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Dacryphilia

 

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Lucas Evret Johnson was many, many things.

 

A vampire, for one, and a spectacular one at that. The second-ranked descendant of the Djarvik line, renowned for ruthlessness, and only second-ranked because he had yet to get around to killing off the first-ranked Nikolai. He was the fastest turned Djarvik-line vampire ever, being turned within half an hour of Djarvik himself spotting Lucas in a dirty bar, dying of consumption and killing anyone who asked him about it. He had no qualms concerning killing humans, although he did have some about turning people, since that required caring enough to take care of them for their first few days of existence.

 

Absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous was another. Brilliant blonde hair that looked more lustrous than gold itself, always kept pristine, and pale blue eyes like arctic ice in an angular face rested on a slender, pale neck and an ideal, young, slender body that was muscled like a fighter. He also happened to have enough taste to accent his assets spectacularly, and the intelligence to see when to do so, and when not.

 

The best killer on the planet was one more. As quite literally the quickest draw on the planet, not to mention ambidextrous, the slowest part about his shooting was waiting for the bullet to hit. He was stealthy, eerily silent even when he wasn’t trying to be- only one person he knew could ever tell when he was nearby when trying to be sneaky. He was efficient…well, usually, unless he got pissed. And, most importantly, he had no problem with killing people, cold or warm blood, any age, any gender, any nationality. He had no qualms.

 

Being madly in love with his fraternal twin, Quinn Lucien Johnson, was his only weakness, aside from his hatred for everything that kept Quinn from him. He’d let himself be turned to stop his disease and get back to his twin. He’d killed for him. He’d died for him. He’d even been merciful, sacrificed his duties and hobbies, and not killed for him.

 

All roads led to Quinn. He just had to find the right one.

 

And kill that bastard Helldirge while he was at it.

 

Ah, the other person everything led to, simply because Quinn was always with him. Damian Helldirge, who had the nerve to actually think Quinn was HIS, instead of Lucas’.

 

He almost laughed at the thought, which would have been bad, considering he was currently stalking down yet another hallway of the Psy-Corp building, the red light of Mars’s fading sun seeping onto him, sharpening his features and turning one side of his head a bloody shade.

 

Even now, Lucas thanked whatever genius had invented infrared hyperscanners. He wasn’t alive, so he didn’t show up. Didn’t even have to hide from surveillance video very often, aside from the major hallway intersections. But, the sound sensors still worked, so Lucas had switched to rubber-soled boots for this job. He admitted he missed the clunk of his boots on fine marble – even after 300 years the novelty had yet to run out – but practicality came first on a mission.

 

And speak of the devil. The bitch had even left her door wide open.

 

Lucas strode right in, meeting blinking brown eyes on the other side of an immense mahogany power-desk. The things humans did to try and emphasize their own power never ceased to puzzle him.

 

“Wha-what are you doing in here?!” she asked, indignant and put-upon. Oh yes, the picture of power- flummoxed at the sight of a black-clad invader. Pathetic. She could have at least screamed.

 

“Well,” Lucas sighed, jumping into one of the cushy chairs lowered in front of her desk. Yet another example of her inferiority complex. “I’m here to kill you, of course.” She paled, and let out a little squeaky nose – another thing that had yet to lose its novelty. “But first, I have to ask you if you know anything about Quinn Johnson.”

 

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and Lucas’ did, too.

 

Finally.

 

He was on her in a moment, her face smashed into the expensive wood of her desk, arms painfully constricted behind her back. “What do you know?”

 

“N-nothing,” she hissed out, and again, Lucas rolled his eyes.

 

“That’s terribly unimpressive.” With a moment’s consideration, he dislocated her right shoulder, and she let out a terrified, pain-ridden shriek. “Now, please, miss. What do you know about Quinn Johnson?”

 

“Y-you’re going to kill me anyway,” she whimpered into the desk. She had blonde hair. It looked lovely, splayed out against the dark wood.

 

Could be darker, though.

 

He smashed her head against the desk, and she screamed as her nose broke, blood pouring out. Lucas couldn’t help but be satisfied- that was the right color, right there. Same as Quinn’s old dress boots.

 

“The difference, miss, is how quickly, and how painlessly, I kill you,” Lucas explained amicably. “If you tell me what you know about Quinn Johnson, I don’t drag this on for hours, or days…or weeks, if that’s what it takes.” He leaned in, breath tickling her ear. “And I know for a fact neither of us wants that. It tends to get messy, painful, tedious, and these boots are new.”

 

She whimpered, then sobbed.

 

“…well?”

 

“I met him at college,” she whispered. “Roommates with my boyfriend at the time, but it was ages ago, almost thirty years-”

 

Thirty years. He ran the times through his head. Thirty years ago, he’d been scouring Africa, fucking that idiot Asher. Not a bad lay, but not what he wanted.

 

Not Quinn.

 

“What was he studying, who was your boyfriend, and what college.”

 

“I…I can’t remember what he was studying- oh GODS no-!” Lucas pulled tighter on her other arm and she screamed as his fingers dug into the first shoulder. “JUSTIN ETIENNE! That was his name! Number 048-5597-00…00 something, I swear I don’t remember PLEASE.”

 

“I believe you,” Lucas lied, but it was easy enough with the information he’d gotten that it wasn’t worth the effort to torture her over information he’d get with a single phone call. “Now, the college?”

 

“Oxford,” she moaned out.

 

Lucas let out a laugh, smile curling his lips pleasantly. “You know, that’s just like him. Always went to the best he could possibly get, that Quinn, could never settle for second.” He was so quietly fiery, his twin, never could just sit with less than the best he could do. An overachiever almost to a fault, if Quinn could have a fault.

 

Oh, right.

 

“Thank you very much, miss,” Lucas said pleasantly, releasing her and taking his time about pulling out one of his guns. Even now he still carried a revolver, still preferred the sound of it to any other of his impressive arsenal. For easy one-shot jobs he always tried to use it. “You’ve been quite helpful.”

 

She sobbed once more, and then Lucas shot her through the head, pleased at the fact his bullet managed to get a dent into the pretentious desk.

 

“Another job, another step,” Lucas muttered, still grinning, and turned his back on the soon-to-be-cold corpse, not even bothering to watch the life drain out of her eyes like he used to.

 

The novelty in that had run out long ago.