Bookshelf Battle

Blythe stood on the train platform as three conductors approached from the town.  One of them, a large burly man with long sideburns, stepped forward and presented the vampire with a severed werewolf head.

“This was all we found,” the burly man said.

The vampire took the head, held it up against the moonlight, and gazed upon it whilst providing his best impression of a forlorn Hamlet.

“Alas, poor Mr. Hewitt.  I knew him well, Mr. Mayhew. I can’t say he was a man of infinite jest or excellent fancy, but he did bear much of our little enterprise on his back.”

“I’m sorry sir,”  Mayhew replied.

Blythe dropped the head then kicked it down the road into town as if it were a ball.

“No use crying over spilled milk,” Blythe said.  “What of Mr. Becker?”

“No sign of him,” Mayhew said.

“Two of my best soldiers gone,” Blythe said.  “You have big shoes to fill, Mr. Mayhew.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Mayhew said.  “Shall we go after them?”

“No,” Blythe replied.  “I’ll see to this matter personally.  Guard this train with your lives, gentleman.  The fate of the new world order depends on it.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Mayhew and his comrades flexed their muscles, busted out of their uniforms and assumed their werewolf forms, taking up positions in front of the locomotive.

Blythe closed his eyes and levitated three feet above the platform.  When his eyelids opened, his eyes were blood red.  No retinas.  Just red.

Like a maestro conducting a symphony, the vampire swirled his hands around, ever so daintily.

“Come to me, my pets.”