Crossed Fangs, Crossed Paths
Dr. Dean Marcus Greaves
Unaligned Morbus Mekhet
A disgraced doctor, struggling to live with his new condition under the tyranny of his vengeful sire. Homeless, dirty, and constantly hungry, he is always on the lookout for a blood-source in his patched, dusty mackintosh trench-coat. His hair hasn’t grown a millimeter, but has become unkempt and unwashed, his mustache and goatee are not much different. If he cleaned up he would probably look like he was in his early 30’s, but under the grit, shabby living and borderline starvation he looks a fair bit older then he is.
His BMW is mud-stained, the paint is faded and the ignition just doesn’t sound healthy in the slightest. The window tint has survived, but one of the side mirrors have been pried off, and the antenna is missing. Once upon a time, it was dark green.
Dr. Dean Marcus Greaves was a pathologist by trade, working in Addenbrookes Hospital in Cambridge. He lived the good life. A comfortably large city house in Cherry Hinton, sublimely decorated by an art graduate he lived with in his student days. A compact BMW sitting in the driveway, that was routinely maintained far more often then it was used. A beautiful girlfriend from the nearby law firm, who he escorted to West London musicals every Sunday without fail. He had it good. He had it too good, and he got lazy.
It did not take long for the worst to happen. It started small, miss filing a patients records, and sending patients for unnecessary diagnostics so he could head home early. But when she came in? He didn’t know it till later, but he picked the worst possible time to get his wake up call.
Her name was Melisa. She was quite attractive by most accounts, if not particularly young. She was ill, anyone could see that, very ill, and she needed a doctor badly. Dr Greaves was assigned as her pathologist, but he was tired. He had been on clinic duty all day and wanted to go home, sit back, and watch a video cassette rental from blockbusters. The Crucible looked good, and Arthur Miller was one of his more favored play-writes. So, he skipped procedure, and decided not to bother with the recomended diagnostics. The tests showed and 74% chance of what the most likely pathogen was in the woman, so he took a risk. Inevitable he was wrong.
The media exploded. The illness was treatable, and easily diagnosed if one followed procedure, and when the post-mortem reports were leaked to the press, Dr Dean Marcus Greaves soon found himself under enquiry by the General Medical Council and the courts looking to justify himself. He was struck off the list of registered medical practitioners, and newspapers call him a monster. For a few days, people would spit at him in the street. This was enough for most people, after a few months he found people started to forget, so long as he didn’t mention his full name, his career was in taters, even his girlfriend left him. He was unemployable, and the court sentence had ordered obscene reparations to be paid to the woman’s family, but for one person, this was not enough.
Melisa had a sister. One who died many years ago but never forgot her beloved twin, who for a time was her only safe port in a storm of childhood abuse. She was a creature of the night, a true monster of nightmares who worshiped the blood she fed from. A Priestess of the Crone, powerful and terrifying. For her, bloody vengeance wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t a thought or a plan, it just was what had to be. The one thing she loved, the one, human, anchor to her past life that kept the good in her alive, ripped away by this careless, ignorant, overprivileged buffoon. It was more then she could bare.
He had never been so terrified in his life, the day she came hunting for him. He didn’t last long, although it may have felt like an eternity, the running, the hiding, the pain, the blood. The last he saw was that inhuman glint in her eyes, that bloodlust, that… Beast…
It still, wasn’t enough. Not for her. As he bleed to death at her feet, walls and roofs covered in the last of his life’s blood, she decided she wanted him to live like this. Under her shadow and at her feet. In pain, in torment, in hunger. She bit her wrist, and held it over his mouth, and the deed was done.
He struggled for years to survive. Abandoned on the streets. Warned to stay away from court if he valued his existence. He knew he different, like his sire, he wasn’t like the few others he had met. The sheriff had worked that out, saw him for what he was, a freak of a kindred. Abomination. Warned him he’d be watching him. One toe out of line and he would be coming. It was the blood, it didn’t work for him like it did with others. Only the weak, the ill, the diseased would sustain him.
His life is pitiful now. He lost everything, even the house. He still has the BMW, although it has seen better days. With the windows tinted no-one can tell that they’re boarded on the inside. He tried to breed rodents in cages in the boot of the car once, diseased ones, but combined with bloodloss they died too quickly. Most of the best feeding grounds are domains he avoids for fear of his sire, so the hunger is with him always. Even if he had anyone to tell, he never would, of the hatred he feels to himself for being the coward he is, for being pathetic, but he knows this is the way it’s meant to be. Bad people get punished for their sins in the afterlife, and he sinned, he was lazy, and an innocent woman died.