Tales of Halgen City

Part 3

The central part of the city of Halgen, often called The Central, was the heart of the place. Big businesses, and movies, it was as close as they got to cities like Hollywood, Los Angeles, or New York. Human influence could be felt all over the city, but it was strongest here. And Winters hated the place.

Walking through the city, he looked around him. He had been alive long enough to watch this place change. Winters wasn't like some immortal beings; he adapted to his surroundings. He went with the times. He just disliked how crowded the city often was, even back when he first arrived in Halgen.

He was able to ask around and get information from people about where this wannabe actor lived. The apartment building he lived in was a dump. The paint was coming off; the sign was barely staying on. And sparks flew from open wires as the lights tried to illuminate the sign. The place reminded Winters of the shitty apartments he had stayed at before coming to the Whispering Imp.

The interior wasn't much better. The roof was leaking. There was only one light on, and flies buzzed incessantly. Walking over to the counter, Winters covered his nose as he could smell something rotten from behind the desk. Ringing the bell, he hoped that someone would answer.

From another room, an obese demon came dressed in an ill-fitting shirt and pants. With every step, the fat jiggled all over. The obese man stepped behind the counter, panting as if he had just run a marathon. A putrid odor radiated from him, causing Winters to gag. "Are you the incubus I ordered?"

"No, I'm looking for a vampire named Richard Ruthbert?" Winters did his best not to gag again, but it was getting harder not to.

"Oh, him, third floor. So, would you like to replace my incubus?"

Winters looked at the man, quickly turning him down. "You don't have enough money, or alcohol, in the fucking world." Winters turned around, heading towards the stairs as fast as he could.

When he could breathe again, Winters ran over to a trashcan, dry heaving into it. After a few minutes, he stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "I hate when we get people from Sloth in here. Too damn lazy to take a shower."

The door to the apartment was locked, much to Winters' annoyance. With a swift kick, Winters knocked the door open. The rancid smell of decay permeated the air, a scent that Winters knew all too well. The interior was torn up, with furniture knocked over, holes in the wall, and blood splattered around.

On the ground was a blood trail that led to the bathroom. Winters drew his pistol, unsure if the victim would be in there or this psycho he was hired to take down. He stepped toe to heel to make as little noise as possible. The closer he got to the door, a wave of unease washed over him. Grabbing the doorknob, Winters felt blood around it. With a slow turn, Winters cautiously opened the door. Swinging the door open, Winters holstered his gun when he saw that the only thing in the bathroom was a corpse.

Richard had been sitting on the toilet when he died. Deep cuts covered the victim's body; he had a slow death. Moving closer, Winters pushed two of his fingers into a wound, checking how deep it was. "A few inches, at most. The Killer used a knife. From the depth of the cut and how clean it is, it's a butcher's knife." Winters talked to himself when working; it helped him sort things out.

It's weird to think of a vampire dying of blood loss, but it did happen. Like him, he needed sex to survive; without that, he would die. So, if you took away what made vampires live, blood, they would die like anyone else. Essentially, the victim starved to death.

Winters could go through the effort of trying to revive him, but he didn't get paid for that. Plus, he might not have enough blood. Winters stopped when he noticed something, a spot on the victim's shirt was bloodier than the rest. Lifting the victim's shirt, Winters saw a hole carved into the victim's chest; someone had removed his heart. "I guess reviving you is out of the question."

Leaving the bathroom, Winters went to the kitchen. As he suspected, there was a kitchen knife missing. None of this answered what he wanted to know, where was the murderer? Ivor created this creature to be a bodyguard, a deadly one. That meant the victim had enemies. Winters sighed; he knew who he had to go to for information, someone he loathed, Montley.

Walking over to a broken window, Winters carefully studied the area around it. Kneeling, Winters saw no glass on the floor; this was how she escaped. And not wanting to deal with the fat demon below, Winters decided to do the same.

Carefully, he climbed out of the window, making sure not to cut himself. Grabbing ahold of a drain pipe, Winters slid down, landing on his feet. Dusting himself off, Winters walked back to his car, his mind filled with theories. And, deep down, he believed he should have charged Ivor more.

In the heart of the city was a large tower, Montley's Tower. Montley had the entertainment business wrapped around his fingers; he ran almost everyone. Sure, there were a few independent companies, but they hardly made anything. Montley was the wealthiest entertainment mogul around, and all because he literally killed his competition.

Winters didn't drive there; he instead walked. Looking at the tower, he shook his head. Pushing open the doors, he could hear people typing away on keyboards, filing papers, and actors demanding higher wages; that was the norm around here. Winters lowered his head, keeping his face as concealed as possible.

He stopped when he felt eyes on him, his hand quickly going for his pistol. With a single quick motion, he aimed his gun at whoever was looking at him. On the far side of the room, a man looked at Winters from the scope of a rifle. He was a demon with pale white skin, dressed in a fine black suit, and had a wide-brimmed hat. With a sharp-toothed grin, he waved at Winters.

The two stared down one another, both ready to fire. The people around them stopped, eyeing the two men. Winters looked around; there were too many innocent bystanders here. Slowly, he holstered his pistol. The demon with the rifle won this one, much to Winter's chagrin.

The rifleman stood up, making his rifle vanish in black smoke. Standing seven feet tall with a skeletally thin body and two black pits for eyes, he walked over to Winters. A bony hand reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a silver cigar case. Retrieving a cigar, he bit off the end, swallowed it, then lit it. "Why are you here, Winters?" His voice was soft, almost like he had trouble speaking.

"I'm here for your boss, Black. Just tell me where he's at, and I'll leave." Winters waved away the smoke that Black blew into his face. He didn't know how Black and Montley met up, but they were hardly ever apart.

"The boss isn't here, Winters. And if he isn't here, you know where he's at." Black hardly savored the cigar in his mouth, puffing at it like a steam engine. Black finished the stick in a few minutes, tossing the final stub in a garbage can.

"The brothel, of course." Winters turned around, heading towards the exit. "If he isn't there, I'll be back. And I'll be damn sure to get my answers from him somehow."