The Tristan, at two hundred fifty yards long with six hundred thousand cubic feet of helium, was the third largest airship in the world. Only the Germanic Kingdom's Midgaurd Gerange and the Kingdom of Franc's Charmaneau surpassed it. But, its top speed of one hundred miles per hour and its luxurious passenger service put the Tristan in a class all its own.
The passenger airship was the Albion Kingdom's jewel of the skies.
"Here you are, Captain," Jessica said.
"Oh, thank you, dear. You know, I pilot this monster just for perks like these," Captain Connely confessed. He smelled the coffee's rich aroma. The steam moistened his neatly trimmed mustache. He sort of looked like an Albion noble.
"It's peaceful up here," she commented.
"Peaceful is good . . . We have six hours until Rome," the captain replied.
The helmsman and engineer were relaxed and in good spirits—sure signs of a quiet journey.
"Where's Deputy Roswell?" the captain asked.
Dickins, the navigator, looked around the cramped bridge to the empty seat next to the captain. "I saw Roswell down below. He didn't feel well, so he's taking a break, Captain," Dickins informed him.
"He didn't seem well back in Londinium, either," observed the captain.
"Was it something physical or personal?" asked Mr. Orson, the helmsman, raising an eyebrow.
"Probably something he ate." Dickins winked. "His wife is the nicest woman I know, but . . ."
The Tristan's small crew looked undermanned for such a large ship, but they were in complete control. Their confidence soothed the most skittish of fliers. And their confidence was well earned. The Tristan's auto-control system, designed by the genius engineer Catherine Lang, was the ship's finest feature. A "computer," a relic of a past civilization, controlled the Tristan. As a result, the ship needed only one-tenth the number of crew members. The revolutionary design was unparalleled.
"Mister Orson, what's this?"Jessica pointed at a control panel. "The trim is off a bit. Shouldn't you adjust it?" she asked.
"Let me see. Huh. It is. How did you know that?" he wondered. Mr. Orson looked intently at the control panel and adjusted a knob. It was quite funny to the rest of the crew.
"Why don't you let Jessica steer?" Dickins suggested.
The captain laughed. "You'd make my job easier."
Jessica blushed with embarrassment. She felt badly for showing up Mr. Orson. "I'm just a stewardess," she blurted out.
"But you applied at this company to be a helmsman, right? What a waste. Why can't they be better judges of talent?" the captain complained.
Captain Connely was known for his progressive outlook. He wanted the best crew, regardless of their gender. He figured that the job was too dangerous to let old customs get in the way of doing the best work possible. Age and gender had no bearing on his analysis. His inspiring attitude was why Jessica had applied for work on the Tristan in the first place.
"I'll bring that up to my superiors next time," the captain said.
"Thank you. But you don't have to do that on my account," Jessica murmured sheepishly.
"It's our duty to recommend people with real talent, Jessica." Just then, Deputy Roswell returned. His pale face and sweaty brow were in sharp contrast to the demeanor of the cool and collected crew.
"Where've you been, Roswell?" the navigator asked. "And who is that?"
Behind Roswell, a man followed. Roswell began to stammer out an introduction when the man interrupted, "I am Alfredo, Duke of Meinz, of the Germanic Kingdom."
The duke bowed in an exaggerated fashion. The inverness he wore, an expensive overcoat complete with cape, was fastidiously tailored. He plastered a sinful grin on his young face. "Pardon my intrusion, but I told Mister Roswell that I have a passion for airships. After some convincing, he offered to let me have a look around the flight deck," the duke purred.
"Duke, I apologize, but we cannot allow you up here," the captain said politely. His tone switched from polite to scolding when he addressed Deputy Roswell. "What's wrong with you, Deputy? You know unauthorized personnel aren't allowed on deck!"The captain fumed.
The duke said tonelessly, "Sir, please don't get mad at him. It's my fault."
Jessica didn't like something about the duke's mannerisms. Instead of being noble or refined, he seemed crass and unapologetic. She thought about how grating this rich duke was, and how amiable the poor priest had been just a few minutes ago. Though he had no money, the priest seemed much richer in spirit.
Come to think of it, she didn't remember any Germanic nobles booked on the Tristan this night.
"My apologies, Duke, but we can't allow you on the flight deck. I'm sure you understand," the captain repeated.
"What a shame," the duke said. "I wanted to crash this baby into something big, y'know? Just on a lark."
The duke's black humor was wasted on the crew. Especially on Captain Connely, who said, "This airship has an auto-control function. Even the crew can't change the flight route . . . Hey! What are you doing?" Captain Connely asked, bewildered.
The duke slid a small metallic disc from his sleeve and dropped it into a slot on the control panel. The captain reached for the duke's arm, but it was too late.
"What have you done? What was that?"
Dickins stood up to protest, but suddenly his display screen flickered and shut down. Before he knew what was happening, the screen flooded with indecipherable text.
"Captain, the computer is denying access!" yelled Dickins.
"What did you do?!" demanded the captain. "The passengers!"
Captain Connely's thoughts veered in every direction. He was completely dumbfounded. Then the ship lunged forward, taking a steep nose-dive, and he was thrown back into reality.
"Settings for our destination have changed—altitude has dropped to minus three hundred! We're going to crash!" the helmsman yelled.
The duke merely chuckled. A thin smile stretched his lips. "That's it? Too damn easy if you ask me!"
Dickins grabbed the duke's collar and shook him violently, but that condescending smile remained permanently etched on the noble's face.
"Are you insane?! You're going to die, too!" Dickens bellowed.
"I don't think so, you filthy Terran. Death isn't in the cards for me," the duke said dryly. Beneath his smug smile, the duke's slender white fangs protruded. "I am a Methuselah! Death can't catch me!"
"Vampire—!" spat Dickins. He almost didn't get the word out, before the duke ripped his throat open.
The navigator, choking on his blood, screamed and then fell to the floor. Everyone froze in shock, staring at Dickins as he writhed in agony. It was all the time the duke needed.
Blood spurted across the flight deck. Every spare inch of the room was filled with screams of pure horror. One by one, the crew members fell victim to the duke's brutal ministrations.
Eventually, only Jessica remained.
The color drained from her face when she realized her fate would be much worse than a quick death.
"Pussycat," the blood-covered duke crooned. He was impossibly calm. It was unnerving, but not as disturbing as the predatory way he looked at Jessica. His lecherous grin revealed his fangs. "Mmmm." The duke licked his lips.
Jessica's world was spinning out of control. Were all the crew dead? She couldn't hear them howling anymore. She couldn't hear them breathing. Her heart was pounding so loudly.
She saw Roswell strewn on the floor next to her feet, his head missing. Frantically, she scanned the room for it and when she finally found it, her stomach sank. His head rested on the control panel, his face frozen in an eternal scream. Jessica's thoughts flashed to his wife for a brief moment.
The duke towered over her. "That's the guy with the nice wife, right? It really bothers you, doesn't it? What will his family think? They aren't thinking about anything. I already raped and killed them."
Jessica trembled with fear. She was heartbroken. It was worse than she'd thought. Alfredo's finger slipped along the opening of her top. Tears welled up in her eyes as he molested her. It was going to be much worse than she'd imagined.
"Stop," she said in a steely voice, but her tough exterior wasn't fooling anyone.
"You're really pretty, you know that? I think so. Girls like you are a double dip of delight. First, hot sex. Then? A hot meal."
Alfredo grabbed her breast in one hand and cupped her crotch with the other. As he did, he opened his mouth wide. Jessica arched her back exactly as he'd expected, and his fangs lined up perfectly with her neck.
"No!" Jessica whispered. She started to scream when the fangs pierced her skin, but instead, a familiar voice made her freeze.
"Miss Jessica, I was thinking . . ." The priest's gentle voice echoed from outside the open hatch. "It's against the tenants of the Church to take your generosity without offering to repay you. So I thought that maybe I could wash dishes or clean the bathroom or something," the priest said, finally stepping through the door.
Abel looked at the scene: the blood, the body parts, Jessica, and the duke. A normal man would have gone into shock at the sight of such carnage, but Abel Nightroad wasn't a normal man.
He was a clumsy man.
The vampire pulled back at the sight of the priest's robe and hissed, "Vatican!" A thin cord flew out from the under his cape.
"Vampire!" Abel shouted.
Abel slipped on the bloody floor just as a blade whizzed through the air toward his head. He landed on his butt.
BANG! Suddenly, a gunshot startled all of them.
The gun strapped on Abel's hip had accidentally gone off. The bullet ricocheted off the floor and hit a pipe on the wall behind Jessica. The pipe broke and hot steam scalded the vampire.
The duke released Jessica and covered his face. Apparently, even a vampire's eyes and face were sensitive to boiling steam. The scathing hot jet would have killed a normal human, but it just infuriated the duke.
"Miss Jessica! Over here!" Abel shouted.
The priest grabbed Jessica's elbow, turned, and ran. She looked back over her shoulder to see the blind vampire cursing and slashing at the consoles.
"You're dead, Vatican dog! You hear me? I'm gonna rip out your intestines and strangle you with them!"