The Stirrings of a Cold Heart Ch. 03

Far from the glitz and glamour of the Royal Opera House and its wealthy elite was the Whitechapel district with its rampant poverty, overcrowding, and violent unbridled crime. Most of society would not venture into the area without reason and those who did were careful not to make eye contact. The area was named for the small chapel of ease, better known as the St Mary Matfelon, but there was nothing holy about this place. Too many of those walking and living in its filthy streets would have assured you that God was blind to them and their plight.

Walking alone down the main street of the district strode a tall man dressed in a heavy overcoat with a hat and hood covering his head. He carried a large satchel slung over his shoulder that carried his earthly belongings. His sharp, sparkling grey eyes noticed everything around him. He caught every shadow, every movement and his ears heard even the faintest of sounds. At the edge of an alleyway he noticed a young woman with a baby wrapped in dirty blankets shivering in the bitter cold night air. At the sight he ran his fingers over his salt and pepper mustache and through his grey beard, then walked over and handed her the last few shillings he had. This was a good wage for a woman whose greatest hope was to make a whole farthing or maybe at least two pence after a day of begging. She might get more if she was desperate enough to sell her body.

At first she stared up at him uncertain what he was wanting her to do to earn such a sum. He saw the suspicion in her eyes and smiled down at her gently. His voice was warm and strong as he assured her that she owed him nothing and that it was merely a gift to be used for food and shelter for her and her child. She thanked him and quickly took the money then ran off into the darkness of the alley leaving him once again alone on the road.

The stranger continued his journey down High Street until he reached the chapel of St. Mary Matfelon. As he approached he looked over the building appraisingly. It had only been built a hundred and thirty years before making it a relatively young church compared to most. The whitewash exterior was in need of a good cleaning and repainting, but it still had a quaint elegant air about it. Knocking on the rectory door he was soon greeted by a half-sleepy priest who was still trying to fasten the ties of his robe when he opened the door.

"Forgive me father, I am Alexander Mabon. My papers will explain everything." The man reached into his coat pocket and removed an envelope and handed it to the priest. Given the lateness of the hour the minister was naturally suspicious, but upon seeing the seal of the Knights Templar he blanched and quickly ushered the stranger into the rectory, hastily closing the door behind them. He had been told about his order and educated on procedure and how to treat these elite warriors, but until this moment he had never actually laid eyes on one before. The instructions were simple: Treat these individuals as you would a visiting Cardinal, or more importantly, the Pope.

He took his guest to a small spare bedroom and apologized for not having better accommodations. He offered his own bedroom if the man preferred, but his guest assured him the simple room was plenty. The father called for his housekeeper and told her to bring the man some food and drink. The poor woman couldn't understand why the priest was being so gracious to someone banging on their door at such a late hour but did as she was told.

"Thank you father," Alex said, setting his satchel on the bed and pushing back his hood. He took off his hat and hung it from a hook on the wall over a simple wooden chair. He then removed his overcoat and tossed it on the chair followed by his plain wool coat and began to untie the top of his shirt around his neck.

The priest looked over the strange Mr. Mabon. It seemed to him that he was rather unassuming for someone who was supposed to be a member of the Knights Templar and a vampire hunter. For one, he seemed rather old for such a physical task. Judging by the lines of his face, his bald head and his mostly grey beard and mustache, he guessed the man to be at least sixty. Surely the Vatican would not employ a man of such advanced years to be a soldier against creatures so dark and powerful. The papers had to be a forgery.

"How do I know you are really a member of the Knights Templar? Those papers could have been forgeries," he challenged, feeling certain he had been duped. Alex smiled at the question, then unfastened more of his shirt and opened it wide enough to expose his chest and the symbol of the Templars burned into his hard muscled flesh above his heart by a hot searing brand.

"Do you think there are many con artists out there that would go to this extreme just to obtain a meal, a bed and a salary of six pounds a month?" He shook his head and answered his own question. "No." This was not the first time someone had doubted him and it would not be the last.

"B-but sir . . . y-your age . . ." the priest stammered.

"Oh, things are not always as they seem. I was a warrior for God before there was a Knights Templar, before there was ever a Pope and before Julius Caesar was even a glint in his father's lustful eye."

Before the priest could comment on his guests' assertions the housekeeper came up behind him carrying a tray with some bread, cheese and a bit of salted pork, along with a glass and a bottle of wine. Following close behind was a young servant girl carrying a towel and a washcloth slung over her arm and a large pitcher of water, which she hastily set in the wash basin for the weary traveler. She then put the two cloths next to the large ceramic bowl and hastily retreated after a quick polite 'have a good evening sir.'.

"Is there anything else we can do for you?" the priest asked as the women quickly left the small chamber.

"No. I have all I require, thank you," Alex smiled. "Father, I greatly appreciate your hospitality and will get out of your way first thing in the morning once I have received my wages from you."

"Of course." The priest gave a slight bow then quickly left the room, leaving his guest alone to rest.

Wanting his privacy, the hunter immediately closed the door and locked it. He removed his waistcoat and shirt, throwing them into the chair with the two coats then looked at himself in the mirror that hung over the water basin and pitcher. If the priest could have seen his guest at that exact moment, then whatever reservations he had about him being an elite warrior would have been immediately squelched. Alex Mabon's face might have appeared to be in his sixties, but his body was lean and muscled. There was no gut from years of light living and too much ale and wine, but a six-pack, solid and strong. He poured the water from the pitcher into the basin and, taking up the washcloth, began to wash the dirt from his face and body.

It had been a long time since he had set foot in London and he well knew there were plenty of inns and even churches not far from the dock, but he had a reason for being at this one. The dark seedy streets were the places that attracted creatures of the night. Here they could feed on victims that people wouldn't notice were missing, or if they were discovered, there would be very little investigation. The death of prostitutes, addicts or thieves was common, and notoriously difficult to solve unless you caught them in the act. Scotland Yard didn't certainly didn't have enough men available to make that feasible.

Alex took up the towel and dried off his face and body, and then once again he stared at himself in the mirror. He could see why the priest was doubtful. He was beginning to turn into an old man. True, he was hardly knocking on death's door, but he was tired all the same. Tired of the constant travel, the battles and the endless blood. No man or woman had ever willingly chosen this life and he was no exception. Most lead short careers, but Alex had always been a natural athlete and he had not only kept himself physically fit, but worked to keep his mind and reflexes sharp. He preferred to work in the shadows and study his prey from a distance. Like humans, vampires had their weaknesses and the hunter had no qualms about exploiting them. After more than two thousand years he had become the most successful hunter on record.

He could still remember the days when he studied at the feet of Isaiah the prophet in Jerusalem and much preferred those early days of hunting and Christianity to the way things were now handled under the Catholic church. Oh it was true that unlike the early days, he now always had a bed to sleep in, regular meals and income, but it was poor compensation for the bureaucracy or the church's decree of seizure. This decree stated that whatever fortune a vampire had amassed was the devil's money and therefore it was to be turned over to the Vatican for cleansing. Strange that none of it ever seemed to make it into the pockets of the poor.

This was not the first time the old hunter had pondered leaving the order. In the last five years he must have thought of it at least once a day. It wouldn't be difficult to disappear, but what kept him from doing it was that he didn't know what else he could do. Physically he was capable of anything, but when you can only age one year to humanities eighty-two it's impossible to put down roots or build a relationship.

Taking up the towel and drying off, he glanced down at his waistcoat laying on the chair and noticed a small bracelet that was latched shut with a piece of twisted wire and hung on his watch chain next to his silver timepiece. The piece of jewelry was ancient and was composed of a simple gold circle that boasted a small red garnet carved with the Greek symbol of life. It was the only link he had to his once carefree life in Greece. He assumed that it had once belonged to his mother, not that anyone had said so or that he could remember her. Orphaned as a toddler, he had no memory of either of his parents and the couple who had raised him could tell them nothing. All they knew was that their own son had died of illness and a few months later he had appeared on their doorstep during the night with that bracelet in his chubby hand.

The fact of the matter was that Alex had never once concerned himself with who his birth family was. The ones who raised him had loved and doted on him so much that he never felt he lacked anything, so who they were and why they were absent from his life remained unimportant. All that mattered was that Elipida was his mother and Lebbaios was his father. They had named him Alexandros and made sure he was well educated and had always been proud and encouraged him in athletics. He had participated in the Olympic Games and even in the Panathenaic Games; both of which were reserved for only the best of the best. He was never the star, but managed to win a few small prizes. What was most important was that his participation had brought great honor to his family.

Family had always been the most significant thing in his life and he had hoped to marry and have a family of his own, but it never happened. He had been so busy with his athletic competitions, then as a soldier and eventually selling various Greek goods in other countries that he never got around to it. Now after all these centuries he wished he would have made a few different choices and obtained the very dream that still eluded him.

Laying down on the small bed, he closed his eyes and silently prayed as he always did before falling to sleep. He prayed first for those people who were sick, hungry or in need such as the woman and child he had given his money to earlier. He asked that the priest and his staff who fed and sheltered him be blessed for their kindness. He then requested wisdom and strength so that he might continue the work that God had put before him. Normally this was when he would end with a heartfelt 'amen', but this night it was different. For the first time he asked the Lord to see the tiredness of his heart and soul and if it was his will, then grant him rest and a chance to live as other men. With a soft 'Amen' he rolled onto his side and drifted off into sleep.