Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was shoved against a wall. Hard.
"Look at the pathetic little man, boys," sneered a voice somewhere above him.
If only they knew who I really am.
"Ha! He's not even fighting back!" The owner of this voice did not have the distinctive British accent.
If only they knew what I can do.
"Is that how they raise people outside the city?" He had a crude American accent instead.
If only they knew what I have done.
"Hey! Look up, Spic*! I want to see the look on your face while I beat you senseless!" The voice said, firmly gripping Antonio's collar.
If only they knew what I am.
Antonio looked up. His green eyes met the blue ones of the American. He wasn't surprised when he saw the American waver slightly.
Anyone could tell that his eyes weren't normal. Green eyes with flecks of gold don't usually occur in regular people. Regular mortals.
What was he? For the longest time, he himself didn't know. The name he used now was a name he adopted only 70 short years ago.
He couldn't resist a chuckle. It was a mortal that gave him that name. Someone he loved dearly who just so happened to live in this very city when he was alive.
"What are you laughing about? You spics are plumb* crazy!" The American shoved him again, laughing like an idiot himself.
He wasn't thirsty at the moment but he had to turn his nose away from the man, his scent disgusted the Spaniard. He won't even try to drink his blood, even if forced.
No doubt, this man's blood had vitality but his arrogance would have poisoned his blood, making it taste sour. But he so wanted to punish this man. He would take that little thing all men take for granted. And smash it to pieces with his bare hands.
He was already planning the death of the blond man in front of him until
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" This new voice obviously belonged to a British citizen, judging from the
Antonio looked at the newcomer. It was a little difficult to look over the tall American's shoulder after one has been shoved onto a wall a few times but with his vampiric senses and stamina, he had a good look at the newcomer.
The British man was leanly built with a mop of messy light blond hair. His most distinctive feature, however, was not his extremely thick eyebrows. It was his eyes. They were a brilliant shade of emerald so unlike his own before he turned.
At that moment, those eyes were curved to a frown.
"Alfred," he said, "don't you have anything better to do than to start fights."
"But Artie! He was asking for it!"
"Alfred F. Jones, put him down this instant! That is an order, young man!"
"Artie, why do you always have to be the biggest toad in the puddle*," the American scoffed as he released Antonio from his grip.
"Listen here, Spic, this was just a caution*. Next time, don't go cavorting* into a pub like you own the place," he said, though with less enthusiasm. "You're lucky Artie showed up, otherwise "
"Alfred, get out!"
"I'm going, I'm going!"
The American left along with most of the men. The Briton watched them leave and then walked towards Antonio.
"I would like to apologize for the actions of my ward," he said, "The lad was a sneaky dipper* up until a few years back. I've been having trouble with him ever since. But he's usually a good lad. Usually."
"There's no ne--," Antonio began.
The Briton cut him off.
"No, the lad's behaviour is unacceptable. As an apology, I insist that I buy you a pint."
Antonio stared at him. Did this man just asked him out for a drink? Well, who was he to refuse!
"Sí, why not!" He agreed, "if a man can stop a fight just by talking to an arrogant boy, he would need to explain his methods over a drink!"
The Briton laughed as he held out his hand.
"Name's Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland. And the reason for the lad's behaviour, I'm the Chief of Police."
*19th century American slangs:*
Spic A racial slang, short for Hispanic (Alfred is dumb XD)
Plumb - entirely; completely
Biggest toad in the puddle - The most important person in a group
A caution A warning
Cavort - To frolic or prance about.
*19th century British slang:*