I waited in the thicket until twilight, then waited some more. At last, Imran Hafiz left the masjid, and I smiled triumphantly. For once he was alone, I could see none of his usual assortment of armed guards anywhere. Moving silently I dashed across the yard, my feet barely touching the ground. Drawing my dagger from my pocket, I struck. Three times I plunged the blade into his chest, and once I thrust it into his neck. Almost completely severing his head from his body. The old preacher fell, and lay still. The whole thing had taken less than ten seconds. Satisfied that my mission was accomplished, I retreated to the shadows once more.
As a prominent Imam in the City of Ottawa's fast-growing Muslim community, Imran Hafiz is viewed as a leader to many. What most people don't realize is that he's also the leader of a group of Muslim warriors sworn to battle the undead. Since time immemorial, Allah has summoned men and sometimes women to battle the forces of darkness. On the Christian side, the Vatican funds hordes of mercenaries who hunt down vampires across all the lands of Christendom. From western Europe to Latin America, from the Caribbean to West Africa, from Southeast Asia to Australasia.
Killing a man like Imran Hafiz strikes a deadly blow to those who hunt we who walk in darkness. Since he went to Mecca for Haj as a young Muslim scholar, Imran received an edict from the Saudi clerics themselves to rid the universe of vampires. For the blood drinkers, as they call my kind, threaten not only the Infidel world but the Muslim community, the venerable Ummah, as well. And just like the hard-headed bozos that they are, Muslims refuse to fight beside Christians against our kind. Politics, what can I say?
Their mutual distrust and long history of rivalry and conflict won't allow them to put aside their differences and join forces. Even in the face of a global threat not only to the nations of their respective faiths but the entire world. In the State of Israel, the Jews are battling an undead uprising and doing everything in their power to keep it under wraps. They refuse aid from both vampire-hunting affiliates of NATO and their few allies in western Europe. Yeah, they're that short-sighted. Fortunately for us. If these two were ever to join forces, we could kiss our asses goodbye. Since Imran Hafiz is one of a few Muslim leaders out there who genuinely believed in interfaith dialogue and reconciliation, as far as dealing with inhuman threats, removing him pretty much guarantees that there shall be no alliance between Christian and Muslim against us vampires. I've done well.
With a song in my heart I walk from the east end of Ottawa to the Rideau Mall downtown. Anyone looking at me would see a short, slender young woman with dark brown skin, clad in a long dark skirt and hijab. I'm five-foot-six and weigh one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. With my pretty, youthful face framed by my silver hijab and my innocent golden brown eyes, I am the picture of Islamic feminine modesty and beauty. Minutes later I morph into something more my style. The hijab and long skirt are gone, replaced by a black leather jacket, a red tank top and a short black leather miniskirt, complete with thigh-high black leather boots. Oh, yeah. I am dressed to kill. Except I've killed already...
My name is Nawaal Ahmed and I'm a vampire. I was born in the City of Borama, in the Awdal region of Somalia. The first day of the holy month of Ramadan in the year 1877, I first saw the light of day. On the nineteenth summer of my life, I met a tall, handsome young man named Saleh. We became friends, and he offered to save me from a forced marriage. My father, Ismail Ahmed wanted to marry me off to his old friend Farouk. A fate I dreaded, for Farouk was fifty years old, and already had three wives. The grumpy old man would look at me lustfully whenever he visited my father's house, and to be honest, he gave me the creeps. He was a far cry from Saleh, who was handsome, educated, and charming.
I ran away with Saleh three days prior to my wedding, abandoning my family and friends, and any chance at a normal life, for the love of a charming, intelligent young Somali man who promised me the world. In hindsight, perhaps that wasn't my best decision but when you're nineteen, a young woman caught between a rock and a hard place, you're likely to make desperate, ill-advised decisions. For had I chosen to remain with my family and marry Ismail, I would be long dead now. Just another dead Somali woman who followed tradition and obeyed the rules of her people and her Islamic faith all the days of her life, with hardly anything to show for her devotion.
