As Lazarus played through his repertoire, the hunter was listening to someone talking down the phone at him with gritted teeth.
"What d'you mean they're not in the country anymore?!" he strained to not yell. His face had darkened angrily as he listened to the person on the other end of the line babbling on about how they didn't have to do anything.
"Listen to me, mate. That vampire chick he's with? She has to see the other leech people there, and when they find out she's been with a dog, they'll kill them both. You don't have to lift a finger." The guy said, trying to keep his confident tone.
"I don't fucking care!" he snarled, resisting the urge to throw the phone at the wall. "It's my family he killed, my responsibility to make him pay!" He slammed his fist into the wall instead, grimacing as he broke the skin on his knuckles. "Where are they?"
"A little suburb on the edge of Paris," the guy muttered, beginning to wish he hadn't agreed to help the hunter. The hunter laughed.
"A suburb? What do they think they are? Normal people?" he snickered at the idea of a leech and a dog shacked up in a fancy apartment somewhere on the edge of Paris, pretending to be normal people.
"The suburb is very close to a pack of werewolves and a coven of vampires, though. They might be at risk from those guys, but you'll never get to them there."
"Fuck off. Of course I'll get to them," the hunter snorted. "Send me a map. I'll show you." He hung up and sat at the computer whirring away to itself on the desk. He closed the web browser and felt his smile drop as the faces of his wife and young son grinned up at him out of the desktop background. He looked at himself beside them and sighed. He didn't recognise himself anymore. His hair had lost its colour and grown longer, his eyes were haunted and shadowed and his obsessive, rabid hunt for the dog that had ruined his life had taken its toll on his physical health. In the picture taken only a few years ago, the picture betrayed the beginnings of a beer belly not quite hidden by his sweater. Now, he only ate enough to keep himself alive, finding that sitting down for a proper meal cut into his research time.
"I was so close," he murmured, gazing at the picture. His son's toothy grin caught his eye, and he swallowed hard, opening up a folder.
The folder was filled with any information he had been able to get his hands on regarding werewolves, Lazarus, other hunters that could help. Anything and everything that he had discovered in the last six years that might aid him in some way. The newest thing in the folder was a set of news reports that had led him to Lazarus' home in London only a few weeks before. Bored of waiting for the guy to fax him the map, he opened the articles for another time, reading over old, useless material.
"Lazarus Thorn was sentenced to life imprisonment just yesterday for the pre-planned murder of Connor Hope." Except life imprisonment was never going to last. All he had to do was wait for the full moon. And that had been exactly what had happened. No one could explain what had happened, no one understood how he had escaped. Another report;
"Thorn was publicly pardoned earlier today. Police say he was falsely accused for the murder of Connor Hope." The hunter made a noise of disgust at this one. The police had lied. Lazarus must have bribed them to wipe his records. But he had a copy. He had gotten a copy of Lazarus' criminal record before it had disappeared. He had found old copies of other records that had also been marked as "void". Apparently, Lazarus was good at slipping through the clutches of the law.
The fax machine whined and chewed up a piece of paper, printing out a half legible map for him. Cursing, he rose and slapped the machine, irritably jerking the paper towards him.
"Half arsed piece of shit," he growled at it, trying to make out the markings on the map. It was enough. He knew where he had to go.
And he wasn't about to let a bunch of leeches take away his revenge.
(Word count: 743)