Eegor managed to take less than five slow shambling steps backwards away from the TV before he tripped over something on the floor and fell arse-over-hunch, landing with enough force to knock the wind clean out of him.
Gasping for breath, he cautiously cracked one eye open and immediately wished he hadn’t. Doctor Death was crouched over his prone form, his face beetroot red with blind fury. He was practically rabid.
Eegor gulped. “M-m-m-m-marthhter, I can expl-” His stutterings were abruptly cut short as Doctor Death picked him up by his lapels and held him at eye level, breathing hot, fetid air all over Eegor’s face.
“Explain?” He screeched, “You can explain? I’ll give you a fugging explanation you moron!” Spit flew from his mouth with every word he uttered, coating Eegor in rancid, sticky goo. “You did something to her, didn't you, you licked her blood from her wrist, your stupid Eegor saliva got into her bloodstream.”
“Thhtupid?” Eegor asked whilst trying to keep his mouth closed to avoid consuming any of Doctor Death’s saliva.
“Auughh!” Doctor Death threw Eegor back to the floor in disgust where he wobbled around on his hunch like a turtle, unable to get up. “How do you think your hands stay on? You cut them off of a dead guy - two dead guys - but you licked the damn thread to get it through the needle when you sewed them on. It’s your spit, it’s got ooky magical healing properties or some shit like that. Frankenstein didn’t come to life because of the fugging lightning rod, it was because one of your little Eegor relatives licked the thread when they sewed the top of his head back on.”
Tentacles flailing angrily, Doctor Death stalked around the room, pacing backwards and forwards as he thought before suddenly stopping. He turned to face Eegor who was trying his best to will the floor into swallowing him whole. Much to his dismay, it wasn’t working.
“She had practically no blood, and you let your freaky spit into her veins. You made a fugging vampire you prat, she was clinically dead, she won’t have a soul and she’s going to need to keep replacing the blood you drained from her.” Doctor Death swept out of the room, a furious cry of “Find her” echoing in his wake.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Latura screwed her eyes closed as her mouth opened into a jaw-cracking yawn which displayed a pair of gleaming fangs. Throwing her arms over her head, she arched her back over the flat stone top of the sarcophagus she had spent the day sleeping on before sitting up and swinging her booted feet over the side.
As she got to her feet, she gave her stolen clothes from the burglar’s swag bag a quick once-over. Low cut black jeans, a long sleeved black and white striped tee shirt and a black vest top. Chunky leather wrist cuffs, a belt and a kooky skull necklace completed the outfit. Brushing the cobwebs out of her hair, she stepped out of the crypt and into the night in search of the nearest pub.
“Twenty-shhix bottlshh o’ beer on the bar, twenny-shhix bottlshh o’-” Latura paused mid-slur to hiccup drunkenly. The bar staff at the Infectious Leper had been very kind and provided her with a tab. “S’gotta um-brolly in it... an’ lemmingshh...” She poked at the lemon slices in her latest drink with a wobbly finger as she hiccuped again. “Time to leave methinkshh.”
She slid from the bar stool, drink in hand and staggered out of the door and into a dark alleyway. It was the kind of alley frequented by muggers and rapists. Latura’s head spun as she stumbled between the graffiti stained walls.
Two figures emerged from the shadows with a sarcastic “Boo.” Latura took a step backwards in surprise, dropping her drink in the process as she took in the two masked ‘men’ standing before her.