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Having very competent people working with him was one advantage he had over Victor, Erik thought while he inhaled the smell of coffee that a waiter had just served. From the open window, a familiar scent just filtered in. Azazel, his second-in command was out there. Judging by the other’s scent which was getting stronger by the second, he was heading towards the coffee shop Erik was in. It was not even his favorite, and Erik always made sure he did not visit the same place for at least three weeks at a time. And yet, with hundreds of coffee shop in the city—his favorite being twenty-six and counting—Azazel still managed to track him.
From the corner of his eye, Erik saw Azazel entered. The other lycan paused a moment in front of the door, then headed towards Erik’s way, passing the ancient jukebox near the counter, shaking his head at the waiter. Without a word, he sat on the chair in front of Erik.
Erik sipped his coffee. Azazel would talk when he’d done checking his surroundings, assessing dangers and potential escape route. Fortunately, in a place located two buildings away from Veterans Association office, such behavior would be considered normal.
"We managed to track Eisenhardt's son, Max Lehnsherr.” Azazel began. “He was adopted by his stepfather Jacob Lehnsherr. He’s here in this city. We’ve set up surveillance around his house. But we have potential problem.”
“Explain.”
“Problem of the blood-sucking kind.”
Azazel slid a set a set of photographs down the table, which Erik perused quickly. They were photographs of Eisenhardt's house, taken from various angles. The problem was shown clearly starting from the fourth photo; in the form of the blue-eyed, dark-haired death dealer who’d managed to snatch Henry McCoy-Eisenhower from under his nose; fortunately, not before Erik managed to bit the boy and obtain a vial of his blood. The vampire was standing just outside the front door, his body half-turned, looking back before entering, apparently scanning for anything suspicious.
“What do we know about him?” Azazel was thorough. Erik assumed he would have started research the moment he knew of the vampire’s existence.
He was not disappointed. Azazel waved a piece of paper before gave it to Erik.
“Our contact in local police provided the info quickly. It’s very brief. They did not dare to try searching for him on their database. Apparently some of their IT boys are working for the vampires and have some files tagged. “
Printed on the paper were a photo and very few basic information, and an address. Wesley Gibson, age 24, lived in an apartment in the city; address only contained a street name, without building name or apartment number.
Erik returned to the photographs. The next one showed Eisenhardt's living room. Eisenhardt just entered with a chessboard on one hand and a bottle of whiskey on the other; the vampire carrying two glasses and a bucket of ice. Eisenhardt was mid-talking, while the vampire’s mouth was slightly upturned in what could be described as a half-smile, reminding Erik of Charles’ smiles, both half and full, unvoluntary or unrestrained. He ignored the ache that bubbled into surface.
Erik didn’t like being reminded of Charles.
Next few photos were of them in the living room, sitting on both end of the couch, facing each other, only neck and head visible from outside, the chessboard most likely between them. Another photo showed them back in the kitchen, kissing, the vampire sandwiched between Eisenhardt and the counter, one of his hands buried on Eisenhardt's hair.
Azazel’s expression did not change at all during Erik’s browsing, but Erik knew that Azazel too must have had seen the similarities between Charles and Gibson. He can only be grateful that his second did not see it fit to bring it up. For the six centuries they worked together, Azazel seemed to have developed a sixth sense about Charles-related things. He never once questioned Erik decision on those matters, no matter how vaguely related; not about the medallion that Erik kept at all times, not about Erik’s decision to spend every night of full moon in full wolf form, and certainly never about Erik’s decision to never take a mate.
(Because his mate was gone. Gone, went, gone.)
When Erik finished the photos, Azazel asked. "Should we get rid of him?"
Erik didn't need to ask which 'him' Azazel referred to. He returned to the one photograph of those two in the kitchen. Eisenhardt was talking, while the vampire listening with a half-smile.
(Another memory of Charles laughing came to mind. It hurt.)
(The pain never fades. Not even a little.)
"Not yet. Keep watching. Proceed with our plan."
Azazel nodded and stood. Just before he left, Erik called out.
"Azazel." The other werewolf looked back. "Make sure we stayed unnoticed."
When Azazel had left, Erik turned back to the photos. As Azazel did not comment about Gibson’s likeness with Charles, he also did not say a word about Eisenhardt.
Erik was not blind, nor was he delusional. Eisenhardt looked a lot like himself that they could’ve been mistakenly thought as brothers; twins even, had Erik decided to cut his hair short.
Erik did not believe in fate. Nor did he believe in reincarnations or afterlife. But with the way things progressed, he wondered if—If finally, the beginning of the end had come.
Erik finished his coffee, pocketed the photos and stood. He left enough money beside the cup before leaving, enough to cover the coffee price and a substantial tip. He stopped near the trashcan on the alley next to the coffee shop, took out the photos and a lighter, light them up and waited for the photos burn.
As he waited, a song began to play from the ancient jukebox in the shop. It was faint, but Erik’s sharp hearing caught them fully. A slow, melancholy song from the seventies, he recalled. Erik was not a sentimental being, but he avoided sitting alone with sad songs around like a human would a plague.
As the last piece of the photos burnt to ashes, his phone beeped. A message. As Erik wiped his hand on his pants, his other hand took out his phone and scrolled to the message. It was from Essex, another fairly competent lycan who was in charge of the lab, even if he was a little creep and prone to mistreat his human test subjects; something that Erik knowingly ignored and Charles wouldn’t have agreed to and they would have argued upon.
Essex’s message was short and simple. Negative, it said. Erik stared at it for a moment and let out a short, dry laugh. He typed a short reply, ‘Prepare for next’. Afterwards, he called Azazel. The lycan picked up on second ring.
“Text me his address.” He said. “We’re moving tonight. Wait for me there.”
The singer’s words followed Erik as he walked away from the alley. He would forget them, eventually, for a while.
Later they will come back, during his last breath, just before he saw him, Charles, clad in white and light, smiling; one hand holding Erik’s and the other opening a door towards a brighter place…
The End