongue as he stepped between the two of them. A hand went up and clapped itself on Walter’s shoulders, the man tall and big enough to nearly match the largest Cullen. “We all want the same thing tonight.”

Alexis straightened up, green eyes brightening.

“Aye, master.” His butcher nodded. “Dead monsters.”