The cat struck me hard in the chest, knocking me to the earth. Claws ripped fabric. Flesh tore. A paw raised, poised to finish me off with a hard strike to my throat, but a quickly-thrust forearm deflected the cat's blow.
Taking advantage of the jaguar's momentary loss of balance, I boxed its ears and, summoning all my strength, flipped the cat onto its back, plunged fangs into its muscular neck and drank of its blood, not stopping until my stomach was full, and the jaguar lay on the jungle floor, now food for the local carrion beasts.
By the time I reached Jenkins's home at the beach, my wounds had healed, the flesh underneath the torn fabric completely unmarred.
The house was the lone structure on the beach, its deplorable condition a blight on the beauty of this place. Had Jenkins no shame? Refuse surrounded the modest house, its clapboard sides patched with crates, pieces of driftwood and strips of cardboard. A pile of debris sat alongside the building, waiting to be used to repair the many remaining holes.
Jenkins sat before the ramshackle structure in a weathered wooden chair, staring at the moonlight-dappled crests as they rose and broke at the shore, the salty mist blown inland by a soft breeze. A semicircle of empty liquor bottles surrounded him.
Long moments passed as I watched this corpulent, pathetic lump of flesh. Even from a distance, he reeked of cheap mezcal, tobacco and sweat, fresh and stale. Though Jenkins's heartbeat echoed loudly inside my skull, my observation remained unnoticed. Despite my recent meal, hunger welled inside me, but I willed my fangs to stay within their enamel housings - for now.
He took a swig directly from a bottle, burped then finally turned toward me. "Mister Farkus," he said, his tone flat, but his enunciation surprisingly clear, "I knew someone'd find me. Didn't think it'd be you, doing your own dirty-work."
I moved toward him, anger welling inside me at the utter flippancy of his manner. Standing over him, blocking his view of the crashing waves, I peered inside the small structure. The floor was dirt, and there was no furniture save a soiled mattress and a square enamel table standing valiantly on three legs. "My money, Jenkins. I have come for that which you stole from me."
He laughed. "And I thought you were here to kill me."
It was my turn to laugh. "Do not worry. I shall not disappoint you. But first, my money."
Jenkins shrugged his shoulders, his lips forming an innocent smile. "Sorry. Money's gone."
"What do you mean, gone!?" Angry red lightning flashed before my eyes, then I was straddling his knees, lifting Jenkins to his feet, my mouth wide open, fangs dropped in place. He stared at me, his eyes still barely slits.
"What kind of creature are you?" he asked, his tone surprisingly bland.
"As you Americans are so fond of saying, I am your worst bad dream."
He laughed again, flooding me with his foul breath. "I think you mean to say, 'I'm your worst nightmare.'" His laughter resumed and would not stop.
"Silence," I commanded. "You will cease that infernal laughter and tell me where my money is."
"What's the matter, Al? You pissed 'cuz I'm not scared enough? Sorry to disappoint you. I'm probably too drunk to be very scared."
"I simply want my money."
"I don't have your goddamned money." He paused, studying my features closely, his expression that of curiosity, not fear. "Seen 'lotta strange things since coming down here. My old boss being a vampire don't really surprise me."
The fingers gripping his collar loosened, and Jenkins dropped back into his seat, his bulk causing the wood to creak, buckle and nearly break. I stared down at him, feeling my eyes burning into his, boiling the liquid inside, leaving dried, shriveled flesh in the sockets. "Then, it should not surprise you that I am a creature capable of flaying you alive. Ever so slowly and painfully peeling flesh from bone. Opening your chest and ripping out your still-beating heart. So, I ask you again. Where is my money?"
His laughter resumed, and it took great discipline not to tear open his throat right then and there.
"Go ahead, Farkus," Jenkins said blandly, "kill me. I don't care anymore. A visit from a killer. Fine by me. I don't wanna live anymore."
"I am not a killer," I replied, still straddling his knees.
"That so?" Jenkins smiled broadly, studying my face for some kind of reaction. "I thought vampires were killers. Ain't that how you eat?"