Unrestrained Animosity

The phantom infested Edward Vernon’s dreams once again. Every night, it was the same; the man stood in front of Vernon, a veiled head sitting upon a cloaked body, staring deeply into him.

Join me, Edward, the raspy, mutilated voice seemed to say from behind the black cowl. The man lifted his gloved hand to his head and removed the veil swiftly, revealing the unmasked horror that lay beneath.

Edward’s eyes widened, the terror gleaming in his unnatural yellow eyes as he gazed over the macabre scene. Much of the skin was missing from the man’s face, his nose had been beaten into his head, and in the place of his eyes were two smoldering holes bellowing out columns of smoke. He smiled a grotesque grin, revealing a row of jagged dagger-like teeth as blood gushed from his torn gums.

In each dream, Edward patted his waist for his pistol, grimacing as he felt only an empty holster. The disfigured man pulled away his cloak and cast it aside, unveiling a skinned and mutilated body spilling out blood and viscera. You did this to me, the creature groaned in horrible agony.

“NO!” Edward cried, shifting rapidly between the surreal world and the conscious world. He had thrown himself upright, drenched in cold nervous sweat and looking around his darkened room. The healing gunshot wound on his leg burned from his rude awakening, and he pulled his long, tangled black hair behind his sweat-glistened pale face.

Edward sat in the darkness, regaining his breath as he stared forward in ruminative silence. He knew he recognized that man in his dreams, but from where?

He laid back, letting out a heavy sigh. His slender muscles were still aching from the duel with Jason Blacke several nights before. Ever since then, on a nightly basis he was plagued with that same dream of the skinless man.

Across the room, Vernon’s muscular Scottish counterpart – Jack Macmillan – slept in peaceful silence.

“Lucky bastard,” Edward grumbled. Every night so far, he had been scared awake by his harrowing nightmares.

He had to sleep. Edward and Jack had a job to do in the morning.

---

Leon Webster pulled his long, blonde hair into a ponytail behind his head. He ran his fingers through the stubble on his face – which was beginning to thicken over the days – as he stared through his car’s windshield at the sun rising from the city horizon. He peered to the left and his sapphire-blue eyes gazed over the apartment building he had been staking out, his mind awake and focused.

They should be leaving any minute now, he thought to himself. Soon, his plan would be executed flawlessly.

Leon pulled a letter from his brown leather jacket, unfolding it and scanning over the scrawled sentences. The letter detailed an order from William Harte, a powerful rival criminal of Edward and Jack, to assassinate the Englishman and the Scot on their next mission.

Any minute now... the cold killer thought, running his finger down the blade of his hunting knife.

---

“Where is he?” Edward demanded, the weight of his boot pinning the man’s chest to the floor. His victim – a man called Richard – stayed silent as he felt his ribs begin to crack under his assailant's mighty crush. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Richard’s trembling voice spat, his body weakening under Edward’s will.

Edward let out an annoyed sigh, then reached a gloved hand into his black leather duster, pulling out a long, jagged blade. Richard’s eyes widened as the dagger glimmered in the sunlight flooding in through the open windows of the decrepit, run-down bedroom.

Edward kneeled down on Richard's collapsing ribcage, dragging the blade across his chest. Richard cried out as his skin was pierced, blood flooding from his open wound as he thrashed under the weight of the sadistic Englishman.

“Where the devil is your brother, Richard Harte?” Edward demanded, pressing the bloody knife against Richard’s jugular.

Just then, gunshots erupted from outside the room. Edward was broken from his impatient rage, climbing to his feet and pushing the blade into his coat. He drew a pistol from his holster, then stood in silence and listened.

Where did those shots come from? Vernon thought to himself as he ascertained the source in his mind.

“The hallway,” Edward muttered, turning his attention to the door on the other side of the bedroom. This door led to the rest of the empty, forgotten house, where Jack stood on guard. “Oh, Christ.”

Edward approached the closed door, pressing his ear against the wood. The rest of the house was dead silent. Then, he heard a long, drawn-out creaking sound coming from inside the room.

Vernon spun around, noticing the closet door slowly pushing open. Richard was still lying on the floor, bleeding profusely and whimpering in pain.

“Oh dear God,” Richard cried out as he looked into the closet. Edward couldn’t see what Richard saw – at least not yet. Richard began frantically dragging himself to one of the windows, banging on the glass and shouting for help.

Edward stood in petrified terror, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then, as the dark figure emerged from the closet, he understood perfectly.

The cloaked figure with a head covered in a black veil moved with ghastly swiftness across the bedroom to where Richard cowered, pulling a black katana from his obsidian robes. Richard looked at the shadowy figure and froze with horror, the color draining from his face. Before he could even scream, the cloaked man swiped his blade across Richard’s throat. His body slumped over, blood pouring from his open neck.

Edward shook his head, waking himself from a terrified hypnosis, and pointed his pistol forward, firing off the whole magazine. Shot after shot after shot erupted from the barrel of his handgun and hit the dark man with deadly accuracy, who responded with indifference. He turned and faced Edward, staring into his inhuman eyes through the black veil.

“You,” Edward remarked, recognizing the façade from his nightmares. Edward dropped his empty pistol to the floor, placing his grip on the handle of the blade in the concealed scabbard on his back.

The hooded man seemed to cackle as he lifted the veil and pulled it off his head, revealing a crown of short, blonde hair and eyes smoldering with brutal hatred.

“My God,” Edward muttered in petrified awe. “Arthur Crowley?”

Arthur let out a wide grin, showing a mouth full of jagged teeth – just like the skinless beast in his dream. Suddenly, it all made sense.

“But I killed you!” Edward protested. “I tortured you and skinned you because your dishonorable arse tried to backstab me!”

“And now, it’s my turn,” Arthur’s bestial voice taunted, readying his malicious blade. Edward drew a blood-stained sword from the sheath on his back, staring at the resurrected foe in bemusement.

At that moment, the door to the hallway swung open, and Leon Webster appeared in the doorway. His piercing blue eyes raced from Edward to Arthur, freezing in terror upon realizing what he had just intruded. He locked the hammer of his revolver back, entering the room where the two men stood staring at him.

“My name is Leon,” he announced as he stopped by the men. Edward regarded the man's unusual courage with great bemusement. “Edward Vernon, it’s time for you to die.”

Arthur grinned, boasting his twisted set of teeth. “Go right ahead,” he invited, backing away from Edward.

Edward lunged at Leon before he could ready his pistol, slamming into him and knocking him off balance, then kicked the revolver from his hand. He landed a swift punch on Leon’s jaw, sending him to the floor with a loud thump. Edward stood over the defeated foe, sword in hand, when Arthur began to cackle again.

“Dear boy, it will take you much more than a mere pistol to defeat Edward Vernon,” Arthur said, approaching the fallen man. Leon winced as his hand brushed over his swollen jaw. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

The man rushed at Edward with inhuman swiftness, arcing his blade at his target’s skull. Edward parried the blow, sending a kick at Arthur’s cloaked body and swinging his sword wildly, each attack meeting Arthur’s obsidian blade. The two exchanged blows beside the breathless Leon, each man battering the other’s sword.

Arthur feinted to the right and thrust his foot into Edward’s stomach, sending him staggering off balance. Arthur lunged forward and swiped his blade, striking through Edward’s hand.

Edward cried out violently and gazed upon the pinky finger of his left hand, which was severed at the first joint and gushing blood profusely down his palm.

“Son of a bitch!” Edward hissed furiously, leaping forward and swinging his blade madly. Arthur parried each blow, stepping cautiously back from the fury of the injured assailant. In his bestial rage, Edward threw his foot into Arthur’s chest, knocking the wind out of him, and swung his blood-stained blade forward. Before Arthur could regain his strength, Edward’s blade severed his arm at the wrist, sending his sword clattering to the floor next to his bloody hand.

Arthur bellowed in agony, holding the bloody stump that was once his hand. Edward seized the moment to pull a bandage from his duster and wrap it firmly around the burning stump of his pinky finger, wincing with pain every time he touched his wound.

Edward confronted his defeated enemy with his sword ready. Arthur looked from his bleeding stump to Edward’s cruel golden eyes, his face begging for mercy.

“How in God’s name are you still alive?” Edward demanded, pressing his blade against Arthur’s throat. “I killed you in the bloody bank. There’s no way you could have survived.”

“I didn’t,” Arthur confessed, the pitiful look in his face being replaced with an evil grin. “My body was imbued with the soul of a demon. The power of unrestrained animosity is much greater than you can imagine.”

Edward broke into a taunting smirk. “Obviously not powerful enough.”

Before Arthur could react, Edward’s blade was driven through his neck, severing his spine and casting his head aside from his body. His cloaked, lifeless corpse collapsed to the floor, gallons of blood spilling from his mortal wound as his head landed with a plop on the floor beside the rest of the corpse.

Panting softly and wiping a line of sweat from his brow, Edward remembered the other man – Leon, as he had introduced himself – and turned to confront him, but found only empty space and an open door leading into the hallway. It was only then when he felt the pain of his healing gunshot wound burn in his leg after the duel. The searing pain caused his leg to give way, bringing Edward to his knee, plagued with exhaustion and muscle ache.

Where the bloody hell has Jack gone? Edward wondered, staring at the door to the hallway in silent thought.